Savannah Reid 06 - Sour Grapes

by Mckevett, G A

  over the world. That would be cool, you know. I'm just thinldn' that maybe if I was a stewardess, I might meet some movie director in first-class, and. . . you know, a lot of actresses get discovered that way, because . .

  Marion Lippincott was right, after all, Savannah decided as she put a double-sized scoop of potato salad on

  a paper plate; all that energy, all that optimism--it really was wasted on the young.

  But at that moment, as she gazed out her kitchen window at her loved ones--those her own age and those younger--Savannah was extremely contented to be exactly where she was on life's road.

  Right here. . . this spot where she was standing. . . it was the very best place in the world to be.

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  newest Savannah Reid mystery

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  everal hours later, having been plied with copious L./amounts of double Dutch chocolate fudge, popcorn, and the potables of their choice, Savannah's guests began to take their leave.

  Tammy departed first, promising to return in the wee hours of the morning to take Savannah to the airport.

  Although Savannah returned home as seldom as possible to the tiny rural town in Georgia where she

  had been born and raised, this visit was unavoidable. The oldest of nine children, Savannah had been summoned to yet another wedding.

  If there was anything worse than going home, it was to a wedding, not your own, without any sign of a ring on your finger, without even an escort on your arm.

  Ryan and John were the next to leave, waving goodbye from their vintage Bentley as Savannah watched

  from her front porch. She could hardly see through the tangle of bougainvillea that was taking over the front

  porch of her Spanish-style bungalow.

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  "Have a safe trip to Georgia, dear," John called as they pulled out of her driveway, his silver hair glowing at the light of the streetlamp.

  "Be sure to give us a ring if you need anything, okay? Ryan added, his head stuck out the window. "In fact, Owe us a call whether you need us or not. We're going Lo miss you."

  "I'll miss you, too." She blew them a kiss.

  "Eh, what're you wasting that on them for," said a ;Touchy voice behind her. She turned to see Dirk stand-mg there, pulling on his battered bomber jacket 'Those :wo aren't into girl kisses."

  "Stop," Savannah said. "Stop right now. Behave a lit-le better, and I might blow you . . . a kiss. . . now and hen."

  His eyes twinkled. "Mmm, had my hopes up for a -tali* a second there."

  She scowled. "Get real, Nacho Chip Breath. Are you ;-oing home now, too?"

  "Yeah. Some of us have to work tomorrow, while other )eople get to leave on vacation."

  "Some vacation. . . watching one of my zillions of ablings get married, while I'm still. . .

  "Yes?" His eyes searched hers; she quickly glanced tway.

  "Nevermind." Linking her arm through his, she )egan walking him toward his Buick, which was parked )11. the street in front of her house.

  "Were you about to moan and groan about still being

  ingle?" he asked. "I could have sworn that was what you were going to say."

  "No way. I like being single. No man's shoes to trip wet-... except your rotten old sneakers when you're

  tere for Monday night football and the free pizza.

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  Having the toilet seat down, where it belongs, all the time. . . except when you visit and leave it up."

  "So, with a guy like me around, you don't need a husband. Is that what you're saying?"

  "Yeah, except for vehicle maintenance, lawn care, and the occasional plumbing job, I do okay."

  "But then there's the old bada-bing, bada-boom." He prodded her with his elbow.

  "Eh, if I can do without having my oil changed, my tires rotated, and my pipes roto-rooted I can give up the old binging and booming."

  His smirk faded into a look of concern. "Speaking of . . . romance . . . are you going to be seeing any of your

  high school buddies there in Georgia?"

  For a second, memories of adolescence flashed before her mind's eye: sultry nights in pecan groves, stolen kisses behind the athletic field bleachers, daring caresses at the drive-in movie, the back seat of Tommy Stafford's '56 Chevy.

  Yes, she'd had a few "high school buddies." However, only one face came to mind. Tommy's.

  But did she even want to see his face again?

  "No. I don't think so," she said.

  "Good."

  Dirk looked so relieved that she didn't bother to set

  the record straight, to admit she had been answering her own question, not his.

  It was her turn to nudge him. "Why, Detective Coulter, I do believe you're jealous."

  He jerked his arm away from hers. "I'm not neither. I just don't want you getting into trouble. You being' so far away, I won't be able to bail you out"

  Before she could protest, she recalled that he had, in fact, bailed her out--both figuratively and literally--numerous times over the years.

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  She looked up at his face, street fight scars, perpetually mussed hair, and all, and felt a rush of affection for her best friend in the world. Standing on tiptoe, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  His 'stakeout shave' rasped against her lips, but she had long ago decided that Dirk's rugged masculinity

  was perhaps his most appealing attribute. . . along with a rabidly protective streak toward those he cared for. The rest of the world could go to Hades in a pink Easter

  basket, as far as Dirk Coulter was concerned, but the handful of people he loved. . . he loved fiercely.

  "I'll be fine," she told him. "I'll get Marietta married off. . . for the third time. . . and I'll be right back. You won't even know I'm gone."

