Sour Grapes

in her own bedroom with all the “girlie” things her heart desired but didn’t get during waking hours. Within these four walls, she was all woman, with lavender-scented sachets under her pillow, silk, satin, and velvet everywhere she touched, and a bouquet of fresh flowers in the vase on the dresser.
    Romance novels stacked on the nightstand chased the harsh realities of the day away when read by the light of a pink, Victorian lamp, complete with a three-inch fringe.
    Having a crystal dish brimming with Mon Cheri chocolates close at hand didn’t hurt either.
    This was her sanctuary. And tonight, she was thrilled to be back inside its cozy confines to renew her tired spirit.
    But when she turned out the lights and snuggled beneath the covers, she kept seeing Anthony Villa’s face, and she imagined what Catherine must be doing at that moment. Maybe she was in bed, too, but crying, holding her two boys close to her. Or perhaps she was pacing the floor, making phone calls, trying to find the best attorney possible to defend her husband.
    Whatever she was doing, Savannah didn’t envy her. And she felt bad that she had been the catalyst to bring a family to ruin.
    No, she thought, not me.
    Anthony Villa had destroyed his family—with some help from a stupid, but seductive teenager, who was old enough to know that what she was doing was wrong, but far too young to understand the terrible consequences.
    Not me.
    Tomorrow morning she would wake up and continue with her life, doing things that had nothing in common with the Villas. And once the trial was over, they would become nothing more to her than a sad memory. They, on the other hand, would live in this nightmare for the rest of their lives.
    With thoughts like those, she wasn’t surprised that it took her a long time to go to sleep. And when she did, she found that the sweet familiarity of home wasn’t enough to chase away the restless dreams.

    She was standing in the old cemetery just outside her hometown, an ancient graveyard where the brave sons of the Confederacy had been laid to rest next to their wives and children who had died when Sherman had cut his deadly swath of destruction across Georgia.
    Graceful drapings of moss hung from the trees, dipping down to the weathered marble stones, some so aged that their names and dates were barely visible. The grass was halfway up to her knee and tickled her calf as she walked along between the monuments, reading the names of families who had lived in the area for generations.
    Savannah recognized the place and many of the names. She had played hide-and-seek here as a child, and being more courageous than some, she had even ventured here at night to speak to Grandpa Reid after a tractor accident had taken him from them when she was only six.
    As she usually did when she visited this place, she carried a bouquet of flowers in her hand, bachelor buttons and snapdragons, picked from Gran’s garden. She brought them for Gramps. He had always told her that bachelor buttons and snapdragons were “manly,” unlike those sissy flowers like pansies, roses, and daisies.
    She was trying to find Gramps’s grave... but she couldn’t remember where it was. All around her there were fresh mounds of earth, new graves recently dug. At least a dozen of them. And when she stepped in the soft soil, she sank in to her ankles.
    Looking down, she saw a name on one of the new stones.
    “Villa”
    Her heart caught in her throat, and she looked at the next grave marker. It, too, was inscribed with that name. And the next and the next. An entire family. Dead. Gone.
    Sherman had marched through Georgia again.
    “It was you, Savannah. You did it.”
    In the darkness she couldn’t see the face of her accuser, but she recognized the smooth, aristocratic voice.
    “No, Catherine,” she said, “it wasn’t my fault. I’m sorry for your loss, but I didn’t cause it.”
    “Everything would have been okay. But you couldn’t leave it alone. You had to come after Tony.”
    “He killed two girls. He has to pay for that.”
    “Tony didn’t kill anyone, you fool, I did.”
    Savannah sat upright in her bed, her pulse pounding in her ears, cold sweat pouring off her body and soaking her nightgown.
    She was shaking all over and could hardly breathe. “No,” she whispered. “That isn’t true.”
    “Yes, it is,” Catherine replied. “Tony couldn’t kill anyone... not even when it was necessary. He’s weak. All men are weak. We women