The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

“Okay, girls, here’s how you do it,” she said, speaking as she worked. “You lay out eight slices of bread and butter them, which keeps the filling from soaking through. Then spread the filling evenly on four of the slices and top each with another slice. Then you trim off the crust on each side, like so.” She deftly demonstrated. “Then slice each sandwich into four fingers. Stack the fingers over here on this cookie sheet and cover them with a damp towel. Then start over again with eight more slices, except this time, cut the sandwich into four triangles and put them on the other cookie sheet. The third time, cut your sandwiches into four squares. That way, we’ll end up with a variety of fillings and shapes. Got it?”


The sandwich preparation underway, Raylene began browning the sausage for the sausage puffs that they would mix and bake later, while Myra May started peeling the cold hard-boiled eggs. Myra May had just finished the first dozen eggs when the kitchen door opened and Aunt Hetty Little—a neighbor of Mildred’s—came in. She was carrying four large, ripe melons, fresh from her garden. Her white hair was twisted into a bun at the back of her neck and she was wearing the shapeless old green print dress that she wore in the garden.

“Hi, Myra May,” she said as she put the melons on the kitchen counter. “I’m getting ready to meet the Dahlias over at the clubhouse garden and wanted to deliver these first. I promised them to Mildred for her party tonight.”

“Oh, these look good,” Myra May said, pausing in her egg-peeling to have a look at the melons. “We’ll let Mildred know they’re here—and put one of the girls to work cubing them.”

Over the tops of her gold-rimmed eyeglasses, Aunt Hetty peered curiously at Raylene. “And who’s this?” With her customary bluntness, the old lady added, “I don’t think I know you.”

“I guess you haven’t met Raylene Riggs yet,” Myra May said. “Maybe you heard that Euphoria is now cooking over in Maysville at the Red Dog? Well, I’m happy to say that Raylene is her replacement, as of a couple of days ago. Raylene, this is Aunt Hetty Little. She’s a member of our Dahlias’ garden club.”

Raylene turned from the skillet, a spoon in one hand. When she saw Aunt Hetty, her eyes widened, startled, and she ducked her head and turned away again. For a moment, there was a silence.

Then Aunt Hetty said, very quietly. “I’m sorry—what did you say your name was, hon?”

When Raylene didn’t immediately answer, Myra May repeated, a little louder, “This is Raylene Riggs, Aunt Hetty. She’s been working in Tampa as a hotel chef and has had lots of experience as a cook. Violet and I think we’re downright lucky to have her.”

“Raylene, is it?” Aunt Hetty said. She went to Raylene, then put up her hand and gently turned Raylene’s face toward her. “I know you, don’t I?”

Raylene pulled back, shaking her head, her lips pressed tightly together. But Aunt Hetty was not deterred. She put her hand on Raylene’s arm.

“I do know you, Raylene—or I used to, a long time ago. Put down that spoon and come over here by the window, child. I want to see you up close, in the light.”

Raylene cast an anxious glance at Myra May, who shook her head slightly and continued to peel the boiled egg she had in her hand. She knew better than to interfere when Aunt Hetty had her mind set on something. As one of the oldest women in Darling—certainly the oldest Dahlia—she was a law unto herself. Reluctantly, Raylene followed the old lady.

“Now, you just let me have a good look,” Aunt Hetty said, as they stood in front of the window. She lifted her hand and traced the outline of Raylene’s face and mouth. “Yes, I know you, my dear,” she said softly. There was a tremor in her scratchy old voice. “And you know me.”

“No. No, I don’t think so,” Raylene said, and tried to turn away.

But Aunt Hetty took her by the arm and turned her back. “Well, I do,” she said. “I know I do. And while I may not be a spring chicken any longer, there’s nothing wrong with my memory. I never forget a face.” She turned to look at Myra May. “Don’t you, Myra May?”

Myra May put her peeled egg down on the plate and sliced it down the middle. “Don’t I what, Aunt Hetty?” she asked casually. With a spoon, she scooped out the cooked yolk and dropped it into a bowl. She picked up another egg.

“Know this lady,” Aunt Hetty said. “Why, I’m sure you must, Myra May. You don’t recognize her?” She gave a long sigh. “No, I don’t expect you do, and no surprise. You were too young, I reckon. You were just a little ’un, not two years old, not even talking yet. You wouldn’t remember.”

“Really,” Raylene said, and tried to turn away again. “I have so much to do for this party tonight, Miz Little. I can’t stand around talking about—”

“You’re Ina Ray, aren’t you?” Aunt Hetty said, still clutching Raylene’s arm. “Miss Ina Ray Sparks.” She paused, while the silence lengthened. “Mrs. Ina Ray Sparks Mosswell.”

Myra May dropped the boiled egg she held in her hand. It smashed onto the floor and rolled under the table. Her knees felt suddenly weak and she groped for the nearest chair.

“Myra May,” Raylene said, in a choked voice. “Please—”