Lilies That Fester

by Janis Harrison

  I’d already accepted the job of coordinating the design contest when I learned Allison would be working on the conference, too. I’d been dubious, but so far we’d stuck to our individual responsibilities, having little personal contact.

  “Tyrone hasn’t asked me any questions,” I said, studying Effie’s wrinkled face. “Is that good?”

  She winked charmingly. “You’re doing an excellent job coordinating the designers’ competition, dear. Even the ‘ruler’ couldn’t fault your talents.”

  “I wasn’t angling for a compliment, but I didn’t realize Tyrone was watching everything so closely. He’s spent most of the time in his room.”

  Effie beckoned with a gnarled finger, and then led the way over to the railing. “It wasn’t by chance that Tyrone was assigned the suite that looks directly down on the entrance into the conference area. Make no mistake, he knows what’s going on.”

  I turned my attention to the second floor. As if on cue, the subject of our conversation appeared in the doorway of his room. Tyrone had an uncanny resemblance to Clark Gable—slim, debonair, neatly trimmed dark mustache. As I watched, he ran a finger over his upper lip, then tipped his head to look directly at me.

  His sensuous gesture sent an unexpected jolt of heat across my skin. I was caught off guard since I didn’t particularly like the man. First the stranger in the lobby and now Tyrone. What was wrong with me? Was I headed for some kind of health crisis?

  Effie tapped my arm and nodded to the terrace lounge. She indicated two women sipping drinks. “I had three reasons for stopping by, dear. Delia and Miriam are two of them. They could be contributing more to our conference, but they’re too busy figuring out a way to make you reveal the categories.”

  I studied the design contestants. I didn’t know Delia particularly well, but to my way of thinking, she was hanging on to her youth by the tips of her fake red fingernails. In her late forties, she worked diligently to appear thirty—skintight blue jeans, bare midriff, spiked heels, and hair bleached so often it was as brittle and frizzy as a dandelion gone to seed.

  Miriam and I went back years, but only in a casual way. At fifty-six, her translucent complexion is that of a natural redhead, her husky voice an even blend of confidence and arrogance. I get along with her, but only if I stand my ground. Her overbearing manner has a way of chafing tender areas.

  “You said you had three reasons for coming by. What’s the third?”

  Effie rose on the tips of her sensible shoes and leaned over the banister. “He’s seated over by the bar.”

  I grabbed her dress tail. “Good lord, Effie. Don’t do that. What if you got dizzy?”

  “I’d make a very small splat, dear.”

  At my insistence, she moved away from the railing. Once we were safely at the door to my room, she said, “Since you won’t look, I have to tell you that Darren is drinking rather heavily.”

  “He’s an artist. Perhaps he needs to unwind. A drink or two won’t hurt, as long as he’s sober for the competition.”

  Effie, a proper spinster, gave a disapproving sniff. “He isn’t unwinding, dear. The origin of his name is uncertain, but it’s believed to mean ‘great one.’ I think he’s feeling the burden of performing before his peers.”

  I found that hard to swallow. Darren regularly flies to Europe to hold international design classes. His creative genius was responsible for all the flower designs used at the past two Missouri governors’ inaugural balls. His achievements have been featured in several national magazines.

  When Darren entered this competition, I was amazed that he’d waste his time on such small potatoes. He’d confided to me that he didn’t care about winning, but was willing to lend his name to the contest. Sponsors had leaped at the chance to have their products touted by him. Money for second and third prize was a tidy sum. But the grand prize—an allexpenses-paid trip to Hawaii—made me wish I had a stake in the outcome.

  I was ready to make my point to Effie, but she had her own opinion. She lowered her tone to a gossipy level. “I’m not sure how much you know about the situation, but Darren began his florist career as a delivery boy for Delia’s shop. From what I understand, she challenged Darren to enter a contest, such as the one you’re conducting, dear, and his hidden talent was discovered. It isn’t helping the situation that Delia has spent the day complaining.”

