by Joni Folger
Madison began to laugh, and then abruptly sobered at the look on her grandmother’s face. “Yes. Garrett Larson married her several years ago, and they own Third Coast Winery in south Texas.”
Elise nodded. “Divia tends to think she’s an expert on just about everything and will tell you so in the most civilized yet cutting fashion. She is extremely difficult to take.”
“Duly noted,” C.C. said and waved a hand in Madison’s direction. “Proceed.”
“Okay, it seems Divia, the diva, is less than pleased with the placement of their booth. She’s demanding that Third Coast be moved to a better location.”
Abigail growled. “What in hell is wrong with that woman? She’s a prima donna with no damn good reason to be. Worthless chit.”
“Where is she wanting us to move them? And are there even any open booths left?” Elise asked. “Because we are not shuffling around any other group just to pacify Divia Larson.”
“As of two days ago, we were completely full.” Madison sighed and tapped her pen on the table in frustration. “However, we had a cancellation yesterday, so technically, we could move Third Coast to that now open booth. But …”
Elise narrowed her eyes at her sister. “But what?”
“The cancellation was Cactus Flats Winery.”
“What?” Abigail shouted.
“No way.” Elise shook her head. “Absolutely not.”
“I don’t see that we really have a choice,” Madison said with a sigh. “I mean, we’d do it for anyone else.”
“What?” C.C. asked. “What am I missing?”
Madison sighed. “Moving Third Coast to Cactus Flats’ vacated spot would put them on the main thoroughfare kitty-corner to River Bend’s booth.”
“That’s all we need is that horrible woman just across the aisle taking verbal potshots at us all day long,” Elise said with a frown.
“This festival is so new, El. It’s only a few years old and already competing with the larger food and wine festivals around the area. And there’s been talk of Delphine hosting it again next season.”
“So?” Elise asked. “What does that have to do with not wanting Third Coast just across the midway from us?”
Madison sighed. “As a sponsor and co-organizer of this year’s event, River Bend can’t afford to get the reputation for playing favorites. The festival is just now receiving some great, much-needed press. And I’ve been approached about us doing it again next season, should this year’s festival be a success.”
Abigail set her cup down with a clatter. “Okay, while I’m not happy about having that woman within spittin’ distance of our booth for the entire weekend, Maddy’s right. We’re going to have to pull on our big-girl panties and get over it. Jackson may have to arrest me when I fail to restrain myself and do that woman some serious bodily harm, but we’re going to have to let ’em move.”
“Let who move?” Laura asked, coming in from the kitchen with Ross following close behind.
“And where are they moving to?” Ross added.
“Divia Larson,” Elise replied, as if that should be enough said.
“Uh-oh,” Ross commented, sitting down at the head of the table. “What’s she done now? The festival hasn’t even gotten underway. How can she be causing trouble already?”
Elise wrinkled her nose. “Please. What part of ‘it’s Divia Larson’ did you not get? The woman can cause trouble without breaking a sweat.”
Madison pulled out the booth chart from her humungous planner and explained the dilemma to Ross and their mother as she had the rest of the group.
When she’d finished, Laura nodded and put a hand on Abigail’s shoulder. “You’re right, of course, Mom. We’re going to have to let them move if there’s an open spot. As unpleasant as it might be, we’ll just have to take the high road and make the best of it.”
Ross nodded, but his look was skeptical. “And maybe she’ll be so focused on her own booth that she won’t have time to harass anyone else.”
“Ha! When pigs fly,” Abigail replied. “That woman will make time to harass everyone else.” When Laura gave her shoulder another squeeze, she relented. “But like you said, we’ll just have to try to ignore her and concentrate on having the best booth at the festival. Speaking of which, let’s get this meeting started. Maddy, you take point and give us the rundown of where we stand.”
