The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose Page 13

  Yesterday, she had pushed this idea to the back of her mind, but now here it was again, presenting itself as an option that would not only relieve her of a mountain of worry but allow her to face her husband with a clear conscience. Now, as she looked around the room, Ophelia decided that—once the Sears suite was gone—she could salvage the wicker settee that was in Mother Snow’s attic and make new cushions for it, and repaint the old rocking chair out in the shed. She hated the thought, since regardless of its cost and all the problems it posed, the living room furniture was beautiful, much nicer than that of any of her friends (except for Mrs. George E. Pickett Johnson, whose husband owned the Darling Savings and Trust Bank, and Mildred Kilgore, who was married to the owner of Kilgore Motors and lived near the ninth green of the Cypress County Club golf course). Since Jed was the mayor of Darling and owned the only feed store in town, Ophelia had felt that, by rights, she ought to have a very nice parlor where she could entertain her friends.

  She sighed. But if they couldn’t afford it, well, they couldn’t, that was all. Yes, letting Sears take the furniture back was the right thing to do. And as she set the tray down on the dear little walnut coffee table and moved around the room, straightening things and flicking off a few specks of dust, she felt a sense of relief at having come up with a solution she could live with. Some of her natural buoyant optimism began to return. Now, all she had to do was keep the furniture clean until Sears came to get it. Of course, she’d have to come up with some sort of explanation for Jed—and her friends, too, who would wonder what had happened. But she’d worry about that later. She was sure she could think of something. And anyway, Jed was so distracted these days, he might not even notice the furniture was gone.

  By the time Angelina Biggs knocked at the door, everything was ready. But when Ophelia opened the door to greet her guest, she was appalled. Angelina’s usually well-kept blond hair was disheveled, her face was mottled with ugly red blotches, and she was fighting back tears. She was wearing a bright green rayon dress that seemed to magnify her considerable size, and she must have doused herself in a quart of Emeraude. The scent enveloped her in a cloying cloud.

  “Why, what’s wrong, Angelina?” Ophelia cried, and pulled her into the house. “Come in, dear, and tell me all about it!” She put an arm around the woman’s heaving shoulders and led her into the parlor. “Sit down and have a cup of coffee and a sticky bun. That’ll make you feel better.”

  Angelina gulped, sat, sipped, and nibbled, and in a few moments, was sufficiently restored so that she could talk. “I’m sorry, Ophelia,” she choked out. “I really shouldn’t . . . It’s too much to expect you to—”

  “Yes, you really should,” Ophelia broke in, bracing herself against a wave of Emeraude. “And, no, it isn’t too much. Please tell me what’s wrong. All of it. The whole thing.”

  They were sitting side by side on the davenport now, and she patted Angelina’s arm, sympathetic, but by now deeply curious. Was there some sort of health problem? A family difficulty? Problems at the hotel? Money? Likely money. It seemed that everybody had money troubles these days.

  “Well, if you insist.” Angelina put down her cup and reached into her handbag for a cigarette. “It’s Artis, Ophelia. He—” Her face twisted. “He’s having an affair.”

  Ophelia stared at her, taken completely aback. An affair? Artis Biggs? Of course, he was very good-looking—one of the best-looking men in Darling, with a ready smile and dark hair graying at the temples. He was trim, too, unlike Angelina, who had let herself gain far too much weight. To give her credit, though, Angelina was trying to lose. She had recently confided to Ophelia that she was taking Dr. Baxter’s diet pills, a much-touted way to trim off the pounds. She had read about the pills in one of the beauty magazines she subscribed to. She had started smoking, as well—a surefire aid for weight loss, according to the cigarette advertisements. Lucky Strike, for instance. “Reach for a Lucky instead of a sweet.”

