The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

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 odd 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.