Sour Grapes

by G. A. McKevett

  Savannah smiled, instantly feeling better in all areas, even ones the caffeine hadn’t reached. “Ah,” she said, “if it isn’t my chronologically gifted maternal crone calling from Georgia.”

  “What?” The voice sounded a mite cranky.

  “We’re being politically correct around here this morning . . . or afternoon. We’re proving how enlightened and—”

  “Oh, hogwash. I didn’t call you to get an earful of bullpucky.”

  Savannah chuckled. “So, why did you call me, Granny Reid? Not that you have to have a reason, of course.”

  “I called to warn you.”

  “Warn me? Why? Did you have one of your prophetic dreams about me or—”

  “No, not this time. I’m letting you know that you’re gonna be getting some company, a visitor from Georgia.”

  “You? Are you gonna come see me again, Gran?”

  A mischievous snicker on the other end. “Not me. I don’t think California has recuperated from my last trip out there.”

  “That’s true. Mickey Mouse and Goofy still have hangovers. So, if it’s not you, who?”

  “One of your beloved siblings.”

  Savannah sighed. With one brother, seven sisters, and a gaggle of nieces and nephews, the nerve-wracking possibilities seemed limitless. “Not Vidalia and the twins . . . both sets, that is . . .”

  Glancing over at Tammy, Savannah saw her assistant make a wry face that reflected her own thoughts on the subject. Both recalled the previous invasion of sister Vidalia’s terrorist munchkins. The cats were traumatized for weeks afterward, their fur standing on end and their ears turned inside out. And the major house repairs were on hold, waiting for the governor of California to declare San Carmelita a disaster zone and release the relief funds.

  “Not me and not Vidalia,” Gran said. “It’s your baby sister, Atlanta, who hightailed it outta here first thing this mornin’ on a plane headed in your direction. I would’ve warned you sooner, but your mama just told me about it.”

  Savannah didn’t have to utilize any special detecting skills to figure out why neither her mom nor Atlanta had phoned ahead to announce the visit. In spite of the fact that Shirley Reid had born nine children, naming them after cities in Georgia, mothering wasn’t high on the list of her priorities. It fell well below square dancing, Jack Daniels, turquoise and silver jewelry, and her favorite stool—third from the end, right below the autographed picture of Elvis—at Sam’s Honky Tonk.

  Mama Reid would be happy to be rid of the temperamental teenager for a while.

  Over the years, Big Sis Savannah and Gran had done most of the mothering of the Reid brood. Why should anything change at this late date? Savannah asked herself.

  “You there, hon?” Gran said, her voice soft with concern.

  “Right here, Gran.” Savannah reached for a spoon to stir the grits that were bubbling on the stove. “I’m just shocked into silence. I mean, I’m always glad to entertain a family member, but . . . Atlanta. She’s a bit of a . . . challenge . . . p. c. speaking, that is.”

  “Eh, forget the p. c. nonsense. She’s a pain in the hind end, that one. Don’t let her walk all over you, darlin’.”

  “That’ll be the day.”

  Savannah thanked her grandmother and said good-bye. As she hung up the phone, Tammy said, “So, when exactly is that day? The day you aren’t going to let your spoiled baby sister take advantage of you, that is.”

  “Today,” she replied with a weary sigh. “There oughta be a law against getting news like that before breakfast, with only one cup of coffee in your bloodstream. And while they’re making rules, there should be another one about kid sisters showing up unannounced and uninvited. They oughta be required to give you a thirty-day notice so that you can move.”

  She chug-a-lugged another cup of coffee, then added, “And I say that with the deepest affection for Atlanta and all of my adorable siblings.”

  Tammy nodded. “Gotcha. Don’t you sometimes wonder if you’re ever going to get them all raised?”

  “Naw, I gave up on that dream long ago. They’re perpetual juveniles. Dysfunctional to infinity.”

  Tammy studied Savannah thoughtfully as she continued her food preparations. “How about you?” she asked. “You had the same parents—or lack of parenting—that they had. Plus you had the additional burden of being the eldest and all those responsibilities. Why aren’t you dysfunctional?”

  Savannah laughed and broke an egg into the skillet. “What makes you think I’m not?”

