9

The Magnolia League’s “Wine Time,” which takes place every Thursday afternoon, has one rule: no business. Actually, the event has hundreds of rules governing everything from what kind of wine is served to how many glasses each individual is allowed to drink without appearing tacky and who can wear what outfit and when. But those rules are bred right into the genes and hardly need to be explicated. “No business” is the one rule the members do have to remind themselves of, and it’s something they all take very seriously. Therefore, during Wine Time the ladies set aside their personal agendas, their business maneuverings, the advancement of their husbands’ careers, the betterment of their children, and their handshake real-estate deals in order to kick back, relax, and traffic in the kind of back-alley gossip that would make a harbor pilot blush. During the rest of the week, the Magnolia League ladies do things the nice way. But on Thursday afternoons, there’s nothin’ “nice lady” to be found at Magnolia Hall.

“You know, her daddy shot his daddy back in ’74. He only wounded him, but still. So after they got married, I was just on pins and needles for thirty years waiting for the other shoe to drop. When he finally ran her over with that Volvo, I was just so relieved.”

“Not everyone knows, but she’s as mean as a snake, and when her husband doesn’t do right, she beats him like a rented mule.”

“Well, sure, he’s a preacher, but he’s a Presbyterian, and that’s almost like having no religion at all.”

Miss Lee is the last to arrive. As the president, that is her right. One of the unwritten rules is that no one may follow her. Wine Time starts at five, and people can come whenever they want. But Miss Lee arrives at five fifteen, and if you come after that, somebody’s going to cut your tail.

“Hello, girls,” Miss Lee says. A chorus of greetings wafts into the air. Miss Lee looks as perfect as ever, in a blue shift that shows off her firm figure. “What’s the word?”

“Mary is catting around with a twenty-four-year-old,” Ellie, Sybil’s daughter, blurts.

“Mary!”

Mary Oglethorpe shrugs. “He thinks I’m thirty.”

“The only thirty-year-old on the earth born in 1942,” Miss Lee says. “Be careful, honey. There are some things no root doctor can fix.”

Sybil intercepts Dorothy and offers her a glass of white zin.

“Dorothy,” she says sweetly, “you look good enough to eat. Have you been doing that Pilates?”

“Now, I know you’re not about to ask me for something on a Thursday afternoon, Sybil.”

“I wouldn’t if it wasn’t urgent, Dorothy,” Sybil says, lowering her voice into her serious register.

“Out with it,” Dorothy snaps. It’s hardly a surprise, she thinks. The girls always want something—every last one of them. And they always want it now, now, now. They are worse than a bunch of teenagers.

“I need more Love Charm,” Sybil says. “Tom is not… fulfilling his duties as a husband, and I’m worried that he might… his eye might…”

“You’re worried that the senator will get hungry for another run across the Mexican border.”

You could cut the silence with a butter knife.

“She was Argentinian,” Sybil mumbles.

“Sybil, you’ve dosed that man six times already this summer. The Buzzards are going to run out of dragon’s blood altogether, and he’s still not going to stop chasing South American heinie.”

“But I don’t think they’re mixing it right,” Sybil says. “He’s been calling that home wrecker every night. If the reporters find out…”

“The spell can only spark love that’s already there,” Dorothy says. “It can’t make a stallion out of a fish. You need to think of a different angle.”

“But I can’t—”

“Can’t never could, now could it?” Miss Lee snaps. “We have limited resources here, and you are wasting them. You need to work harder to keep him in line, Sybil. Wear a low-cut dress, show a little leg, shorten his leash. Good Lord, girl. Can’t you control your man without outside assistance? I’ve kept bigger men than Tom McPhillips in line with nothing more than my sunny disposition, and it’s about time you did the same.”

Sybil flushes red with humiliation. The other Magnolias exchange glances. No one is happy when Miss Lee gets stingy with the Buzzards’ spells. Who is she saving them for, anyway?

“So,” Khaki says, trying to change the subject, “I hear Alexandria is settling in?”

“She is,” Miss Lee replies, taking a long sip. “Gradually.”

“My granddaughter, Madison, says she has a lot of… spunk.”

“She’s like her mother that way,” Dorothy says. “Although it’s up to those girls to start instructing her in some social graces.”

“They’re taking it slow,” Khaki says. “They don’t want to scare her.”

“Of course not,” Miss Lee answers. “It’s a lot to take in. The dances, the walk. She’s starting at nothing.”

“Has she met the Buzzards yet?”

“Absolutely not. She doesn’t need to be acquainted with Sam Buzzard just now. She needs time to adjust.”

There is a flicker of disapproval in the room. No other Magnolia has been kept from the Buzzards this long. What makes Alexandria so special?

“That’s funny,” Mary Oglethorpe says. “I could have sworn I saw Alexandria and Sam Buzzard together in my garden today.”

Miss Lee looks over at Mary, startled. “I’ll have to look into that,” Miss Lee says abruptly. “But the most important thing is for the Juniors to have that girl ready for the ball by Christmas. As we know, she is lagging far behind—but it would be so embarrassing if she didn’t come out with the girls in her class. So, Sybil, please talk with Hayes about getting my granddaughter caught up. Mary, you’ll take care of the dance lessons, yes? All right.” Miss Lee smiles wickedly. “Y’all know that we don’t do business during Wine Time. What else can we possibly talk about?”

There’s a long silence, and then Julie Buchanan says, “I promised I wouldn’t say anything to anyone, but yesterday morning at the crack of dawn I ran into Jeanette Witherspoon’s ex-husband coming out of the Morning Roast with a little bitty thing who could not have been more than seventeen. I don’t want to be ugly, but I think she is one of the checkout girls at Kroger. I like to have died.”

Other voices join in, elaborating all of Tim Witherspoon’s character flaws and laying out his various failings in graphic detail, including the likelihood that he was if not actually robbing the cradle then at least casing the cradle for a future heist. As the Magnolias move on—strands of gossip merging, voices rising and falling, harsh laughter ringing out, wine glasses being refilled—no one notices as Sybil McPhillips quietly slips out the door.