Sour Grapes

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 flowers 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