  Effie imitated Delia’s squawky whine to perfection. “‘I don’t know which is more contemptible. Darren, for never giving my shop any recognition, or Hubert, for leaving without proper notice.’”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course, Hubert recognized which side of his bread had the jelly. I don’t blame him for leaving Delia’s employment. Why be her gopher when he had the chance to travel the world with Darren?”

  Having dumped everything into my lap, Effie heaved a sigh. “I thought you should know what’s going on. The gist of it is jealousy and resentment on Delia’s side. Darren will only compound the situation with his excess use of alcohol.” She patted my arm. “I’ll be in my room if you need me, dear. Enjoy your visit with Gellie.”

  Oh, sure. Like I could enjoy a carefree chitchat with an old friend when one of my contestants was drinking himself into oblivion and two others were plotting against me.

  Chapter Three

  I didn’t figure I’d get anywhere with Delia or Miriam, but I might be able to coax Darren into having a cup of coffee with me. I left my purse on the bed, but grabbed my door key and stuffed it into my pocket. I hesitated at the phone. I needed to touch base with Gellie, but the situation with Darren spurred me out of my room and down to the end of the hall.

  I opened the stairwell door, took a few steps, then stopped. Someone was coming fast and furious from above. I plastered myself against the wall and waited. Zach, the other male contestant, came into view. He was dressed in green jogging shorts and no shirt. I gulped when he stopped a few feet from me.

  “Don’t wanna get too close,” he said. “I’ve worked up an unpleasant aroma.”

  In my opinion there wasn’t anything unpleasant about Zach. His muscles were like sculptured stone buffed to perfection. He wore a gold hoop in his earlobe, and the tattoo of a bumblebee decorated a patch of flesh above his heart.

  I’d made the mistake of telling Lois that I looked forward to working with Zach. She’d put her own spin on “working.” Her risque comment came back to me, and I couldn’t meet his friendly gaze. My roving eyes settled on the low ride of his shorts. Surrounded by a mat of black hairs, his navel made a cute little dimple that winked at me.

  “You exercising, too?” Zach asked.

  I dragged my gaze up to his face. “I … uh … hate those glass elevators. I take the stairs whenever I … uh … need to change floors.”

  Zach did a couple of deep knee-bends. “I’ll see you tonight at dinner. Gotta go or I’ll get stiff.” He tossed me another smile before trotting off down the stairs.

  I closed my eyes and rubbed the goose bumps on my arms. Lately I’d experienced flashes of heat, irregular heartbeats, and a frequent flutter in my stomach. I would class my symptoms as a massive case of nerves, except seeing Zach in those skimpy shorts had put images in my brain that hadn’t been there in almost two years.

  “What’s the matter with me?” I muttered.

  “A bad case of hormones, Babe.”

  My eyes flew open. “Carl?” I whispered.

  Since his death, Carl’s voice often plays in my head. Sometimes the tone is so clear and distinct I feel I can turn and see him standing at my side. He’s most vocal when I’m trying to work out a problem, and his sage advice has helped me through some rough times.

  I’ve never told anyone about hearing Carl’s voice in my head. I knew I was hanging on to the remembered sound like a child does his favorite blanket. It comforted and helped ease the pain of being alone. I wasn’t ready to give up Carl’s memory, but a few weeks ago, I’d removed the wedding band from my finger. For twenty-four years it had adorned my h
and, reminding me of the love and trust we’d shared.

  A wave of sadness brought the threat of tears. I clenched my jaws. Get a grip. There wasn’t time for sorrow or self-pity. This conference and competition were going to happen, and I’d better get my act together.

  I stomped down the stairs muttering to myself. There was plenty to occupy me, and regardless of the physical signs, I was master of my own destiny. My body wasn’t about to dictate any terms.

  “It’s time to get on with life, Babe,” Carl reminded me softly.

  I flung open the stairwell door and snapped over my shoulder. “I’m trying. Please don’t nag.” I turned around and there stood Chloe.

  She blinked in confusion. “Sorry, Bretta, but I haven’t said anything … yet.”

  My lower lip pooched out, and I blew a jet stream of air that blasted the bangs off my hot forehead. “Were you looking for me?” I asked.