  “You’re one of the most together ladies I know.”

  “That’s pathetic, Tam. Obviously, you’ve had lousy role models. Besides, I don’t have time to be dysfunctional. I can hardly function as it is.”

  The sound of a car’s horn blasted, just outside the kitchen door. Savannah left the eggs frying to take a look at her driveway. “A Yellow cab,” she said. “Gee, we must have company. Who do you suppose it is?”

  As she turned down the heat under her breakfast and made her way out the kitchen door with Tammy behind her, Savannah felt a flood of contradictory emotions, ranging from warm and fuzzy, to seriously irked. The strongest was guilt . . . guilt that she wasn’t happier to see her own flesh and blood arriving on her doorstep. But she slapped a pseudo-smile across her face and hurried to the taxi, her furry slippers flapping on the cement driveway.

  The back door of the cab swung open and out came a guitar case, followed by an enormous garment bag . . . and a positively bony teenager who couldn’t possibly have been spawned in the gene pool with anyone related to Savannah.

  Rather than the dark-haired, voluptuous beauty she had been the last time Atlanta had visited, this girl was painfully thin, with sunken cheeks and ribs showing beneath her midriff-cropped stretchy shirt. And her hair, naturally the same dark chestnut as Savannah’s, was a platinum blond haypile, stacked on her head and held with a dozen glittering, butterfly barrettes.

  Savannah’s heart sank and a queasy feeling hit her stomach with a wallop. The kid was sick! The kid was very sick, maybe even dying! Yes, that had to be it! She had come to California to live out her final days, basking in the healing golden sunlight, listening to the eternal song of the ocean waves and—”

  “Hey, Van, I’m here to compete in a beauty pageant!” the girl shouted, running toward her, guitar case and garment bag fluttering in the breeze. “Isn’t that just the coolest thing?!”

  “Uhhh . . . yeah . . . cool.”

  Atlanta gave her an enormous, enthusiastic hug, whacking her on the back with the heavy case and tangling her hair in the bag’s zipper tab. “Are you glad to see me? Are you surprised?”

  “Very glad, sweetie . . . and surprised.” Savannah placed a kiss on each of her sister’s gaunt cheeks and realized that she was glad to see her . . . and somewhat amazed that she was so glad. The kid was a pain in the rear end, as Gran had said, but she loved her. She loved all of them; how could she not?

  Atlanta released Savannah and turned to give Tammy a peck on the cheek. “Hey there. You still workin’ for my sister? I figured you would’ve flown the coop by now, no more than she pays you.”

  Tammy received the kiss gracefully and replied with a noncommittal grunt. Savannah was grateful, knowing that Tammy held no deep or abiding affection for any of her siblings who had appeared on her doorstep. Bringing their own bundles of troubles and idiosyncrasies with them, they hadn’t exactly made good impressions on Savannah’s California friends.

  “Let’s get you inside,” Savannah said, as the driver exited the cab and began to unload the trunk. A frightening amount of luggage was being dumped on the driveway, and Savannah started to worry about her impromptu visitor’s Estimated Time of Departure. Savannah didn’t recall moving in that much clothing when she bought the house.

  Picking up as many of the bags as she could handle, she started toward the door, but Atlanta blocked her way. “Oh, yeah . . . there’s just one thing.” She looked a wee bit embarrassed. “This guy
drove me all the way from LAX, and I owe him $145. I was hoping you’d pay him; I’m a little short on cash, you know, after paying for my airline ticket and all.”

  Savannah thought of the meager amount recorded in her checkbook ledger.

  Oh well, she didn’t need electricity or water next month.

  She sighed and trudged to the door, lugging the bags—that must have contained liquid lead—with her. “Let me get my purse,” she said, adding under her breath, “and let me raid the cookie jar . . . and the piggy bank . . . and my lingerie drawer stash . . . and . . .”

  “Oh, yeah, Savannah,” Atlanta called after her with a merry tone that made Savannah consider sister-cide, “my driver’s been a super nice guy; be sure to tip him really good, okay?”

  Ten minutes later, the three women and the 237 pieces of luggage were inside, and the pouting cabby had been dispatched. The fifty-dollar tip had depressed, rather than impressed, him.

