No one would have guessed that Atlanta Reid wasn’t a pampered Southern socialite, but the daughter of a sometimes – truck stop waitress who was also known as the town’s “loose woman.”
But Atlanta was also Granny Reid’s granddaughter. She had been taught to sit, walk, and talk like a lady since she was old enough to do all three. And as Savannah watched her cross the stage with the bearing of a queen, she wished that Gran were there to see her. She would have been busting with pride.
“Your sister looks lovely tonight,” Ryan said. He stood at her shoulder, watching, as she was, from the sidelines. “I’ve seen you wear that color . . . sapphire blue, isn’t it? It complements your eyes and hers, too.”
Savannah batted her lashes at him. “Why, sir . . . I didn’t think you’d noticed.”
“Of course I’ve noticed. John and I were just saying the other day how beautiful you looked the last time we took you to dinner at Chez Antoine.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re ‘safe,’ immune to my feminine wiles. Straight guys never say cool things like that.”
“Some do. Just not that barbarian you spend most of your time with.”
“No, but I like him anyway.”
Ryan laughed. “I understand.”
“You do?”
“No, but I’ll take your word for it.”
They watched a while longer as the remainder of the contestants made their appearances. The number of participants had dwindled since the noon swimsuit showing. Some of the parents had gotten wind of Barbie Matthews’s demise and had come to collect their daughters. A few of the girls had been frightened and eager to leave, but most chose to remain and finish the competition.
Savannah’s threats to send Atlanta packing had fallen by the wayside. Everyone seemed convinced that Barbie’s bad luck had been of her own making and was unlikely to be repeated with anyone else.
Except Francie.
Savannah had been keeping a close eye on her, and the girl seemed just as troubled and nervous as she had that morning, maybe more. She tripped on the hem of her gown while walking up onto the stage, and when it was her turn to speak a few words at the microphone, she stammered and choked on her own words.
“I wish I’d been able to get her to open up to me,” she told Ryan. “I’m sure she knows exactly what happened to Barbie and why. But she’s too scared to talk.”
“I know. I tried, too, but she was terrified to even have anyone see her speaking to me.”
“Did you hear from John? Did he check her out?”
“Yes, he says she’s had it rough, been in and out of foster homes her entire life, through no fault of her own. She’s a good kid, no drugs, no record, very good grades. She’s living at home now. Apparently, mom’s got it together for the moment. Her last foster parents want to adopt her.”
“Why don’t they?”
“There’s some problem with the mom giving up complete custody. Dad isn’t on the scene.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
Ryan gave her a quizzical look. “Yes, I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“She’s Trent’s sister.”
“Trent Gorton? The east end boy that Barbie dated?”
“The very one. That’s how Trent and Barbie met. He was dropping his sister off at a pageant.”
Savannah thought that one over as Mrs. Lippincott went to the microphone, thanked everyone for coming, and wished them a safe trip home.
Trent’s sister, huh?
Now, that was a horse of a different feather.
Back in her room for the night, Savannah took a two-minute shower—a cleaning that Gran would have called, “a lick and a promise.”
She didn’t want to waste a moment on bathing that could be spent sleeping. Having agreed to meet Ryan for breakfast at 7:00 A.M., she was already dreading the prospect of hauling her weary bones out of bed. It would come all too soon.
Besides, Atlanta was pacing in the bedroom, impatient to begin her “beauty bath,” which she said would include special moisturizers and exfoliates, the mixture being her own carefully guarded secret.
She had halfheartedly apologized to Savannah for refusing to share her “fountain of youth,” until Savannah told her bluntly, “ ’Lanta, don’t take this wrong, but I don’t give a tinker’s damn about beauty treatments right now. I don’t have to look good to catch bad guys. Just don’t stand between me and the shower or the bed.”
In less than five minutes she had completed all the minimalist toiletries and was blissfully horizontal. And ninety seconds later, she was drifting in a pea green, dreamland boat with Winken, Blinken, and Nod.
