Sour Grapes

exciting!”
    “I can’t imagine that you lack for excitement here at Villa Rosa,” Ryan said. “Your winery produces pure artistry in a bottle.”
    Her green eyes glistened with pride. “Ah, then you’ve sampled our wares?”
    “I’ve enjoyed your wines for years. Your 1982 Cabernet Sauvignon and your 1983 Zinfandel Ruby were amazing.”
    She nodded approvingly. ‘You have a discriminating palate. Those were two of my husband’s favorites.” Savannah recalled hearing that Anthony Villa’s grandfather had emigrated from northern Italy to the United States and founded Villa Rosa. She also remembered that Anthony Villa had political aspirations. Was it a seat in the state senate?
    One quick glance-over told Savannah that Catherine Whitestone-Villa was the perfect, politically correct wife for a politician.
    “And is our future senator with us this evening?” Ryan asked.
    “I believe he’s still up at the house, reading bedtime stories to our two boys,” she said. “But he’ll be joining us later. He’s giving the welcoming speech at dinner. He’s quite a powerful speaker. Have you had the pleasure of hearing him yet?”
    Savannah was quickly amending her initial evaluation of Mrs. Villa. Old Kate was just a little too perfect, a tad too correct. Listening to her talk about her beloved gave Savannah that same slightly nauseous feeling that she got when she polished off an entire box of assorted chocolates by herself at home on Saturday night.
    “No, but we’re looking forward to hearing him,” Ryan replied, “although we won’t be able to give him our undivided attention.”
    “Yeah,” Savannah interjected, “nose to the grindstone and all that.”
    “Of course, you have work to do,” Catherine said. “Please keep a close eye on our lovely young ladies. Most of them came without their parents, and I feel like a surrogate mother to them.”
    “Don’t worry, Mother Hen.” Savannah wondered if Mrs. Villa could hear that faint, sarcastic note in her voice.
    The green eyes flashed, ever so slightly. She had definitely picked it up, but had obviously chosen to ignore it. Yes, Anthony Villa had a valuable asset in his politic wife. “ You must excuse me while I play hostess.” Catherine shook hands with them both once again, and Savannah noticed that her palm was even colder and clammier than before.
    A moment later, she was milling among the guests, whose numbers were swelling, filling the gallery and flowing over to the tasting room, where dinner was to be served.
    Neither Savannah nor Ryan spoke for several moments after her departure, as they watched her in silence.
    Finally, Savannah said, “Do you like her?”
    “Not really.”
    “Me either. She seemed a bit worried, don’t you think? As though she might be expecting some sort of trouble.”
    “I thought so myself. Definitely concerned about something.”
    Savannah crossed her arms over her chest and continued to watch the lady thoughtfully. “What sort of wine was she drinking?”
    “I believe it was a Merlot.”
    “You don’t chill Merlot, do you?”
    He gave her a sly little grin. “Nope, you don’t.”
    She nodded. “I didn’t think so.”

    Atlanta sat on the bed, putting the finishing touches on her makeup, attempting to see what she was doing in the tiny, handheld mirror she had brought with her, while trying to ignore her roommate, who was hogging the well-lit dressing table. They had reached an uneasy truce. The only details of their unspoken agreement: Don’t look at each other, say a word to each other, or in any way acknowledge the other’s existence.
    This was especially difficult for Atlanta, whose mouth seldom stopped running for any reason, even self-preservation.
    The only sounds were the clatter of makeup paraphernalia, and Barbie’s frequent cell-phone conversations. It seemed her phone was constantly buzzing, or she was continually calling someone.
    Atlanta eavesdropped with interest; Barbie had a fascinating social life. Better still, she seemed to be pissing a lot of people off. Every exchange appeared to be some sort of confrontation.
    When the phone rang again, Barbie swore, threw down her mascara, and grabbed it, knocking over a bottle of foundation in the process. She ignored the ‘Tawny Taupe” puddle that spread across the dressing table’s marble top.
    “How the hell am I supposed to get ready for dinner?” She stabbed at the “on” button and put the phone to her ear. “Yeah, who