Sour Grapes

name....”
    Savannah heard her shuffling papers. She adored Dr. Jen, such a fount of knowledge. What would they do without her?
    “Desiree Porter.”
    Savannah grinned. “That’s what I was hoping to hear.”
    “Then you’ll probably be delighted to hear that the evening gown was cut”
    “Cut? Not just torn?”
    “Nope. Scissors were definitely used. It had to be deliberate.”
    “Ah, ha! You’re right; I’m delighted. Thank you, Sweet Stuff. I’m so-o-o grateful.”
    “Hey, that’s Doctor Sweet Stuff to you!”
    “Forgive me, oh Lettered One.”
    “You don’t have to kiss up. Just bring chocolate. I’m having a vicious attack of PMS.”
    “Then I’ll bring potato chips, too.”
    As Savannah replaced the phone in her purse, she saw a vision of color walking across the courtyard, a handsome black woman of generous proportions, dressed in a colorful caftan and head wrap. The garment billowed around her as she moved among the potted palms and patio furniture.
    Savannah had dealt with Angela Herriot several times before and was impressed with her: a no-nonsense, down-to-earth shrink who told it like it was. And Savannah knew she was particularly adept at dealing with young people, having served a three-year sentence as a middle-school counselor.
    She took off after her, feeling better already. With Dr. Liu’s latest report and professional help within reach for Atlanta, things were definitely looking up.

    Things were in the crapper.
    Although Atlanta was sitting across the room, officially attending the meeting that Savannah had arranged between them and Angela Herriot, she hadn’t spoken a single word. So, it had been a fairly tense and unproductive thirty-one minutes thus far.
    Thirty-two.
    Savannah watched the digital clock on Catherine Villa’s desk change. She was sure that if it had been a windup timepiece, she would have been able to hear it ticking.
    Catherine had volunteered her office as a private place for Angela to council the traumatized girls. With its picture window that looked directly into the winery’s massive fermentation room and its old gentleman’s club décor, the room was cozy enough.
    But, so far, Savannah was the only one who had set an appointment. The girls had other, more important, things on their minds; the talent show and final judging were that evening.
    So, they had Angela all to themselves.
    The psychologist had pulled Catherine’s chair out from behind her desk and dragged it around so that she could sit facing both sisters. She sat with one ankle propped on the opposite knee, the full skirt of her caftan flowing about her. Around her neck and dripping from her earlobes were ornate, handmade beads of the same brilliant reds, greens, and oranges as her dress and turban. Eight of her ten fingers were adorned with at least one ring; some had two or three. If nothing else, Angela was fun to look at.
    “So, if you don’t want to talk, Atlanta, why are we here?” she asked. There was nothing subtle—in dress or demeanor—about Angela Herriot.
    Finally, the statue spoke. “I don’t know why she’s here.” She jabbed a thumb in Savannah’s direction. “I’m here so that she doesn’t talk trash about me behind my back.”
    “And what sort of trash do you think she’s going to say about you?” Angela asked.
    Atlanta hummed and hawed for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s just making a big deal outta some stuff that’s not a big deal. She’s always done that, and I hate it.”
    “Making a big deal out of something... ,” Angela thought for a moment. “Do you mean the laxatives that you’ve been taking to lose weight?”
    Atlanta shot Savannah a hateful look. “Yes. She was poking around in my stuff and then she started asking questions that were very personal.”
    “And why do you suppose she did that?”
    “Because she’s a nosy, controlling busybody who doesn’t trust me to run my own life.”
    Savannah bit her tongue and listened while Angela continued. “Do you suppose your sister might have had any other reason for confronting you the way she did, for insisting that you talk to a professional?”
    Atlanta shuffled her feet and stared down at the ornate pattern of the Oriental rug on the floor. “I guess she’s worried. But she doesn’t need to be.”
    “Are you using laxatives to lose weight, Atlanta ?” Atlanta gazed out the window for a long time before giving a slight nod.
    “Do you induce vomiting?”
    “No.