  To her surprise, he bent down and returned her kiss, his lips warm as they lingered just a bit longer than the

  usual "peck" on her cheek.

  "Oh, I'll know you're gone," he said, clearing his throat. For once, he didn't add any smart aleck disclaimer to dilute the sentimentality of the moment. "Believe me, I'll know."

  As she watched him drive away down her street, his tailights disappearing at the corner, Savannah realized she was going to miss him, too. A lot.

  Whether she ran into Tommy Stafford or not.

  'Thanks for bringing me to the airport," Savannah told Tammy as they pulled into the short-term parking

  lot of the mystery maze known as Los Angeles

  International Airport, "and for taking care of the kitties and the agency for me while I'm gone."

  Tammy had a slight pout on her face as she swung

  her old, hot pink, Volkwagen bug into an empty spot

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  and cut the engine. "And all I asked in return was one, little, itsy-bitsy peek at the dress."

  "You're not looking at the dress. That's it that's all. I don't even want to think about the damned thing, okay?"

  They got out of the car, locked it, and headed for the trunk in front. Tammy opened it and helped Savannah haul out her suitc:Nse, carryon, and one enormous garment bag.

  "It can't be that bad," Tammy said, grabbing for the bag, which Savannah snatched out of her hand.

  "It's revolting. Let's just say, it makes me look like an enormous, upside down tulip."

  "What color?"

  Savannah winced at the thought "Florescent peach." "Ouch."

  "Yeah. I swear, Marietta picked that style just to make the rest of us look ridiculous. She's not above it, you know."

  Tammy grabbed the suitcase, Savannah the carryon, and they headed for the departure terminal. "What color is the maid of honor wearing?"

  "Mint green."

  "That's not so
bad. . . I guess."

  "Yeah, Marietta was set on dusty rose, but we talked her out of it. Dusty rose and peach. That girl never has had a lick ' sense when it comes to colors, or dressing, or decorating. . . or men."

  "This is her third time around, huh?"

  They stood at the crosswalk, waiting for the constant flood of taxi cabs, limos, vans, and transport busses to come to a halt. Even in pre-dawn hours, LAX hustled and bustled. Savannah punched the signal control button several more times, although she knew that--like

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  the panel on an elevator--repetition did no good. It only provided the illusion of control to the puncher.

  "Yeah, this is Hubby Numero Tres. And she's got two children, one from each of her ex's. Impulse control isn't exactly Marietta's forte, either. She was asking everybody whether they thought it was silly for her to

  wear a white gown and veil. They said it was, but she's going for it anyway."

  Finally, the light changed, and they started across. A nearby bus coughed out a cloud of acrid, diesel smoke, and Savannah tried to breathe momentarily through

  her ears. Ah . the luxury of travel.

  The electronic doors slid open, ushering them into the terminal full of harried, mostly irritated, passengers. "When Marietta asked me what she should wear," Savannah continued, as they headed for the endless queues, "I suggested that she wear a football jersey with the number '3' on the back."

  Tammy laughed. "You didn't! What did she say?" "Nothing. . . for two whole weeks. Absolutely not a

  word. Clammed up tighter than Dirk's wallet." "Only two weeks?"

  Savannah shrugged. "Hey, that's a record for a Reid gal. The only thing we like more than eating, is talking." "I wish I were coming with you," Tammy said as she set the suitcase on the floor at the end of the mile-long, twisting, turning, cordoned line. "All that family togetherness sounds like fun."

  "It might be. . . for some other family." Savannah sighed, realizing that she didn't really mind the long, long line. It could even be longer, for all she cared. Although she hated to admit it, she was in no hurry at all to return to the bosom of her homeland. "For us," she said, "family togetherness tends to spell trouble." "With a capital ''?"

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  "Oh, yes. Trouble . . . in all caps, bold, underlined, italicized. We Reids don't do anything halfway."

  "If that Macon doesn't shape up real quick, I'm gonna slap him naked and hide his clothes," Waycross Reid said as he drove the old Ford pickup down the

  pothole-ridden road. Savannah sat next to her brother and wondered, with every bounce of the shock-shot truck, if one of the exposed seat coils was going to take intimate liberties with her backside. She looked wistfully at the truck's dash, wishing there was some sign of an air conditioner vent; she had forgotten how humid the South could be in mid-August, and she was melting inside her cotton suit.

  But, while Waycross had a state-of-the-art stereo system, there was no hint of a temperature control device. As a young man, his priorities were notably different than those of a perimenopausal female.

  The saga of the Reid family "troubles" had begun the moment Waycross has picked her up at the Atlanta airport

  two hours before. Twenty-nine years old, the only redhead in the batch, Waycross was the oldest of her two brothers. His relationship with his younger brother, Slacon, had always been rocky, at best. And Savannah usually agreed with Waycross, the more hardworking, i'ensible, and responsible of the two. If he said Macon ras being a pain, it was probably true.

  "What's he doing?" she asked.

