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Authors: G. A. McKevett

Buried In Buttercream (3 page)

BOOK: Buried In Buttercream
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“Did the whole place burn to a crisp? Did they get our bridesmaids' dresses out? I worked overtime at the drugstore to pay for that dress, you know!”
“What are we gonna do now? We come all the way out here for a wedding and
this
happens! What a bite in the ass!”
Savannah drew a deep breath and addressed the complaints one by one. “Macon, there are children present, so please watch your language. A bite in the heinie will suffice. Cordele, I'm sorry about your bridesmaid's dress. I lost my wedding gown, too. We can probably find matching gunny sacks for you girls to wear, and I'll cut some holes in a white garbage bag for me. We'll make do somehow. Marietta, please turn off that dirty television show. What would Granny say if she walked in and caught you gawkin' at all that bare skin? And, Jesup, I may be low on luck in the wedding department, but Dirk and I caught the mangy dog who's been setting all the fires, so the day wasn't a complete train wreck.”
She walked over to the windowsill and rescued Cleopatra, whose tail was being tugged by a miniature tyrant with freckles and a mischievous grin. “Vidalia, would you please corral your children? Better yet ... it's getting late ... put 'em to bed.”
Comfortably positioned on the sofa, her feet on the coffee table, a dish of dessert in her hands, Vidalia nudged her husband, Butch, who was sitting next to her. “Would you stick the younguns in bed, sugar?” she asked him. “I've had a rough day. Gettin' all in a dither over the wedding and then the disappointment of it all going up in flames ... I'm just plumb tuckered out.”
Long-suffering Butch rose, brushed his long hair out of his eyes, adjusted his baggy jeans, and trudged upstairs to do his fatherly duty.
A happy Vidalia sprawled onto his recently vacated spot on the sofa, much to the dismay of Jesup, who needed the extra space while painting her toenails black. “Get over, you big cow,” she said, elbowing her sister.
“
You
get over, and watch who you're callin' names, or you'll get your jaws boxed!” Vidalia deliberately jiggled her arm so that Jesup smudged her toe. “You already did your nails this morning. What're you doing them for again, twice in one day?”
“Knock it off, you two,” Savannah said as she passed them, heading into the kitchen. “You get that ugly black polish on my couch, you'll both be paying the price in spilt blood.”
As she entered her dining area, she breathed a soft sigh of relief. The troublemakers were all in the living room. Only the industrious and easier-going of her siblings ventured into a room, like the kitchen, where actual labor was to be performed.
At the sink stood quiet, gentle Alma, her arms in suds nearly to her elbows. And beside her was good ol' Waycross. Well over six feet tall, broad of shoulders, with bright red hair and pale blue eyes, he looked as manly a man as any son of Georgia. And that wasn't easy, as he applied a flowered dish towel to Savannah's rose-spangled dishes with as much gusto as any housemaid.
Lovely little Alma was a miniature version of Savannah. Not as curvaceous of figure, but the same dark curls and sapphire eyes. She had always been her big sister's favorite, and vice versa.
Savannah walked over to the sink, stood between them, and wrapped an arm around each of their waists. “Ah, my sweeties,” she said, giving them a squeeze. “Leave it up to that gang o' rare-do-wells out there to leave you with all the work.”
Waycross returned the affectionate squeeze. “Eh, we don't mind if it means getting a bit of peace and quiet for ourselves. I'd rather dry dishes with Alma than listen to all their hens squawking any day of the week and twice on a Sunday.”
Savannah glanced around the cluttered kitchen counters and saw the remnants of a grand feast. Giant shrimps—though most of them had been reduced to nothing but tails—littered platters with exotic cheeses, fruit cut into interesting floral shapes, crackers, and miniature bread tidbits. There were still a few deviled eggs left and half a bowl of grits flavored with bits of bacon and browned onions.
She nearly burst into tears when she realized that the pile of crumbs, lemon filling, and white icing on that big silver platter was the earthly remains of her wedding cake. The bride and groom figurines were buried, face-first, in a mound of buttercream frosting.
“I don't suppose,” she said with more than a little bitterness, “that the hounds of hell out there thought to leave me even one piece of that when they were chowing down.”
“We grabbed two big pieces off the top layer for you and Dirk,” Alma said, “and put 'em in that giant green Tupperware bowl of yours. It's in the ice box, down in the crisper. Figured they'd never think to look for it there.”
“Smart. It's true that Marietta and Vidalia aren't likely to go foraging for lettuce and carrots where there's wedding reception grub to devour.”
Savannah picked up a couple of shrimps and dredged them through the red cocktail sauce before popping them into her mouth. “What the heck,” she said, reaching for an herb cheese biscuit with a smoked salmon filling, “this spread cost me a pretty penny. Might as well enjoy it. When we finally do get married, I'll do well to afford popcorn and peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches.”
“I'm sorry,” Waycross said as he stacked plates into the cupboard. “I tried to talk some sense into that caterer. Told her what happened with the community center there. But she wouldn't have none of it. Said 'tweren't her fault, and since the stuff was all made up already ...”
“I know you did your best,” Savannah told him. “And it's only fair. Wasn't her fault that nitwit set that fire.”
“What nitwit?” Alma brightened considerably. “You know who it was that done it?”
“Better yet. Caught him. Even pistol-whipped him with my purse. Unintentionally, of course.”
Waycross grinned. “Of course.”
“Hey, he laid hands on me. That ain't smart on any day, let alone on the day my wedding went up in flames.”
Alma giggled and winked at Savannah. “My big sister don't take no guff off nobody.”
“I seem to remember you beatin' the tar outta that Blalock boy for cutting off one of your braids in the second grade.” Savannah turned to her brother. “And there was that time when you left a block of Limburger cheese on Jeb Patterson's manifold after he hit that bloodhound of yours with his pickup truck.”