  “I saw you leave your floor and knew you’d be using the stairs.” She twirled a blond curl nervously. “I wanted to ask you about the design categories.”

  “What about them?”

  She took a deep breath and said in a rush, “I’ve never done competition before, and I’m worried I’ll make a fool of myself.”

  I touched her lightly on the arm. “I’ve seen your work. You’ll do fine.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Sure I do. Besides, look at what you’ve accomplished already. You’re in the finals. That took talent.”

  “Robbee says the same thing only with more coo and goo.” She made a face. “A woman would have to be desperate to take him seriously.” Her chin came up. “And I’m most definitely not desperate.”

  “Good for you,” I said, moving away. Having caught sight of Darren, I added under my breath, “Looks like I’ve got another hand to hold.”

  The famed designer didn’t give the appearance of a man riding a wave of success. Five empty beer bottles were lined up in front of him. His tall, lanky body was slumped against the table.

  At his elbow was Hubert, who always wore black and loomed like a shadow. Hubert was past retirement, and from the expression on his face, wished he was anyplace but here. It was obvious that he’d tried to convince Darren to stop drinking. Frustration had driven the older man’s slender fingers through his gray hair, making it stand out from his head like barbs on a cactus.

  Hubert had spotted me and nodded toward Darren. “It’s your turn,” he mimed before scurrying off.

  I smothered an expletive and strode purposefully across the lobby. I’d been lucky enough to be present when Darren had aced his first contest. I’d witnessed the creation of his winning design—five yellow roses, some willow branches, a watermelon, and three Granny Smith apples. He’d carved swans from the apples, placed them on a sculptured melon lake, and dramatically added flowers with the branches to create a contrived bouquet that was unique as well as whimsical.

  As I approached Darren’s table, I was relieved to see Delia and Miriam had left the terrace lounge. This conversation would go better without their catty remarks. But the handsome man I’d noticed earlier in the lobby was seated at the bar. He saw me and took the newspaper off the stool next to him. It was an open invitation, and my steps faltered. A quick glance around the room showed several attractive women, and I wondered why this man had set his sights on me. His attention was flattering, but I was out of practice in the art of flirtation. He nodded to the stool. I quickly shook my head before taking the chair opposite Darren.

  Five beers would have put me under the table, but Darren focused on me, and for a second I was lulled into hoping that Effie and Hubert were worrywarts. Then he opened his mouth.

  “Hey, sweet cakes. How’s ’bout a beer?”

  By no stretch of the imagination am I a “sweet cakes” kind of gal. The guy was soused. “No thanks. Aren’t you celebrating a bit early?”

  “I’m checking out.” He waved an arm and nearly toppled out of his chair. “Atmosphere sucks.”

  While Darren recovered his seat, I summoned a waiter and ordered a pot of coffee. “Can you ignore it?” I asked. So there would be no misunderstanding, I tacked on, “Or them?”

  He sat up straight and concentrated on forming each word, as if he could see what his lips were doing. “Don’t need them. Don’t need anyone.”

  I leaned forward and reached around the tidy row of brown bottles to place my fingertips on his arm. “But this contest needs your talent.”

  “I drink to my competition.” He flicked each bottle with a thumbnail. “Chloe, the ingenue. Miriam, the self-serving witch. Delia, the blond bitch. Zach, the body beautiful. And finally, Gellie, the princess of pork.”

  I bristled. Gellie was overweight, but she didn’t deserve this crude assessment. Before I could come to her defense, Darren spoke in a venomous tone. “Interfering twit.”

  Drunk, disorderly, and abusive. I couldn’t deal with this on top of everything else. I got up and turned to leave, but Darren grabbed my wrist. “Need me? Never.” His eyes narrowed. “Need my name? You’re damned right you do.”

  My cheeks burned as I hurried to the elevator. I wanted escape and this was the closest, fastest way possible. Gellie’s room was 418, and I headed straight for her. I was in need of a massive dose of her quick wit.

  I punched the UP arrow, and the door swooshed open. I stepped into the glass-fronted box, keeping close to the wall and averting my eyes from the lobby, where the floor would disappear as I soared to dizzying heights.