  As Ophelia got up to fetch an ashtray, she remembered hearing that Angelina and Artis had married young, when Angelina was right out of high school. She had been Darling’s Cotton Queen in her senior year and everybody thought she was the most beautiful thing on God’s green earth. While an engagement had not been formally announced, it was considered a sure thing that she would marry Charlie Dickens as soon as he finished up at Alabama Polytechnic and had the money to support a wife. But then Angelina had been smitten with Artis and married him and started having babies right away. And Charlie had finished at Poly and gone off to New York and then to the army.

  And Artis must be—why, he must be fifty now, if he was a day, Ophelia thought, with some consternation. A fifty-year-old man, having an affair? She’d never heard of such a thing. And with whom? Who was the lady? How were they managing to carry it off? Darling was such a small town—weren’t they afraid of getting caught?

  But Ophelia had more tact (and better sense) than to ask these nosy questions. Instead, she said, “Are you sure, Angelina? Are you very sure?”

  It was a question that came straight from the heart, because she herself, just last year, had suspected Jed of having an affair with his cousin Ralph’s wife, Lucy. As it turned out, there had been nothing to the story that had gone around town, spread by that awful Mrs. Adcock, their busybody neighbor. Ophelia had been sorry ever since for failing to trust her husband, and sorry that she had thought badly of Lucy, who was really a very sweet young woman. Thank heavens she had held her tongue until she learned the truth. She had never had to confess her foolishness to Jed, and she and Lucy had become the best of friends. But she still cringed when she thought of the terrible pain she would have inflicted if she had made those groundless accusations.

  Angelina had no such qualms, apparently. “Oh, I’m sure, all right,” she said bitterly, blowing out a puff of blue cigarette smoke. “They’ve tried to keep it secret, but they can’t fool me.” She lowered her voice and bent toward Ophelia. “I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes, Ophelia. With my very own eyes.”

  “The . . . evidence?” Ophelia faltered, drawing back a little. Something about Angelina’s tone frightened her. It sounded sly, almost as if she were taking a kind of perverse pleasure in what she had learned.

  Angelina looked straight at her. “The sheets,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Ophelia’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, dear,” she whispered. “Oh, gracious me!” She could feel her cheeks coloring. “I didn’t think . . . I mean, I can’t imagine—”

  “I know,” Angelina said with a kind of grim satisfaction. “I couldn’t imagine it either, Ophelia. But then I found out. They’re using different rooms every time they meet. Their little love nests.” Her voice became acid. “They get together at least once a week, although I’ve never been quite quick enough to catch them at it.”

  “Do you know who she is?” Ophelia asked, then turned away, adding plaintively, “No, don’t tell me, Angelina. Please. I don’t want to know. Really.”

  It was true. She didn’t want to know. In fact, Ophelia (who always tried to look on the bright side of things, no matter how much effort it took) did not want to hear another word of this dirty, sordid tale. She would never be able to look Artis Biggs in the face without imagining him cheating on his wife of thirty-something years. And what would she say to Jed the next time he suggested that they invite Artis and Angelina over for Sunday dinner? I’m sorry, dear, but I refuse to have that awful man in my house. He has been fooling around with another woman. He has committed the sin of—

  Ophelia shuddered. She couldn’t bring herself to even think the word. It was just too horrible.

  Angelina tapped her cigarette on the ashtray. “I would be glad to tell you who she is, Ophelia,” she said regretfully, “but I just don’t know. I’ve only seen him, not her. Creeping out of the room, I mean. Out of the room and down the back stairs.” There was, Ophelia thought, an o
dd glint in Angelina’s eyes. “I hid in the second-floor alcove and watched. Hoped I’d see her, but no such luck.” She snorted. “Only saw him, the sneak.”

  “You . . . spied?” Ophelia asked weakly. In the most dreadful depths of her suspicions of Jed, she had never seriously considered spying on him. She wouldn’t have dared. It would have been horribly embarrassing if she had actually caught him.

  “Of course I’ve spied,” Angelina said reasonably, smoke curling out of her nostrils. “How else am I going to catch them?” Without pausing for breath, she said, “But there’s more, Ophelia. The real reason I’m so upset right now is that Charlie Dickens tried to kiss me!”