“I swear he hit my dog on purpose, 'cause Deputy Stafford used it to sniff out Jeb's moonshine stile. The dog always did walk with a limp after that.”
“I reckon a streak of vigilante justice just runs in our family,” Alma observed.
“Now, now.” Savannah shook her head. “We don't go espousing anything all that radical. We just have a strong sense of right and wrong and a serious commitment to making sure things come out right side up in a squabble.”
“Yep.” Waycross nodded. “Sounds like vigilante justice to me.”
“There's a fine line. I'll give you that.” Savannah poured herself a glass of sweet tea and nibbled on a piece of pecan-cherry fudge as the other two finished with their chores.
“You must be plum worn out,” Alma said. “What with all the stress of the fire—”
“Not to mention the exertion of an old-fashioned Georgia purse whoopin',” Waycross added.
“I'm tuckered, I don't mind tellin' ya.” Savannah pulled the tiny plastic bride and groom from the buttercream mess, rinsed them off under the faucet, and dried them with a paper towel. “I think I'm going to call it a night. Has Granny already gone up?” she said as she stuck the mini-couple into her pants pocket.
Alma nodded. “Retired half an hour ago to read her Bible. She's in your bed again, like last night.”
“You'd better go stake out a claim on the guest bed,” Savannah told her, “before Marietta and Jesup and Cordele hog it again.” She gave Waycross a pat on the back. “Sorry about the army cot, big boy.”
He shrugged and gave her a big grin. “No problem. It's the price you pay for being male in a family that's mostly womenfolk.”
“That and never getting to use the bathroom and having to change everybody's spark plugs and rotate their tires,” Savannah said.
“And rousting 'coons and skunks out from under the back porch,” Alma added.
Savannah gave them each a kiss on the cheek and left them to finish their labors of love.
As she passed through the living room, she said to those less labor-inclined, “Wouldn't hurt y'all to go give Waycross and Alma some help in the kitchen. There's a heap of dishes left to do, and everybody had a hand in dirtying them up.”
“I did my do,” Marietta said, staring at the television. “I set the table.”
“I cut the cake,” Jesup replied as she scrutinized the silver spiderweb she was painting on her black toenail.
“Butch heated up the biscuits,” Vidalia added.
Macon continued to snore.
“Well, as long as everybody contributed.” Savannah made her way to the staircase. “I'm going to bed.”
“Good luck,” Vidalia said. “Both sets of twins are already in it with Gran.”
Savannah paused, one foot on the bottom step. “Whatever happened to the Kids-Sleep-on-Pallets rule we had?”
Vidalia chuckled. “Yeah, right. Like kids as smart as mine wouldn't figure out after one night that ‘Camping Out' means sleeping on a hard floor.”
“How hard could it be with plush carpeting and five quilts under 'em?”
With a shrug, Vidalia shoved another heaping spoonful of ice cream and cake into her mouth. “I don't know. But they pitched a fit about it, so I told Butch to put 'em in your bed with Gran.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
She trudged on up the stairs, meeting Butch halfway.
“Sorry about the sleeping arrangements, Sis,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I know I spoil those younguns somethin' fierce.”
“My sister's the one you're spoilin' rotten, boy,” she said as she gave him a slap on the back. “Put your foot down once in a while. It'd make it easier for all of us.”
Savannah continued on upstairs and went into the bathroom, which was, surprisingly, empty for a change. Once inside, with the door locked behind her, she stared at the woman in the mirror. A tired woman. A disappointed woman. A blue-eyed, light-complexioned, dark-haired, forty-something woman who was wearing a lot more makeup than she usually did, so carefully applied that morning in the anticipation of wedding photos.
“Happy wedding day, Savannah,” she whispered. “Yeah ... right.”
Suddenly, she missed Dirk with a vengeance. She took her cell phone from its belt holster and called him.
He answered after the first ring. “San Carmelita Sheraton. Honeymoon Suite.”
“Ugh. Don't remind me.”
“Where are you?”
“Hiding out in the bathroom.”
“Solitude's a precious thing.”
“Precious and rare around here.” She reached over and lowered the toilet seats ... both of them. Darned brothers anyway.
Sitting down, she looked around her bathroom; it looked like Sherman's army had performed its evening ablutions in the tiny room. The hamper overflowed with dirty towels and washcloths. Several glasses from her kitchen were lined up on the sink with copious toothbrushes of all sizes and colors sticking out of them. Her bathtub had several new occupants—a rubber ducky, some bath chalks, a happy-looking tugboat, and an assortment of pumice stones and callus removers. There were at least seven different tubes, vials, and bottles of bath gels.
Bubble baths were serious business among the Reid womenfolk, and there was constant disagreement as to whose soaps and gels smelled best.
“What do you want to do next?” Savannah said, taking the wedding cake figurines from her pocket and turning them over and over in her hand, gazing at them pensively.
“Let's run away to Vegas tonight ... get hitched, stay a few days, and then come back. Maybe by then they'll all be gone.”
Savannah laughed. “Don't tempt me. If it weren't for Granny, that's exactly what I'd do. But she's been waiting so long for you and me to ‘come to our senses,' as she calls it, and do this. She'd be heartbroken if she couldn't see the big event with her own eyes.”
“So, we'll take Gran with us.”
“To Sin City? Get real. She wouldn't let us kids play with the dice in our Monopoly game.”
“But how are we going to put another wedding together on the spot like this? Took us months to plan that one.”
Savannah grinned, thinking how Dirk had slaved over the extravaganza. “Let's see now,” she mused, “you picked out those little hot dog hors d'oeuvres and the ham loaf spread on crackers.”
BOOK: Buried In Buttercream
9.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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