Killer Reunion (2 page)

“Not even football games?” he asked with a look of shock and horror. “Why the hell not?”

Savannah gave him a sweet smile; that was her guy, all right. Always the jock. Missing a sporting event, anytime and for any reason, was simply unthinkable.

But her expression soon turned solemn again as she recalled the long hours spent on Gran's back porch with the wringer washer. She could still hear the hypnotic rhythm of the machine's agitator as it sloshed the load back and forth in its tub of hot, soapy water. She could still smell the acrid scent of bleach and strong detergent in the humid summer air.

She would never forget the anxiety provoked by feeding washed, wet clothes through the powerful wringer as she tried to keep her hand from slipping between the hard rollers, which would have surely crushed her fingers.

Then there were the endless afternoons and weekends spent in the backyard, where baskets overflowed with cold, wet laundry, and miles of heavy-laden clotheslines sagged with clothes flapping in the breeze.

“I didn't have time to hang out with the other kids,” she said, “because I was too busy hanging their clothes out to dry. And then for extra fun, on weekends we scrubbed their houses.” She chuckled wryly and shrugged. “Gran and I had a lot of mouths to feed, and, Lord, how those younguns could eat.”

Dirk lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. A look of sadness and a hint of repressed anger crossed his face as he said, “I'm sorry, sweetheart, that you had to work so hard, and you were just a kid.”

“Oh, I didn't mind the work,” she replied. “ ‘Hard work never killed nobody,' as Gran frequently told us. What I minded was the other kids—a certain group of girls in particular—never letting me forget that I was beneath them.”

Dirk pulled her close and nuzzled her hair. “
You
ain't beneath
nobody
, darlin'. And tomorrow night the two of us are gonna walk hand in hand into that gymnasium, with all its tacky crepe paper and balloon decorations. And my head's gonna be held high. The lady I'll be escorting will be not only my wife and the prettiest woman ever to come out of Georgia, but also the best person I've known in my life.”

Savannah looked into her husband's eyes and knew with every cell of her being that he meant it. He told her that often, and she usually delivered a smart-aleck response, like “If I'm the best person you've ever known, boy, you need to get out more.”

But at that moment, sarcasm was the farthest thing from her mind. “And I love you, too. Plumb to pieces.”

“I know you do. But we better get in that house right now, 'cause your granny's at the window, watching us make out. And from the scowl on her face, I'd say she disapproves.”

Savannah sighed and laughed. “Reckon some things never change.”

“I
t's not that I minded the two of you swappin' slobber in front of my house,” Granny told Savannah and Dirk once she had hugged them hard enough to make their ribs ache. “Seein's how y'all are married now, it's allowed and even encouraged. But not when I'm in here, itchin' to get my hands on you.”

Savannah gave her grandmother an extra hug and marveled at the essence of pure feistiness that radiated from this eighty-plus Southern belle, wrapped in a pink and purple floral caftan. Her thick silver hair was neatly arranged, every curl in place, and from her ears dangled fuchsia chandelier earrings.

Every birthday since Gran had turned eighty, she had challenged herself to do something “new and daring.” Wearing shoulder-sweeping chandelier earrings was last year's bold fashion foray. Savannah couldn't wait to see what this upcoming birthday would bring. Granny had already warned everybody to beware; it was going to be a doozy.

“So, where is everyone?” Savannah asked, looking around the strangely empty house. She had expected to be mobbed by a gaggle of Reids and Reid younguns. Even half of her siblings, along with their rambunctious offspring, could fill the average living room.

“I told 'em not to descend on you like a pack of hyenas the minute you got here this evenin',” Gran replied. “They'll all be swoopin' in like a flock o' pigeons first thing tomorrow mornin', bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, lookin' for breakfast.”

Savannah grinned at the imagery of bushy-tailed pigeons, but mixing her metaphors was just part of Gran's charm, so Savannah wouldn't dream of correcting her.

“They'll be lookin' for you to cook for 'em, you mean,” Savannah said.

Gran chuckled. “I don't mind. Vidalia's biscuits are heavy enough to sink a battleship, and Marietta fries her eggs so hot, they have them tough ruffle things around the edges. I don't mind cookin', especially for you, sugar.”

With eyes the same striking sapphire blue as Savannah's, Gran gazed lovingly up at her granddaughter. But the affection quickly turned to concern. “What's the matter with you, girl?” she snapped.

“What? Oh, nothing, Gran.”

“Yes there is. Somethin's amiss for sure.”

She grabbed Savannah's hand and pushed her across the tiny living room to an ancient plaid sofa covered with a large afghan—just one of Granny's many creations that decorated the otherwise plain but cozy house.

“Sit yourself down right there,” she said, “and tell me all about what's ailin' you.”

