Basil Instinct by Shelley Costa Page B

flopped over, her left hand flung out on the tiled floor of the foyer, her right hand jammed underneath her. Both ballet flats were half off her feet. Not quite her usual capable self.
    Had she been here all night? Was she out cold? Dead drunk? Not what I had in mind for the biggest day of Nonna’s year. Not quite noon and already I’d blown it twice. One, forgetting to call the cleaning service. Two, failing to vet Georgia Payne before signing her up based on the fact that in a Basic Cooking class for crazies-in-waiting,she seemed able to tell a saltimbocca from a salamander. Where could it go from here?
    “Georgia?” I gave her a shake. Maybe I could sober her up, spread around some homilies about not drinking on the job, and get on with the day’s work. When I didn’t get as much as a groan out of her, I crouched next to her and gave her another shake. “Come on, Georgia,” and I think I actually added “Rise and shine” as I eased her onto her back. I realized several things at once, the way you do if, say, your transmission has just fallen out on the railroad track and you wonder for a split second whether that train whistle you hear is coming or going. In my experience, it’s always coming.
    Georgia felt like rubber.
    Her eyes were open and staring, and not the way mine are when I listen to Dana Cahill sing “Me and Bobby McGee.” I sat back on my heels, pretty sure this meant Georgia wouldn’t be plating Maria Pia’s Sestri Salad with Grappa and Fig Vinaigrette anytime soon, when suddenly the front doorknob started to rattle.
    “Hello? Hello? Why won’t the door open?” It was Nonna, just four inches of wood and glass away from a nervous breakdown. I pictured the EMS, the fire truck, the crowd gathering outside, the Channel 12 news team blaring “Second Death in Three Weeks at Local Eating Establishment!”—and that strega Belladonna Russo laughing in the background. My grandmother wouldn’t survive the shame.
    I quickly frog-walked myself between poor dead Georgia and the latest sorority pledge of Belfiere. My single thought was to prevent my grandmother from seeing the train wreck that was about to ruin her precious day. “Nonna?” I said like a strangled soprano that could still do a better job with “Bobby McGee” than Dana. “Hi, bella , it’s me, Eve.”
    She pushed against the door. “The hell are you doing?”
    “Just setting out the new mat so it’s all nice and ready for”—here I went singsong, laying it on thick—“you-know-what.” I looked desperately around me for something more convincing, but nothing was suggesting itself, and Georgia didn’t have any better ideas.
    It worked. So I had better also find time to get a mat. “Ah,” said Nonna, musically. “My favorite granddaughter.” At that moment, had I ever any doubt, I understood perfectly that my cousin Little Serena Bacigalupo had made the right career choice to decamp from Quaker Hills to run a ride at Disney World.
    I pressed my lips together. Georgia, Georgia —I yelled at her silently, my hands spread wide— what in the name of holy roasted nuts happened to you? There was no blood, no apparent wounds, no blue skin, no swollen tongue, no vomit (the worst of all words to utter in a fine Italian restaurant) . . .
    Had the poor woman just up and died on us?
    I heard Nonna take a step back from the front door. “You just do what you have to do, darling. I’ll go around the back . . .”
    And with that I literally sprang into action, popping up to my feet, bug-eyed, needing suddenly to put Georgia somewhere else before Miracolo hosted a second heart attack in twenty-four hours. Apologizing to her repeatedly, I grabbed poor Georgia under her white-jacketed arms and dragged her backward out of the foyer as fast as I could. If I could get Nonna into the back office, I could put Georgia . . . put Georgia . . . I whirled around, looking for a place out of view from what in very short order would be the