Sour Grapes

this morning, when I was at breakfast, I left my notebook on the table and walked away for a few minutes to attend to something. When I came back, it was open.”
    Savannah tried to think what value this information might be. But it wasn’t readily apparent.
    “So?”
    “It was open to a particular page.”
    Marion moved closer to a lantern that hung from an ivy-entwined wrought-iron pole and held her notebook up to the light for Savannah to see.
    She looked over the page which had a list of names with columns of numbers next to them. Other than recognizing some of the names as the contestants’, it made no sense to her.
    “I’m sorry. I don’t see your point,” she told her. “ This is a summary of the judges’ tally sheets... so far, that is. It shows how they scored the girls in their evening gowns.”
    Savannah was tempted to sneak a peek at Atlanta’s marks, but resisted. “Okay. And?”
    “And, as of this morning, before she left, Francie was ahead. She was winning the Miss Gold Coast crown.” A lightbulb switched on in Savannah’s tired brain. “I see. And whoever was looking at that page at breakfast, they would have known she was ahead.”
    That’s right. This was my first pageant with Francie, but she was a lovely, poised, intelligent girl, and they say she played the violin beautifully. She had an excellent shot at winning this one, or any other pageant she chose to enter.”
    “Hmm.” Savannah stood, thinking, watching the fountain for a moment, as its water tumbled from one tier to the next, sparkling like myriad tiny pink sapphires in the rosy light.
    She thought of the dark stairwell at the old mission. This morning, according to your book, who was in second place?” she asked.
    Take a guess,” Marion Lippincott replied.
    “Desiree Porter?”
    “Desiree Porter.”

    Savannah was so proud that she was very simply about to bust. Rather than risk another bout of “You Never Support Me in Anything I Do” with Atlanta, she had staked out a seat, front and center, for her sister’s talent presentation. She had wanted to make sure that Atlanta couldn’t miss her when she looked out over the audience.
    But now that she was sitting there, looking up at a talented young woman who also just happened to be her sibling, Savannah was thrilled to her toes.
    With all the confidence and talent of an experienced professional, Atlanta was belting out an energetic version of the old country classic “Silver Threads and Golden Needles,” and her California audience was enthralled. Most were clapping and some were even singing along on the chorus. She was receiving a far more enthusiastic response than the flute player or the baton twirler.
    Savannah watched, mentally recording every detail to relate to Gran later on the phone. She knew that it was a memory she would replay herself many times, just for the sheer joy of it. This picture was one of those that would hang in her own special “Atlanta Gallery” for the rest of her life.
    When the song was finished and the applause roared through the tasting room, Savannah felt her eyes fill with tears. Again. For the third time that day.
    It had to be a record for a non-PMS week.
    And, as usual, she had no tissues.
    Since Dirk wasn’t around with a handful of fast-food-joint napkins, she decided to run to the ladies’ room and get something to wipe away the sniffles. As soon as Atlanta exited the stage, bowing all the while, Savannah left her seat and made her way through the side door and into the hallway.
    As she approached the rest rooms, she was surprised to see Anthony Villa, who was coming out of the men’s room.
    Wasn’t he supposed to be in there judging the competition? She hated to think he had missed that marvelous Reid performance.
    He looked preoccupied, even worried, and didn’t seem to notice her.
    Just as he passed the pay phone on the wall, it rang. He jumped as though the thing had shot a string of bullets at him, and the color drained out of his face.
    Savannah watched, fascinated, as he stood there, first reaching out to touch the receiver, then pulling his hand back—a man torn with indecision.
    It’s just a phone, she thought. Pick it up for heaven’s sake.
    But he didn’t. He stood there, hand outstretched, fingers trembling, but he didn’t.
    Instead, he began to walk away, so fast that he nearly ran headlong into Savannah.
    “Oh,” he said. “Ms. Reid. I didn’t know you were... I didn’t see you