But then, a bony hand reached out and rocked the boat. It was the Wicked Witch of the East . . . or was she from the South? She had a really heavy Southern accent and—
“Savannah, wake up.”
“No, go away.”
“Really, Van, wake up,” Witchy Poo said. “It’s important.”
“I swear, if you touch me again, I’ll hurt you.”
More shaking, the bony fingers biting into her shoulder. “You’ve gotta hear this. Wake up.”
Savannah came fully conscious and realized that Atlanta was serious . . . not like this morning. Whatever the reason for her waking her, it wasn’t something as frivolous as snoring.
“The girls in the room next to us,” Atlanta whispered. “You should come in here and listen. I was taking my bath when I heard them, and I thought I should wake you up.”
Savannah squinted up at her sister and realized she was wet and shivering, a towel twisted around her torso, her sudsy hair dripping on the floor.
“Okay, okay.” Savannah swung her legs out of bed and sat up. Her head spun, as though both tablespoons of her blood had raced to her feet, giving her a blood pressure of minus zero.
She followed Atlanta into the bathroom where she, too, could hear a conversation going on in the next room. Apparently the plumbing provided an excellent conduit for eavesdropping.
Atlanta stood to one side of the toilet and pressed her ear to the tiled wall. Savannah took a position on the other side.
“You never liked Barbie anyway,” one of their neighbors said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were the one who pushed her off that cliff.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like you either, Eileen, but I haven’t done anything to you . . . yet.”
“Don’t threaten me. I’ll go straight to Mrs. Lippincott and tell her how you ripped Barbie’s evening gown and put drain cleaner in her shampoo.”
Savannah looked at Atlanta and waggled her right eyebrow. Atlanta stifled a giggle.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” came the reply.
“Okay, then you won’t mind if they check her gown and her shampoo bottle, right?”
“I don’t care what you say or what they do. I’m glad that Barbie Matthews is dead. She was a bitch, and I hated her guts. I hope somebody did murder her. It would serve her right.”
“I think you killed her, because you were tired of her beating you in contests. Everybody knows you threatened to hurt her after she took the Miss California Sunshine crown and you were first runner-up.”
“She fixed that pageant! She slept with two of the judges. That’s the only reason she won.”
“And you only slept with one of them, right, Desiree?”
Both Savannah and Atlanta cringed, expecting to hear some indication of physical violence. Instead, they heard the voice, identified as “Desiree,” reply with deadly calm, “I’ll bet I won the evening gown tonight, and if I did, it’s because I’m the only pro here. The rest of you are stupid little girls who couldn’t win a pageant if you slept with every judge on the panel. And as far as whether I hurt Barbie or not . . .”
Savannah shoved her ear as tight against the wall as she could and held her breath.
“. . . that’s for me to know and you to think about. Think about it anytime you’re going to say something st
upid to me . . . or about me. You’d better think hard, Eileen. Your life might depend on it.”
The sisters stood, plastered to the bathroom tiles, straining to hear more, but that was all. Apparently, Eileen had wisely decided to keep any further opinions to herself.
Finally, Savannah moved away from the wall and motioned for Atlanta to follow her back into the bedroom. They closed the bathroom door behind them.
“So . . . was that worth getting out of bed for?” Atlanta asked, a satisfied smirk on her face.
“Well worth it. And if you promise not to wake me up again—benevolent, forgiving woman that I am—I just might let you live to see the morning light.”
But Savannah couldn’t go back to sleep. Long after Atlanta was making z-z-z’s in the bed next to hers, Savannah was cursing herself for wasting these precious hours tossing and turning. But images kept running through her head, disturbing pictures of a young woman falling off a cliff, of someone pushing an enormous rock down on her, trying to crush her, of someone leaning through a window and pouring blood and gore onto a beautiful, rose damask bedspread.