  “Kiss you?”

  Ophelia’s mouth dropped open. If she had been surprised to learn about Artis’ marital transgressions, she was utterly astounded by this revelation. She knew Charlie Dickens. He covered most of the town’s political and social events for the Dispatch and was always lurking unobtrusively with his notebook and pencil. In all situations, Charlie was unfailingly a gentleman. He might be a little cynical and condescending sometimes—he was a worldly man who had traveled a lot and saw things from a big-city point of view—and he and Jed definitely didn’t see eye to eye on politics. But she couldn’t imagine him attempting to kiss Angelina Biggs. In fact, she had a hard time imagining that he would find her at all attractive, given her . . . well, her increasing size.

  Angelina’s eyes narrowed. “You find that surprising?” Her voice was thin. “I suppose you didn’t know that we were sweethearts back in high school. Did you?”

  “Well, yes,” Ophelia said. “Yes, of course.” Everyone knew that.

  “Then why are you surprised? He was madly in love with me. I suppose he still is, poor man, even though I went and married Artis instead of him. But that’s no way to treat a lady. Kissing her. Attempting to paw her.”

  She popped the last bite of sticky bun into her mouth while Ophelia tried to think of something else to say. But before she could, Angelina went on, speaking with her mouth full.

  “I see that you haven’t eaten that second bun, Ophelia. They’re awfully good. Mind if I have yours? And I think I’ll just help myself to another cup of coffee. Pardon my fingers.”

  Without waiting for Ophelia to say yea or nay, Angelina put down her cigarette and plopped the bun on her plate. Then she picked up her cup, leaned over, and reached for the coffeepot on the tray.

  What happened next would live in Ophelia’s memory like a horrible nightmare. For years afterward, she would replay the whole awful scene in her mind, over and over, as if it were a loop of movie film endlessly repeating itself, every lurid detail seared into her mind like a hot brand, clear and unforgettable.

  Angelina leaning forward, picking up the coffeepot with her right hand and pouring coffee into the cup she held with her left hand. Angelina splashing hot coffee onto her pale, plump wrist and her bright green rayon dress, her pretty mouth forming a perfectly round O of shock and surprise. Angelina dropping the full cup of coffee, right onto the taupe-colored seat cushion of Ophelia’s beautiful Jacquard velour davenport.

  * * *

  It was a half hour later. Angelina had gone, still bleating her apologies for the large, dark stain she had left on Ophelia’s beautiful new sofa. Ophelia had scurried to fetch towels to sop up the coffee, but she might as well have saved her efforts, for the thirsty velour soaked up the hot liquid like a sponge and the stain spread and spread and kept on spreading, until the entire taupe-colored cushion was the color of coffee. All she could do was stare at it in horror, fighting the hot, despairing tears. Sears wouldn’t take the furniture back, because it wasn’t in good condition. It was as plain as the nose on your face—even plainer—that the davenport was ruined. And the coffee table, too, for while they were trying to clean up the coffee, Angelina’s cigarette had fallen out of the ashtray and burned an ugly scar into the beautiful walnut top.

  Ophelia spent the next little while alternately scrubbing the cushion and the burn stain (which certainly didn’t serve any good purpose and probably only made things worse) and sobbing (which didn’t help anything, either). But her tears did bring her to a couple of important conclusions. She was going to have to tell Jed the truth. And she was going to have to get a job. Of course, everybody said how hard it was to find work these days, but she could type sixty words a minute without any mistakes and spell very well, and while her high-school shorthand was pretty rusty, she was sure with a little practice she could take dictation. Surely there was someplace in town, the bank maybe, or one of the offices in the courthouse, that could use a good typist. Unfortunately, she’d never had a job because she and Jed got married right out of high school. Did you really have to have references? How did you go about finding a job if you’d never had one before?

  She was still kneeling on the floor with a rag in her hand, puzzling over these questions, when the telephone on the hallway table rang—a long, imperative ring, just one, and then one again, because the Snows had a private telephone line. In her budgetary desperation, Ophelia had proposed that they go back to the party line (which would save a whole dollar every month), but Jed refused. As the mayor, he often talked about town business on the phone and didn’t want anybody listening in.