Gran gave Dirk a shove toward the overstuffed armchair in the corner, its threadbare areas covered with snowy crocheted doilies . . . also products of Gran's skilled fingers. “And since you're my grandson-in-law now, I'll let you sit in my comfy chair.”

“Why, thank you, Granny. I'm deeply honored,” Dirk said. He settled into the chair, but after placing his hands briefly on the doily-covered armrests, he seemed to think better of it and folded them demurely on his lap. He looked anything
but
comfy.

Savannah grinned, watching her husband squirm. Dirk had never been at ease among “girlie” stuff. Discarded beer cans, empty pizza boxes, and rusty TV trays were what he considered to be perfectly acceptable items of home décor. But ruffles and floral prints sent him into a dither. So an overtly feminine home like Granny's was the stuff of nightmares for a manly man like him. He lived in mortal terror that he would break a delicate ceramic angel or snag a lacy something or spill iced tea on an heirloom quilt.

Savannah had tried in vain to convince him that a woman who had raised nine children in a tiny house was quite adept at gluing broken items and removing even the most stubborn stains.

Savannah couldn't count the times over the years when she had heard Gran say to her or one of her siblings, “Accidents happen, sugar dumplin'. Don't fret. There ain't nothin' in this house that means half as much to me as
you
do.”

Whatever Gran did or said, it came from a heart filled with love. Even interrogations like the one that was about to begin.

But no sooner had Gran settled herself next to Savannah on the couch than they heard the back door open, then slam closed. No doubt, it was one of the Reid offspring. Neighbors and friends would have been polite enough to knock.

Savannah was grateful for a possible reprieve from the pending “What's wrong with you?” Gran cross-examination.

“Yoo-hoo! Granny? You here?” yelled a less than melodious female voice from the kitchen.

“In the front room, Marietta,” Gran called back.

“I brought your casserole dish back, like you told me to. I didn't get a chance to wash it. I'm pokin' it here in the sink.”

Savannah braced herself as the approaching
click-click
of high heels announced the arrival of Marietta. She was sister number two, right behind Savannah in the long line of siblings. Miss Mari was Savannah's least favorite of the batch.

She actually qualified as one of the other reasons why Savannah wasn't thrilled to be “home.”

“I thought I'd fetch it over here before that ornery, nasty, mule-headed sister of mine and her old man come sailin' in,” Marietta babbled as she made her way from the kitchen, through the bedrooms, and toward the living room. “I'm gonna try my best to avoid crossin' paths with—” Marietta stopped so abruptly in the living room doorway that she nearly fell off her four-inch zebra-striped mules. “Oh. You done got here.”

Savannah flashed her sister her best fake smile, which looked more like a grimace worn by wolves fighting over the carcass of a dead elk. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” she said. “If I'd known, I would've asked the captain to circle over Atlanta a few times before landing.”

Propping her hands on her ample hips, Marietta lifted her chin and stuck out her chest, which, in typical Reid gal fashion, was more than voluptuous. So voluptuous, in fact, that if she took one deep breath too many, she might “volupt” right out the front of her low-cut leopard-print blouse.

As Savannah took in the tiger-striped purse, it occurred to her that Miss Marietta wanted to make sure every male in the county knew that she would be a virtual tear-cat between the sheets, if only they were fortunate enough to get the chance to bed her.

A shockingly large percentage of them had lucked out at one time or the other. Much to Granny's consternation.

But Savannah just thought her sister looked like a billboard advertisement for a zoo. Also, she had seen enough of Marietta's heavy-duty body-shaping foundation garments hanging on the shower curtain rod to know that it was mostly false advertisement.

Granny cleared her throat and said, “I'll thank you girls to be civil to one another when you're under my roof. And if you reckon you can muster it, a smidgen of sisterly love would be a fine thing, too.”

Marietta tossed her head, wriggled her hips, and delicately patted her oversized bouffant as she flashed a sideways look at Dirk that could definitely be classified as come-hither.

Dirk looked down, suddenly fascinated by the design of the doily on the armrest.

“It's a lot to ask there, Granny, expecting the two of us to pretend we even
like
each other, let alone
love
one another,” Marietta said. “This here precious sister of mine pert near took my head clean off the last time I saw her. Whopped the holy tar outta me right there in the middle of her living room. And me, a guest in her house. It was plumb shameful.”

Savannah opened her mouth to retort, but Granny placed a warning hand on her knee and gave it a squeeze.

“I remember that squabble all too well,” Gran said. “If you'll recollect, I was in the house when it happened and heard you squawkin', Marietta, all the way upstairs to the guest bedroom, where I was tryin' to get a nap. I also remember 'tweren't nothin' but a pillow fight and your big sister didn't give you one lick amiss that day. What you got, you had comin'.”

Savannah could be quiet no longer. “That's for sure, missy. You go flaunting your womanly wiles—which may or may not be all that wily—in front of another woman's husband, you're going to get trounced. Especially when that woman's your big sister.”

