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vacuuming his cab right now, blushing up a storm.”
    Atlanta plopped down on a chair at the kitchen table 1 and twisted the top off the bottle, a completely disgrun- J tied look on her face. Tammy sat across from her, pre- I tending to shuffle and sort a stack of papers. Her eyes J twinkled; she found the Reid clan an unending source of entertainment
    “Just out of curiosity, why didn’t you call me and let me know you were coming?” Savannah asked. “I could have picked you up at the airport and saved myself a couple of hundred bucks.”
    Atlanta’s bottom lip protruded. “I wanted to see your face when you realized I’d come to visit you. And, now I’m sorry I did, because you didn’t seem all that happy to see me.”
    Maternal guilt pangs stabbed at Savannah’s conscience... along with some accompanying anger. Why did she always lose with this kid? Whatever she did, it was never enough. She seemed destined to blow it somehow. “ To be honest, ‘Lanta,” she said, walking over and laying her hands on the girl’s shoulders, “I was worried to see how much weight you’ve lost.”
    Atlanta beamed. “I know! Are you proud of me, or what?! I’ve got another twenty pounds or so to lose, but I’m getting there.” “ Twenty pounds?” Savannah glanced across the table at Tammy, who appeared to be as shocked as she was. And if superthin, ultra-health-conscious Tammy was concerned...
    “You don’t need to lose anything, Atlanta ,” Tammy said. “You’re very slender as you are. What sort of diet have you been on?”
    Atlanta’s defense shields rose as she took a long drink of the tea and avoided looking at either of them. “I’ve just been watching what I eat,” she finally said. “Cutting out the junk food, you know, all that garbage you eat, Savannah. Which, by the way, I can see you’ve picked up a couple of pounds since I saw you last. Especially in your hips. But that’s always been your problem area, hasn’t it? I guess I take after Mom’s side of the family, because I’ve never had a problem with my hips and...”
    Wandering over to the stove, Savannah looked at her eggs, which now looked like yellow-and-white rubber with dried, brown ruffles around the edges. Her grits had congealed into a pasty glob. The distinct, bitter smell of burned biscuits was wafting from the oven.
    And she couldn’t even run over to the local IHOP for strawberry cheese blintzes; she had given the cabby her last dollar.
    Suddenly, she felt older and more tired than dirt Picking up her coffee cup, she fortified it with a generous splash of Baileys Irish Cream, then said, “You two, eat... or don’t eat, whatever you can find. Just make yourself at home, ‘Lanta. I’m going back to bed for an hour or two. I had a rough night.”
    As she shuffled through the living room, she heard her sister’s voice reaching out to her..., “Savannah, could you take up some of those bags? You know, since you’re going up anyway.”

    Marion Lippincott had organized 289 beauty pageants in her career, and she was darned good at it. Accustomed to the chaotic flutter of belles and gowns, frantic stage mothers and frenzied coaches, florists and seamstresses, beauticians and musicians, nothing fazed “The Lip”... as she was not-so-fondly called... but never to her face.
    Over the rims of those tortoiseshell glasses that perpetually perched on the end of her nose she had seen it all. And, about a hundred years ago, she had done it all. Though her once-auburn locks were now a short, silver bob, and her crowns and banners were packed away in a trunk at the foot of her bed, she knew the pageant world inside and out.
    And although many of the people scurrying about the gallery of the Villa Rosa Winery considered this one of the most important events of their lives, to Lippincott it was just number 289. She figured she’d retire at 300. Enough was enough.
    “Whose bright idea was it to have this at a winery?” sounded a whiny voice