  Just as the door was about to close, the man from the bar ambled in. He gestured to the control buttons. “What floor?”

  “Four,” I said, my thoughts on Darren. He was right. I did need him and his name. What if he quit the competition? I had sponsors making huge donations because he was participating in the contest. Would I have to give back the money and the merchandise?

  “Are you another butterfly enthusiast?” asked the man across from me.

  Not an odd question since our florist convention wasn’t the only one being held in the hotel this weekend. The Missouri Order of Butterfly Watchers had fluttered in yesterday complete with posters and pamphlets. From snatches of conversation, I gathered the group was soliciting new members to help plot the migrating trail of a bevy of egg-laden creatures.

  “I’m with the floral convention,” I said.

  He chuckled pleasantly. “Butterflies and flowers. Sounds like the right combination.” He held out his hand. “My name’s Bailey Monroe, avid gardener and butterfly tracker.”

  I slipped my hand into his and tried to smile. “Bretta Solomon, florist.” To myself I added, “And soon to be a patient at the nearest psychiatric ward.”

  The bell dinged, and the door slid open. As I pulled my hand out of his, Bailey said, “Elevator’s too efficient. I was working up the nerve to ask you to dinner so we could compare notes on what attracts butterflies to flowers.”

  It was a sweet pickup line, and caused me to take a closer look at him. He stood about six feet two. His dark hair was lightly frosted with about fifty years of life’s trials and tribulations. Brown eyes crinkled with humor. A jaw that was square and strong gave the impression that he could be stubborn, or perhaps merely determined.

  I stepped out of the elevator, but turned to say, “I’m busy with conference duties tonight.”

  “I’ll make it a point to see you again,” he promised as the door slowly closed.

  Instead of going up, the elevator went down, and I was left with the feeling that I’d been escorted to the fourth floor. I watched Bailey return to the lobby and smiled. It certainly didn’t hurt my ego that this handsome man had gone out of his way to meet me.

  I walked down the hall, keeping close to the rooms and away from the railing that was a forty-foot drop to the ground floor. Maybe I should take up butterfly watching, especially if Bailey was an example of the membership. Even discounting the man’s charm, chasing fertile butterflies sounded uncomplicated compared to wh
at I faced this weekend.

  My thoughts returned to my conversation with Darren. He’d been on the money with Zach. The man was most definitely body beautiful. Calling Miriam a “self-serving witch” was accurate. As was his assessment of Chloe and Delia. But Gellie, most assuredly, didn’t deserve the crude title “princess of pork.” The memory of Darren’s tone, when he’d called her an “interfering twit,” troubled me.

  I stopped at room 418. A tray by the door held the remnants of a snack—chef salad that was hardly touched and the wrappers from three Butterfinger candy bars. I rapped lightly on the door. I probably shouldn’t bother Gellie, but at the moment, she seemed to be my only ally in this group.

  I knocked louder. “Gellie? It’s Bretta.”

  “Hi,” she called through the door. “Can’t wait to see you, but I just got out of the shower. We’ll visit at dinner. Okay?”

  Deflated, I agreed, then went back down the hall, arriving at the elevator just as Miriam stepped off. Her greeting, “You’re just the person I wanted to see,” put me on guard.

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  She was dressed in a jade-green linen pantsuit. The color complimented her lovely shoulder-length red hair and matched her eyes. Waving a slender hand, she said, “Bretta, you’ve taken too much upon yourself with this contest. You need assistance.”

  “I have Robbee.”

  Miriam’s lips tipped up in a cool smile. “Robbee is a sweetheart, but let’s face facts. He didn’t make the competition. Becoming your assistant was the next best way of marketing his creative talent. He’s here to snatch and grab whatever limelight he can weasel.”

  Robbee had his faults, but Miriam was hardly the person to point them out. “Robbee has stripped thorns from roses, swept floors, and carried buckets of water and bags of trash. All are mundane chores that won’t get him an ounce of recognition except from me.”

  “Forget Robbee. Let’s concentrate on the contest.”

  I struggled to keep my tone even. “I can assure you, Miriam, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”