  Swiping her nose with the back of her hand, Ophelia picked up the receiver. Liz Lacy was on the other end, and she had a very odd request.

  “I’ve just talked to Lucy Murphy,” she said. “She’s agreed to put Verna up in her spare room for a few days. I wonder if you’d be willing to drive Verna and her dog out there. This morning, if you can manage it.”

  “Verna?” Ophelia asked, frowning. “Why in the world would she want to stay out at Lucy’s?”

  Lucy (who was also a Dahlia) lived four miles outside of town. She had finally prevailed on her husband Ralph (Jed’s cousin) to get electricity and the telephone installed in their house out there. She was still working on Ralph to put in an electric water pump and a toilet.

  “And what about Verna’s job?” she went on. “How will she get to work every day? It’s pretty far to walk, and Lucy doesn’t have a car. Why—”

  “I’m sorry, Ophelia,” Liz cut in firmly, “but I can’t answer your questions—at least, not now. All I can tell you is that it is really, really important for Verna to go out of town for a few days. Not too far out of town, though. Lucy’s place is just right, especially with Ralph gone this week.” Lucy’s husband worked on the railroad and was away a lot of the time. His absence was one of the things that had given rise to the gossip about Jed and Lucy. “It’s also important that nobody know about this,” Liz added, “so I have to ask you to keep it under your hat. Will you drive her out there?”

  Ophelia was taken aback by the request, but both Liz and Verna were very good friends—and Dahlias, to boot. “Yes, of course I will,” she replied.

  “Oh, thank you! Verna’s going home right now to pack a few things. If you can pick her and Clyde up at her house in fifteen minutes, that would be swell.” Liz’s voice became urgent. “And please, Ophelia. Don’t tell a soul about this, even Jed.” She paused, as if she were thinking. “Especially not Jed.”

  “I won’t.” But as she hung up, Ophelia was frowning. Especially not Jed? What was going on? What was it all about?

  She turned just then, catching sight of the coffee-colored cushion, and her stomach turned over. Whatever Verna’s trouble was, it paled in comparison to her own. Somehow or another, she was going to have to find a job so she could pay for the furniture. And she was going to have to do it right away. Today, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest.

  But where? And how?

  NINE

  Beulah

  As the bell over the door tinkled, Beulah Trivette looked up from the head of dark hair she was cutting. This head happened to belong to Alice Ann Walker, cashier at the Darling Savings and
Trust, who took an early lunch hour once a month and came over for a quick trim. Beulah smiled at Myra May, who had just opened the back door and come into the Beauty Bower.

  “Good mornin’, hon,” she chirped. “How’s every little thing at the diner? You doin’ okay?”

  “It’s getting hot out there,” Myra May said, loosening the collar of her plaid blouse. “And it’s only April. Hello, Beulah, Alice Ann. I know I’m a little early, but I just finished grocery shopping and thought I’d come on.”

  “Mornin’, Myra May,” Alice Ann said. “It’s not just hot, but humid, too. I can sure tell it in my hair. It’s so fine, when the weather’s soggy, all the spring come out of the curl. I go out to work in the garden and come back looking like something the cat dragged in.” Alice Ann was a Dahlia, like Beulah and Myra May. Mostly, she grew vegetables to feed the Walker family, but she also had quite a few roses, pass-along plants she had collected from the Dahlias’ plant swaps.

  “It’s fine, all right.” Beulah, a buxom blonde with a pretty face and a sweet smile, regarded Alice Ann’s hair with a critical look. “I could try to sell you some of that expensive curling lotion I’ve got over there on the shelf, but—”

  “Sorry, Beulah,” Alice Ann interrupted with a sigh. “I’m doin’ real good to afford to get my hair cut once a month. I couldn’t buy any of that expensive stuff, even if it made me look like Greta Garbo.”