And those scenes were anything but soothing.
Finally, she rolled out of bed and walked over to the window. Pulling back the curtain, she looked out and savored the view. Directly below were the lawns where the evening-gown competition had been held earlier. And beyond the dark grass was a silver sea—the moonlit vineyards.
Only a few hours ago, the estate had been bustling with activity. Now it seemed almost ghostly in its tranquillity. Apparently, everyone was asleep, except her.
The realization made Savannah bitter. Damned job, anyway. She should have pursued her childhood dream—becoming a caged go-go dancer in white boots and a leopard minidress.
But another look out the window told Savannah that she was not the only one awake after all. Right ahead, at the edge of the vineyard, she saw someone walking among the rows, a person whose white hair glimmered in the moonshine.
Why was Anthony Villa wandering in his own vineyard so late at night? she wondered. So far, she had dealt solely with Catherine, as the lady had requested. But her curiosity was piqued by this man who wanted to be a state senator, yet hated speaking to a crowd. A man who wandered his land, alone in the moonlight.
Quietly, so that she wouldn’t wake Atlanta, she slipped off her pajama bottoms and donned a pair of jeans. After pulling a sweater on over her top, she stood, looking down at her Beretta in its holster. Her system rebelled against the thought of strapping it on again . . . but . . .
She took the pistol out of the leather, tucked it in the rear waistband of her jeans, and tiptoed out of the room.
Anthony Villa didn’t see Savannah until she was only a few yards from him. But he didn’t seem surprised that she, too, was walking the grounds.
“Good evening, Ms. Reid,” he said as she approached. “Fancy meeting you out here. Are you making your rounds or something official like that?”
“No, actually, I’m suffering from insomnia,” she replied. “And you?”
He grinned sheepishly, like a kid caught running around the house at night when he was supposed to be in bed. In his jeans and UCLA sweatshirt, he looked quite different from the formal host she had observed at the luncheon or the judge in a tuxedo, who had been evaluating the pageant beauties in their gowns that evening.
“Would you believe,” he said, “I’m conversing with the vines?”
She smiled. “And are they good listeners?”
“The best. They hear every word I say, but they never give me unwanted advice.” He laughed. “I used to sing opera to them, but it made the wine sour, so I’ve settled for moonlight heart-to-hearts.”
Savannah nodded thoughtfully as she studied the vines with their clusters of plump berries. “They don’t listen so good in the daytime?”
“Sure, they’re here for me anytime. The problem is: I’m so busy these days that I don’t have time to come out and commune like I used to.”
“That’s a shame.”
“You’ve no idea.” He reached down, picked up a wayward vine, and gently coaxed it upward, twining it around the trellis. “These vines are dear old friends. My grandfather planted them himself, long before I was born. These particular ones are nearly seventy years old.”
“I had no idea they would produce so long.”
“They will if you take very good care of them. I’m afraid that if I win the senate seat, I won’t have the time I need to nurture . . . Well, you don’t want to hear my problems, Ms. Reid, when you have troubles of your own right now.”
Savannah ran her fingers along a vine and could almost feel the vitality flowing through it. She placed her hand under one of the clusters and was surprised how heavy it was. The dew-damp grapes felt cool and smooth against her fingers.
“They’re starting to get ripe,” he said. “Pretty soon we’ll have to spread the nets over them to keep the birds away.”
He knelt in the dirt and fingered a dark tube that lay half-buried in the soil. “Those damned coyotes,” he said. “They’re chewing through my irrigation lines again. They’ve discovered it’s a great place to get a fresh drink of water. They eat the grapes, too. So do the deer and the raccoons. Half of this business is keeping the varmints in check. But then, you know all about varmint control.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I do. But my varmints have two legs, and they aren’t nearly so cute.” She cleared her throat and changed the subject. “Your wife is very concerned,” she said, “that my . . . problem . . . will become your problem, with the bad publicity and all.”