  “Gee, Savannah, you’re getting cheap in your old age,” Atlanta told her as she helped herself to a bottle of Tammy’s diet herb tea in the refrigerator. “I mean, that was downright embarrassing, you stiffing him like that.”

  Two of Savannah’s three remaining nerves snapped. “Embarrassing? You were humiliated, were you? What if I hadn’t been able to pay him at all? You’d be out there, washing, waxing, and vacuuming his cab right now, blushing up a storm.”

  Atlanta plopped down on a chair at the kitchen table and twisted the top off the bottle, a completely disgruntled look on her face. Tammy sat across from her, pretending to shuffle and sort a stack of papers. Her eyes twinkled; she found the Reid clan an unending source of entertainment.

  “Just out of curiosity, why didn’t you call me and let me know you were coming?” Savannah asked. “I could have picked you up at the airport and saved myself a couple of hundred bucks.”

  Atlanta’s bottom lip protruded. “I wanted to see your face when you realized I’d come to visit you. And, now I’m sorry I did, because you didn’t seem all that happy to see me.”

  Maternal guilt pangs stabbed at Savannah’s conscience . . . along with some accompanying anger. Why did she always lose with this kid? Whatever she did, it was never enough. She seemed destined to blow it somehow.

  “To be honest, ’Lanta,” she said, walking over and laying her hands on the girl’s shoulders, “I was worried to see how much weight you’ve lost.”

  Atlanta beamed. “I know! Are you proud of me, or what?! I’ve got another twenty pounds or so to lose, but I’m getting there.”

  “Twenty pounds?” Savannah glanced across the table at Tammy, who appeared to be as shocked as she was. And if superthin, ultra-health-conscious Tammy was concerned...

  “You don’t need to lose anything, Atlanta,” Tammy said. “You’re very slender as you are. What sort of diet have you been on?”

  Atlanta’s defense shields rose as she took a long drink of the tea and avoided looking at either of them. “I’ve just been watching what I eat,” she finally said.

  “Cutting out the junk food, you know, all that garbage you eat, Savannah. Which, by the way, I can see you’ve picked up a couple of pounds since I saw you last. Especially in your hips. But that’s always been your problem area, hasn’t it? I guess I take after Mom’s side of the family, because I’ve never had a problem with my hips and . . .”

  Wandering over to the stove, Savannah looked at her eggs, which now looked like yellow-and-white rubber with dried, brown ruffles around the edges. Her grits had congealed into a pasty glob. The distinct, bitter smell of burned biscuits was wafting from the oven.

  And she couldn’t even run over to the local IHOP for strawberry cheese blintzes; she had given the cabby her last dollar.

  Suddenly, she felt older and more tired than dirt.

  Picking up her coffee cup, she fortified it with a generous splash of Baileys Irish Cream, then said, “You two, eat . . . or don’t eat, whatever you can find. Just make yourself at home, ’Lanta. I’m going back to bed for an hour or two. I had a rough night.”

  As she shuffled through the living room, she heard her sister’s voice reaching out to her . . . , “Savannah, could you take up some of those bags? You know, since you’re going up anyway.”

  Marion Lippincott had organized 289 beauty pageants in her career, and she was darned good at it. Accustomed to the chaotic flutter of belles and gowns, frantic stage mothers and frenzied coaches, florists and seamstresses, beauticians and musicians, nothing fazed “The Lip” . . . as she was not-so-fondly called . . . but never to her face.

  Over the rims of those tortoiseshell glasses that perpetually perched on the end of her nose she had seen it all. And, about a hundred years ago, she had done it all. Though her once-auburn locks were now a short, silver bob, and her crowns and banners were packed away in a trunk at the foot of her bed, she knew the pageant world inside and out.

  And although many of the people scurrying about the gallery of the Villa Rosa Winery considered this one of the most important events of their lives, to Lippincott it was just number 289. She figured she’d retire at 300. Enough was enough.

  “Whose bright idea was it to have this at a winery?” sounded a whiny voice in her left ear. Marion glanced up from her notebook for a half second, long enough to recognize the speaker as a professional pageant mom and not someone who required diplomatic handling, like a sponsor.