Madison nodded and flipped several pages in her planner. “Okay, following the theme of ‘Bountiful Fall Harvest’ we’re going all out this year with a rustic makeover for the booth. I’ve got dried corn stalks and pumpkins for the stand. We’ll decorate with baskets filled with ears of corn, gourds, dried flowers, that sort of thing. And of course, River Bend wine.”
“That sounds like fun,” C.C. said. “Very country fair chic.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Madison said with a smile. “We’ll do tastings, too, and we’ve got six cases of those small plastic cups for that purpose. That should be plenty. We’ve got River Bend cocktail napkins to go with them. I tried to make sure our brand was on display as much as possible.”
“That’s excellent, sweetheart. The new River Bend brochures and postcards came in last month. We can hand those out to everyone who stops at the booth,” Laura added. “It’ll all be good advertisement for the winery. Sounds like we’ve got a workable game plan. So, let’s start boxing everything up for transport.”
Their mother was right, they did seem to have a workable plan and a good handle on the details, Elise thought. So why couldn’t she shake the vague feeling that things were about to go south?
three
By the time Thursday morning rolled around, they’d gotten everything packed up and transported out to the festival venue, and River Bend’s booth was now decked out in the finest country chic. Elise eyed the front of the booth as her grandmother filled the wine racks at the back of the stall. She thought the quaint effect they’d achieved was sure to draw in a steady stream of customers.
The gates opened and the festival officially kicked off at eleven a.m., just a little over two hours away. All that was left to do now were some minor adjustments and a few finishing touches. Closer to showtime, they would start opening bottles for tasting and be ready to rock and roll when the first wave came through the door.
Standing in front of the booth, she looked up and down the bustling walkway. She was pleased to see that River Bend had been given a decent location halfway between the entrance and the corner at the other end of the midway where restaurant row began.
Just about all the vendors at this end of the thoroughfare had arrived, with the exception of a few late-comers. Third Coast Winery was one such straggler. The Larsons had yet to turn up, but Elise was certain that they’d be arriving shortly. There was no way Divia Larson would miss a chance to preen and bad-mouth the competition, especially after the fit she’d thrown over the placement of their booth.
“For the first round of tastings I chose the Lenoir, Syrah, and the Cab for the reds,” Abigail said, bringing Elise’s attention back to business. “I thought for white, the Blanc du Bois and the Semillon. Which do you think would be best for the third pick? The Chenin Blanc or the Riesling?”
Elise wandered over and leaned on the counter. “Since the Semillon is fairly dry, I think the Riesling instead of the Chenin Blanc. We can always open something else if there’s a request. I see you brought a few cases of the Private Reserve, too. Good thinkin’, Gram.”
“Well, I always say, put your best foot forward. Just in case.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Hey, El.”
Hearing her name called, Elise looked up the midway toward the entrance and watched C.C. approach with another woman.
“Sorry I wasn’t here right away,” C.C. said as they walked up to the booth. “I had to go to the Extension office first thing. Got hu
ng up there longer than I’d planned. I swear those yahoos I work with wouldn’t know what to do without me. Oh, El, do you know Grace Vanderhouse?”
Elise looked at the other woman and smiled. “No, I don’t think we’ve met, have we?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Grace replied. “Nice to meet you. I love your wine, by the way. We serve it at my restaurant.”
“Grace is executive chef at The Plough in Austin,” C.C. added.
“Oh, yeah? I love that restaurant,” Elise said. “I’ve eaten there several times. The last time I was there I had a very tasty game pie, and the summer pudding I ordered for dessert was to die for.”
Grace laughed, obviously pleased with the compliments. “The owner is a Brit and very persnickety about his menu. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Grace, this is Miss Abigail DeVries, Elise’s grandmother. Miss Abby, this is Grace Vanderhouse,” C.C. said, making the introductions.
Grace shook Abigail’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Abby.”
“Likewise.”
“The restaurant’s booth is about halfway down the food aisle.” C.C. nodded in that direction, before turning back to Elise and wiggling her eyebrows. “I thought we could head over for a taste around the lunch hour.”