He nodded and smiled, a tender expression on his face. “Ah, my Catie. She’s always worrying about something. She’s good at a lot of things, but worrying is what she’s best at.”
“She’s very supportive of your campaign.”
“Catherine is my campaign. We’re partners in everything. She’s my perfect complement.”
“How nice to hear a husband speak so well of his wife. That’s rare these days.”
“Wives like Catherine are rare. Let me tell you a story, Ms. Reid . . . about grapevines . . . and about a true partnership.”
He led her to the end of a row and pointed to a vine that was clearly illuminated in the moonlight. “This vine is a product of grafting. The roots are from vines that are native to America. The rest of the plant is a European variety.
“You see, until the mid 1800s there were grapevines here in the Americas, and others in Europe. The American vines were sturdy, hardy, but the European vines yielded the best wine. Then someone transported some vines from America to Europe, and, unfortunately, a nasty little bug along with them. The result was an infestation that destroyed most of Europe’s vineyards by attacking the roots of their vines.
“But some bright person . . . or maybe his bright wife . . . got the idea of grafting the European vines onto the resistant American roots. The results were so spectacular that the practice continued, long after the European vineyards were out of danger. It was the perfect partnership, like my wife and me.”
Savannah considered his story and his metaphor. She looked out across the vista of hills and valleys filled with fog and felt the cool, moist breezes on her face, and she wondered how he could cherish any partnership that would take him away from this magic place.
“So, which are you, the vine that produces wonderful fruit or the sturdy root?” she asked.
“I’m definitely the root. These are my roots, all around you. From the olive trees that I played in as a kid, to the rosebushes my grandmother Rosa planted, to the wine you drank at lunch . . . this ground gave birth to it all. We’re dirt people, we Villas.”
“And Catherine Whitestone?”
“She’s the reason why the winery has grown by leaps and bounds these past ten years. It’s her marketing genius that expanded the complex, built the guest lodge and put in the pool, added gourmet meals to the tasting-room menu. Really, before she arrived, all we did here was make wine.”
“And that wasn’t enough?”
He looked a bit confused . . . but only for a moment. “No. After all, a person should always try to better himself in life, don’t you think?”
“Not necessarily.” She shrugged. “I mean, if you’re already happy doing what you’re doing—and you seem very happy raising your grapes and making your wines—you’re luckier than most. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe it’s a good life that doesn’t need to be improved . . . just enjoyed.”
He smiled, but it was a bittersweet expression. “I don’t think my wife would agree with you.”
“That’s okay. I don’t think many ambitious people would.”
Suddenly, Savannah realized that she liked Anthony Villa much more than she liked his wife. And when she thought back on what Atlanta had said about him— “kinda sexy for an old silver-haired fart”—she realized that she agreed with her younger sister. There was, indeed, something sexy about this earthy but intelligent man who felt passionate about his wife—whether she deserved it or not—his land, his wine, and his heritage. And he did look very good in a sweatshirt and jeans by moonlight.
Savannah decided then and there, it was time to leave the vineyard. Just turn around and walk away, girl, she told herself. And make it snappy.
“I’ve got to get back,” she said. “Thank you for the history lesson . . . and for reaffirming my faith in happy marriages.”
“Anytime, Ms. Reid. Anytime you suffer from insomnia, I’ll probably be out here somewhere. And I’d love to tell you what the ancient Greeks and Romans thought of wine.”
She didn’t reply, just gave him a dismissive wave as she made a speedy retreat.
No, she wouldn’t be returning for any more wine lessons in the moonlight with Anthony Villa. She was a well-trained, so-called decent Southern girl, and Granny Reid had told her more than once, “Savannah, darlin’, if you ever feel yourself takin’ a likin’ to a married man . . . you just turn tail and run . . . run . . . run! ’Cause ain’t no good gonna come of it. Only a heap o’ tears and sorrow.”
Sour Grapes Page 14