The Sand Castle by Rita Mae Brown

A white-hinged sign with a big red crab painted on it loomed out of the thinning fog.
    â€œJesus.” Mother swerved to the right.
    Her sister, Louise, replied sharply, “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord in vain.”
    â€œI didn’t, you twit, I took his son’s.”
    â€œThe Holy Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Same.”
    â€œThis is supposed to be a trip to the Bay. If I want religious instruction I’ll go to church.”
    â€œWell, that’s just it, isn’t it?” Louise was smug. “You’re a Lutheran, which is God’s punishment. Otherwise you’d worship at the One True Church.”
    Mother, sidestepping the bait for a fight dangled by her older sister—just how much older also a ripe subject for contention—shrugged. “God will forgive me, that’s His trade.”
    Louise, pretty in what she deemed her mid-forties, crossed her arms over her chest. She was closer to fifty-two or fifty-three.
    Awakened by the swerve, I piped up, “How long till we get there?”
    â€œNot long.” Mother avoided being specific.
    â€œForty-five minutes. If this fog would lift we’d get there faster.” Louise feared driving in fog, which was sensible.
    Mother feared nothing. At least that’s what I thought at seven. Although Mother drove, we rumbled along in Aunt Wheezie’s new black Nash with the dull gray interior. I hated the car but kept that opinion to myself. Why would anyone want to drive a car that looked like a cockroach? Even at seven I was a gearhead, which delighted my father and amused my mother.Leroy, still asleep next to me, evidenced no interest in motors even though he was a boy. He’d turned eight in June. I wouldn’t reach that advanced age until November, so those extra months pleased him even if cars did not.
    â€œI love the Chesapeake Bay.” Mother smiled as the first sliver of pink appeared on the horizon, the fog thinning in places. “Wheeze, remember when Aunt Doney and Uncle Jim took us down here for the Fourth of July? I must have been Nickel’s age.”
    Louise smiled broadly, “Aunt Doney wore so much linen and gauze she looked like an Arab.”
    â€œShe was so fair,” Mother remarked.
    â€œI’ll never forget when you and I got tan and she had a hissy. Said we looked like field hands.”
    â€œBetter field hands than cadavers.” Mother felt like someone had told her what to do and how to do it every step of her life and Aunt Doney was no exception.
    â€œShe had a point, I guess, but we were in our teens then and Coco Chanel started the fad for white clothes in summer, and a tan. Oh, remember that French boater striped top I wore? Blue and white. I just thought that was the most beautiful thing.”
    â€œIt was.”
    â€œAnd that’s why I never let you borrow it. You’d have torn it or spilled something on it. Juts, you’re so rough sometimes. Just watching you dance is exhausting.”
    â€œMother, when were you and Aunt Wheezie here with Aunt Doney and Uncle Jim?”
    â€œI think the first time was 1912. Took forever to get here. There used to be a spur line so you could take the train to St. Mary’s. We stayed a whole week.”
    Aunt Louise, to remind me of what I already knew—because I really liked history—said, “A few rich people owned cars as toys. You tooka trolley, a train, or a horse-drawn buggy. Didn’t Mrs. Chalfonte get the first car in Runnymede?”
    â€œNo, her brother did. The brother was killed in the war,” Mother replied.
    â€œSame war as PopPop?” I asked.
    â€œSame war,” Aunt Louise affirmed. “I pray to God there will never be another one. It was the war to end all wars.”
    â€œWe know better.” Mother slowed for an S curve. A truck with wooden panels on the sides to hold in its load of hay was lurching toward us from the opposite