“Absolutely. I look forward to it,” Elise agreed with a nod, then looked up the thoroughfare and frowned. “Oh, crap. Here come the Larsons. I’d started to hope that they’d decided not to come.”
As a group, they watched Divia Larson strut toward them wearing a skirt a couple of inches too short for a woman of her age and a blouse showing ample cleavage. Fortunately, the weather had warmed up since Monday’s norther had blown through or she’d be freezing her butt off in that outfit. The woman was too tan, too thin, and wearing way too much makeup, in Elise’s opinion. With her husband trailing in her wake, she worked both sides of the midway like a pro.
“Guess we couldn’t be that lucky, huh?” C.C. shook her head at the spectacle.
“Guess not.”
“And would you look at that fake smile?”
“Who are the Larsons?” Grace asked with a curious glance.
Elise made a face. “Garrett and Divia Larson own Third Coast Winery down south.”
“Divia?” Grace repeated in a surprised tone, and watched the Larsons draw near with an odd look on her face.
“Do you know them, Grace?” C.C. asked, noticing her friend’s intense reaction to the couple.
“Huh? Oh, no. No,” Grace said, shaking her head and dismissing the Larsons. “Divia is just an unusual name, that’s all.”
“Yes, it is. And I should probably apologize. You must think we’re terrible, talking that way about the competition,” Elise said with a laugh. “Mr. Larson was Gram’s high school sweetheart and Divia is his second wife. She’s not the most … pleasant person.”
“You can say that again,” Abigail muttered.
“Oh, you don’t have to apologize,” Grace said, waving away the explanation. “I understand completely. The restaurant business is just as competitive, believe me. And we have our share of unpleasant restaurateurs, too.”
As the Larsons neared, Divia zeroed in on River Bend’s booth with the accuracy of a homing pigeon and detoured in their direction.
“Crap. She’s spotted us. It was nice to meet you, Grace, but you’ll have to excuse me. I don’t think I can stomach that woman this early in the day.” Abigail turned and began pulling wine from the cases, obviously hoping Divia wouldn’t notice her at the back of the stall.
“It was a pleasure, Miss Abby. And I should probably be going anyway,” Grace said, checking her watch. “Doors open in less than two hours and I’ve got a list of things to get done before then. It was nice to meet you, Elise. I’ll talk to you later, C.C. Y’all come by the booth, okay?”
“Definitely.” Elise watched Grace hurry away as Divia Larson descended on them like a vulture in drag.
“Oh, good Lord, Garrett. Would you have a look at this? Isn’t this just the cutest? River Bend’s gone with a country bumpkin theme this year,” the woman drawled, and her tone was sugar-coated vinegar. “Abigail? Is that you hiding back there?”
The bright smile on Divia’s face was so obviously forced that Elise had to resist the urge to gag.
She watched her grandmother’s spine stiffen at the sound of Divia Larson’s voice and when Abigail slowly turned an equally false smile blossomed.
“Well, hello, Divia. Garrett.” She nodded in Mr. Larson’s direction before addressing his wife’s question. “I’m not hiding, Divia. I’m just finishing our set-up in keeping with the festival’s theme.” Tilting her head, she pinned the younger woman with a glare. “And just to be clear, it’s not country bumpkin. It’s country chic.”
“Hmm, if you say so, sweetie,” Divia said with a skeptical look and an underlying layer of snark.
“Divia, please,” Garrett Larson said in a warning tone. “Don’t start.”
“What?” She gave him a wide-eyed look. “All I did was agree with her, darling.”
Abigail gave the woman another hard stare and then took a breath before changing the subject. “Are you two just now getting here?” She clucked her tongue. “The doors open in less than two hours. Cuttin’ it kind of close, aren’t you? Third Coast isn’t participating in this year’s theme?”
Elise bit her lip in an effort not to snicker at her gram’s subtle dig that it wasn’t River Bend but Third Coast that was somehow lacking, or the way Divia’s eyes narrowed slightly at the remark.