Marietta gave Savannah a catty smirk. “Well, now, you always was a sight bigger than me, 'specially in the hip area, but I figure I better watch what I say on that topic, or I might get beat to death for that, too.”

Savannah smiled, recalling the Catfight of the Century with the sort of delicious satisfaction reserved for those whose portion of well-deserved revenge had been a long time coming.

So what if the battle had done more damage to her sofa accent pillow than it had to her overly flirtatious, highly immodest sister? Having to restuff a cushion was a small price to pay for getting to knock the stuffing out of a sister who so thoroughly deserved it.

Secretly, Savannah half hoped that Marietta would flash Dirk another unsolicited view of her scant knickers. Probably also leopard print. Savannah had no doubt that given the chance, she would score a knockout in round two, as well. But, of course, that sort of sporting event could never occur on such hallowed ground as Granny Reid's living room.

Maybe before the visit was over, she'd have the opportunity to lure Miss Hussy Pants into a dark alley or a peach orchard and rearrange her hairdo once again.

One could always dream.

But as Savannah was fantasizing about the gory details such a rematch might offer, the front door opened, and Alma Reid entered the house. Like a sudden and unexpected parting of the clouds, Alma's sunny presence immediately dispelled the darkness.

At least for Savannah.

If Marietta was her least favorite sibling, Alma was dearest to her heart. Shy and sweet, ever thinking of others, Alma seemed the exact opposite in every way to Marietta—to the point where Savannah couldn't help wondering if they were truly from the same gene pool.

Savannah jumped up from the sofa, ran to Alma, and folded her into a hearty Reid embrace. When Savannah finally released her, Alma gazed up at her older sister with adoring eyes and said, “Shoot f'ar. I wanted to be here when y'all got in. I've been dyin' to see you. It's been so long.”

Casting a quick glance at Marietta, Savannah saw her roll her eyes. Yes, Marietta and Alma were as different as a soft pink rosebud and an out-of-bloom prickly pear cactus.

As Alma hurried over to Dirk and he rose to greet her, Savannah felt the gentle nudge of Granny's elbow in her ribs. “You doin' all right, dumplin'?”

Savannah managed a chuckle and said, “Right as rain after a long dry summer.”

“Bull pucky.”

Okay. So much for fooling Gran
, Savannah thought. When would she learn that it was nearly impossible to hide your inner being from someone who knew you better than you knew yourself?

“It's just that . . . well . . . coming home . . . It's a mite hard,” Savannah confessed.

She was surprised and annoyed to hear the shakiness in her own voice. Savannah liked to think of herself as a pretty darned tough cookie. Getting choked up about a simple thing like coming home to your birthplace and the loving arms of your family didn't exactly fit Savannah's carefully constructed self-image.

She preferred to think of herself as a gal who ate nasty criminals over easy for breakfast, along with a side order of sharp nails—all spiced with a drizzle of rattlesnake venom.

And while she didn't fully believe her own illusion, she certainly didn't see herself as a weepy female, prone to getting the vapors over nothing.

“It ain't easy, Savannah girl, comin' home. You got a lot of history here, and not all of it's good.”

“That's for sure,” Marietta piped up. “I wouldn't want to be in your shoes, coming back to town, seeing people you haven't seen in ages, looking twenty-five years older and a heap wider through the backside. And speaking of shoes, I hope you brought some good ones, not those old lady loafers you usually wear.”

Granny shot Marietta a reproving look. “Miss Mari, I will thank you to keep your words soft and kind while you're under my roof. Your sister here is facing what you might call ‘the dark night of the soul,' and we should strive to be supportive in her time o' need and sorrow.”

Savannah stifled a chuckle; Granny had a tendency to wax dramatic and poetic at times like this. “I wouldn't say it's a particularly ‘dark night,'” she said. “I'm just a bit nervous about runnin' into people I was glad to be rid of when I left here.”

Breaking his uncharacteristically long silence, Dirk added, “Don't worry about Savannah, Granny. She's fine. Since she started goin' through this change of life business, she'll start bawlin' over an inspiring margarine commercial.”

Silence reigned in the room.

The level of estrogen-charged indignation rose by the moment.

Finally, it was Marietta who came to Dirk's rescue. “I don't know what all the fuss is about. Tell me the truth, Savannah. These people you're so in a tizzy about seeing . . . Do you like 'em?”

“Do I
like
them?” Savannah didn't even have to think about it. “No, I can't stand them. They're a bunch of conceited, snotty bit—” She gave Granny a quick look. “Um, disagreeable females who made my life miserable. I wouldn't give you two cents for the whole batch of 'em, not if they were dunked in chocolate and rolled in pecans.”

A sly grin crossed Marietta's face as she reached up and fingered her rhinestone earring thoughtfully.