  “It was my idea,” she replied curtly, “a damned bright one. I’m glad you agree. Has your Desiree registered yet?”

  The mom sputtered, stammered, then shook her head.

  “I suggest she do so, right away. M through Z is set up in the tasting room.” She flipped open her notebook to the accommodations chart. “She’ll be rooming with Eileen Freeport in 2F . . . up the stairs, on the right.”

  “With Eileen!? No, they hate each other. Remember, I wrote you three months ago and asked that she be with—”

  “Room 2F. Registration, Mrs. Porter, registration.”

  She snapped her fingers and the discontented Mrs. Porter disappeared.

  Marion strode across the gallery, the hub of Villa Rosa’s busy visitors’ center. Situated on the Ventura Highway, north of Los Angeles, but south of Hearst Castle, Villa Rosa was a popular spot along the Southern California tourist trail. The gallery—which was round, its walls paneled with oak taken from ancient barrels—itself looked like the inside of an enormous vat. Evidence of Villa Rosa’s prestigious past was everywhere in the antique winemaking memorabilia. There were photos of five generations of Villas, all of whom had been masters at their art, while glass cases held the ribbons, medals, and awards for excellence that had been bestowed upon them over the decades.

  To the right lay the tasting room, a luxurious affair, much larger than the average California winery provided. To the left lay the guest lodge, a two-story house with twenty beautifully decorated rooms for overnight visitors. Straight ahead, through two sets of French doors, lay a courtyard, lush with palmettos, hanging gardens, a three-tiered fountain, and comfortable lounging furniture.

  The Villa family loved their wines, but just as much, they enjoyed sharing their passion with others. And the visitors’ center reflected that generations-old tradition of hospitality.

  But Marion Lippincott had precious little time to appreciate such things with a pageant to run. Waving away several other mothers with equally distressed looks on their faces, she picked up the telephone which was resting atop an antique that had once been a winepress, but now functioned as a visitors’ registration desk. After punching in a few numbers, she heard her activities coordinator on the other end.

  “Gertrude, I spoke to Anthony Villa, and he needs a podium for his welcoming address this evening, just a microphone and stand for me. Have the plaques arrived yet? Well, get the engraver on the line and give him grief. And dessert for the closing ceremonies? Tell the chef we need a low-fat sorbet selection.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a spray of spring flow
ers approaching, with a deliveryperson’s legs below and a face hidden among the tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths. The flowers spoke, “I’m with Fancy Bloomers. These are for one of your contestants . . . a Barbie Matthews.”

  “No, I don’t want the cheesecake on the menu,” Marion barked, “or the chocolate mousse. These girls are watching their weight and their complexions.”

  “Excuse me,” said the deliveryperson, “a Barbie Matthews?”

  Marion glanced down at her notebook. “She hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “Then where should I leave these?”

  She flipped the pages until she found the room chart. “Room 1D.” She jabbed a finger toward the hallway that branched off the gallery to the left, then turned her attention back to the phone. “I have to check the registration tables, to see how it’s going,” she said. “Gert, I’m sure you can handle all of this, and when I check back with you in half an hour, you’ll have only good news for me, right?”

  She hung up the phone before receiving the affirmation. She didn’t need it. Gertrude was a most-capable coordinator. And she possessed another virtue that made her even more valuable . . . she was positively terrified of Marion Lippincott.

  And that was exactly the way The Lip liked it.

  Room 1D. A first-floor room. That was good. Perfect, in fact.

  The person with the flowers had brought along more than tulips. The jar of red gore was tucked inside a jacket pocket, just in case.

  But no. The “delivery person” wasn’t that lucky. The room was locked, and there was no choice but to leave the arrangement outside in the hallway next to the door.

  Oh well. It was probably better this way. The old bat with the notebook might remember later, and there needed to be some time between the “delivery” and the “incident.”

  Tonight would be fine.

  Counting the steps to the exit at the end of the hall, the person mentally rehearsed the return. Fifty-five steps. Feeling the jar, heavy inside the jacket pocket, its contents sloshing around, brought a smile. If the flowers didn’t change her mind, Barbara Matthews was going to get an unpleasant surprise.