“Oh, we have plenty of time,” Divia returned, slipping her arm possessively through her husband’s and gazing up at him with a sultry look. “Our staff will have us up and running in no time. Right, lover?”
Staff my ass Elise thought, and by the set of her grandmother’s shoulders, knew she was thinking the same thing. Exchanging looks with C.C., she rolled her eyes.
But Abigail just smiled. “Well, good for you,” she said with a nod. “And your staff, too, for sure.”
“Of course, we won’t have the need for an adorable country theme like y’all have. We’ll do just fine without all the fluff.”
Elise wanted to smack the woman for her ugly tone and the insinuation that River Bend needed all the help they could get, but before anyone could respond, Mr. Larson spoke up.
“Darling, it looks like Toby has arrived. Why don’t you two go see how things are going at the booth, and I’ll be right along.”
At the mention of her son, Divia gazed up at him for a moment before her smile spread when she looked past him toward the entrance. “Oh, and look, the Toussaints are here as well. Their winery is just a short hop from ours.” Her tone clearly implied that the rest of them had no idea who the French vintners were. “I’ll just go say hello to Alain.”
As they watched her go Elise noticed that the Toussaints didn’t look all that jazzed to see her either, especially Alain’s wife, Monique.
When Mr. Larson turned back, he only had eyes for Elise’s grandmother. “I’m sorry, Abby. Divia doesn’t always think about how she comes across. She didn’t mean—”
“To be snide and belittling?” Abigail said, then sighed and quickly put up a hand before he could respond. “Forget I said that, Garrett. I didn’t mean it. It’s been a long, stressful week.”
As Mr. Larson stared at her grandmother for a moment, Elise could clearly read the sadness in his eyes.
“Yes you did, but it’s okay,” he said with the ghost of a smile. “You always say exactly what you mean, Abigail—always have. It’s one of the things I admire about you.”
He glanced back up the midway where his wife was obviously fawning over Alain Toussaint. “She has a real insecurity where you’re concerned.”
“There’s no need,” Abigail returned softly. “That ship sailed a hell of a long time ago, Garr
ett.”
Turning back, he gave her a full grin this time. “I know, but it still makes her behave badly. And that’s not an excuse, just an explanation.”
After a brief uncomfortable silence, he spared a glance at his watch. “Well, times a’ tickin’. I should go help at the booth. I’m sure I’ll see you later.”
As they watched him cross the aisle and head toward Third Coast’s booth, Elise let out a breath. “Wow. That was fun. Not!”
“I’ll say,” C.C. agreed.
“Isn’t his fault that his wife’s a small-minded, superficial tart,” Abigail stated matter-of-factly and then shrugged. “Besides, her kind doesn’t show their true colors until it’s all over but the sufferin’. Garrett will just have to live with the choices he’s made.”
“Better him than me,” C.C. said and gave a mock shudder. “I can’t imagine living with that day after day, can you? It’s got to be exhausting.”
“Be that as it may, I think we’ve wasted enough time and energy on the likes of Divia Larson,” Abigail remarked. “Let’s get this finished up and take a walk around, check out the venue before showtime.”
_____
If Elise had entertained hopes that the earlier encounter with Divia Larson would be the extent of the unpleasantness associated with the woman, she was disappointed later in the afternoon. Walking back from a break, her attention was snagged by raised voices coming from the direction of Third Coast’s booth.
“What’s going on over there?” Stepping back behind the River Bend counter, she looked over at C.C., who was watching the scene with avid interest.
Her friend shook her head. “Not sure yet. We had a lull for ten minutes or so. Then the French chick came by, and what looked like a bit of an argument broke out—a little pushy-shovie between her and Divia. But it was all on the down-low and I hadn’t been able to hear what they were saying until now. You got back just in time, my friend. It’s starting to get good … well, at least it’s louder so we can hear what’s happening.”
As if to reinforce the sentiment, Monique Toussaint stepped right into Divia Larson’s bubble and poked the older woman in the chest.