  "I don't even know what he's doing. I'm afraid to isk," Waycross replied. "But I know who he's doing it with. Since he graduated from high school he's been uanging out with those Whitney boys, and you know that trailer trash they are . . . especially that Kenny jr.

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  What a friggin' yahoo that one is. He's so lazy the dead lice wouldn't fall off him and stupider than a dirt clod."

  "The Whitneys. Yeah, I remember their old man," Savannah said, searching her memory banks. "He drank like a skunk and practically lived in Sheriff

  Mahoney's rear cell. It's no wonder the kids turned sour."

  As they drove through Savannah's hometown of

  McGill, she noted, with a twang of the heartstrings, some of her favorite haunts: the drugstore where she had enjoyed the occasional strawberry ice cream cone

  on a hot, Saturday afternoon, the library where she had discovered the joy of Nancy Drew mysteries, the elementary school where she, her mother, and even her grandmother had attended. All three generations had played tag among the giant oaks and hopscotch on the

  hard-packed earth, where the grass had been worn away by hundreds of small, energetic feet.

  But the trip down memory lane didn't take long. When Savannah had been a child, McGill, Georgia had been only three blocks long.

  Now it was four.

  Urban sprawl

  "Have you given Macon a talking-to?" Savannah asked him.

  "I've preached whole sermons to him. . . so has Gran. . . but it just rolls off him like rain off a duck's back. You can't tell Macon Reid nothing; he knows all there is to know about everything. If you don't believe it, just ask him."

  "How's everybody else doing?"

  "Gran's good, full ' piss and vinegar, as always. Alma helps her out a lot."

  Savannah smiled, reminding herself that there would be a few blessings to this visit. Seeing Gran and Alma

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  were two. Savannah liked to think she loved all her siblings equally, but she had to admit a favoritism toward Alma, who had always been the one to nurse a sick kitten, rescue a baby bird, or help Gran wax a kitchen floor or even scrub a toilet when necessary.

  "Alma's a sweetheart," she said. "I wish she were the one getting married, instead of Marietta. She deserves to find a good husband."

  "Yeah, but I don't see that happening any time soon. She's still pretty shy with the boys."

  "And Cordele?"

  "Still as uptight as ever. Goes around telling everybody what they oughta and oughtn't do. She reads those psychology books and has a label for everything

  everybody does. I called her a busybody the other day, and she told me I'm a passive-aggressive with severe

  parental abandonment issues. Whatever the hell that means."

  Savannah chuckled. "That sounds like Cordele. And Vidalia?"

  "Going crazy with those two sets of twins, and taking Butch along with her. He works with me at the service station about eighteen hours a day. Says it's to make ends meet, but I think he's just avoiding diaper duty."

  Savannah felt another surge of mixed emotions as they left the asphalt highway at the edge of town and

  turned left onto a dirt road. She wondered how many times she had walked this road from Gran's house to

  the highway to catch a school bus, to check the mail box, or just to get away for a moment of blissful solitude, away from a house full of nine kids, perpetually runny noses, mountains of soiled laundry and dirty dishes.

  With an absentee, truck-driving father, and a mother who spent more time in the local tavern than standing

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  at a kitchen sink or in front of an ironing board, the duties of childrearing had fallen upon Granny Reid and

  Savannah, the oldest of the brood. Other than producing a child every year or two and naming them after

  Georgia towns, Shirley Reid had contributed little to her children's welfare.

  Savannah and Gran hadn't complained, though. Not even in their most private moments. Watching the babies grow into children, and the children into adults, they had figured it was time and energy well spent.

  Now, looking back on it with older, more experienced eyes, Savannah wondered that she hadn't been more resentful at the time. The injustice of the situation had been lost in the chaotic h
ustle of caring for the

  babies that just kept coming. Savannah had been too busy to consider whether or not she was being used. And now, she couldn't honestly say she would change anything. All in all, it had been a good childhood. And what her parents hadn't, or couldn't, give to their children, Gran had more than provided.

  "You did good, Savannah. Real good." Waycross gave her a sweet, loving look that went straight to her heart. It was as though he had read her thoughts. He reached over and patted her on the knee with his

  work-roughened, grease-stained fingers. "You had your hands full back then, and don't think we don't appreciate what you did for us."

  She placed her hand over his and squeezed. "I wouldn't have missed a minute of it."

  He grinned. "Not even the afternoon I brought home that snake and . . . ?"

  "Ah, yes. . . the snake in my lingerie drawer episode. That one I could have done without. The frog in the sugar bowl wasn't exactly a high point either, but all in all, it was pretty cool, raising you guys."

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  Waycross rounded a corner and the house came into

  view. As always, when she had been away for a long time, Savannah was shocked at how small and shabby it was. The simple wooden structure was commonly known as a "shotgun" house, the rooms lined up in a straight row, from the front of the house to the back--living room, dining room, kitchen, and bedrooms, one opening into the other. It was so named because if someone stood at the front of the house and shot a gun, the bullet could exit the back door without striking a wall.

  The tiny house had probably been built for a family

  of four, maybe five. With ten people, three bedrooms and one bath, it had been extremely cozy, to say the least.