The Darling Dahlias and the Red Hot Poker by Susan Wittig Albert

Author:Susan Wittig Albert [Albert, Susan Wittig]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Persevero Press
Published: 2021-10-09T22:53:59+00:00

Chapter Nine.

Fire!

As soon as she got out from under the hair dryer and Beulah had brushed out her curls, Ophelia went directly home, walking fast and hoping she wouldn’t encounter anyone she knew. She was still so upset by Leona Ruth’s not-so-veiled accusations that she didn’t think she could frame a coherent answer if somebody asked her a question.

And if the question was about Mr. Nichols, she would probably burst into tears and spill out her guilty confession—although there wasn’t really anything to confess, was there? Of course there wasn’t. She hadn’t actually done anything. But she couldn’t prove that.

And Leona Ruth was right about one thing. Gossip was like Reverend Peters’ trash fire. He turned his back on it for a minute and the next thing he knew, the whole neighborhood was in flames. What if Jed heard some of the chatter? He was a proud man, and possessive. He would be deeply hurt. And he already had so much else on his mind, with the election coming up. It was all so depressing. And frightening.

The brisk walk did her good, though. By the time she got home, Opie had decided what she had to do to stop the fires before they got going. It was nearly ten, and she had to catch Bessie Bloodworth now, before she made other plans for the day. So she went straight to the telephone and rang up the Magnolia Manor. To her relief, Bessie answered the phone.

“Mr. Nichols will be here for an hour or two this afternoon,” Ophelia said, “and maybe an hour or two tomorrow morning. I think it would be lovely if you would be here too, Bessie. You’re responsible for a big section of our part of the guidebook and for all of the Darling history. I’m sure he’ll want to meet you.”

Bessie was obviously thrilled by the invitation. “Why, what a good idea!” she said promptly. “Thanks ever so much for asking me, Opie dear. What time would you like me to come?”

In the pit of her stomach, Ophelia was conscious of a dull emptiness mixed with an unexpected relief—a feeling she recognized immediately for what it was. For several weeks now she had looked forward with an ever-mounting excitement to being alone with Mr. Nichols, just the two of them. She hadn’t been planning anything, of course. She wouldn’t have known what to plan. She was just letting herself be open to whatever might happen. Allowing herself to imagine . . . oh, all kinds of possibilities, some of them interesting, some exciting, and some that she knew she shouldn’t allow to pop into her mind for even an instant.

But she hadn’t wanted to stop. It was something like “Anything Goes,” that jivey new Cole Porter song that was on everybody’s lips. The world had gone completely mad today and good could be bad today and black was often white today and even day might be night today. And if you were truly open to scheming new schemes and dreaming new dreams, it was all possible.

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