The Darling Dahlias and the Poinsettia Puzzle

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Both Myra May and Violet had been astonished by Mrs. Whitworth’s unexpected generosity. Raylene Riggs, however, wasn’t at all surprised. She had seen it coming.

  Raylene—a tall, striking woman with auburn hair streaked with gray—was Myra May’s mother. A gifted cook and manager, she ran the Diner’s kitchen with the help of Euphoria Hoyt (recently returned from a stint at the Red Dog Saloon, across the tracks in Maysville, the colored section of Darling). But Raylene had another gift, in addition to her extraordinary skills in the kitchen. She often (but not always) knew when something was going to happen. Sometimes she even knew why, and what would happen as a consequence.

  Raylene didn’t advertise her gift, but she didn’t make any secret of it, either. Folks who knew usually didn’t think anything of it one way or another. It was just a nice sort of thing to have, like curly hair or the ability to play “Dixie” on a kazoo.

  Resourceful and even-tempered, Raylene was a rock when things went wrong in the kitchen. But lately, she had seemed . . . well, disturbed. Her concern seemed to center on four-yearold Cupcake, Violet and Myra May’s little girl and the apple of Darling’s eye.

  Cupcake had a bouncy mop of strawberry blond curls, the bluest of blue eyes, and a sweet smile. She loved to help out in the kitchen when Gramma Ray was cooking, pulling the pots and pans out of the cupboard and pretending to make biscuits or bake a cake. But even more, she loved to sing, and Violet loved to teach her songs from the radio.

  “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” was one of Cupcake’s favorites. Violet bought her Nick Lucas’ recording of it and showed her how to play it on their Victrola, so she could listen whenever she wanted. Then, when Raylene found a pair of taps and applied them to a pair of Cupcake’s shoes, the little girl quickly invented a tap dance to go with the music. Soon, she was tapping as easily as she walked.

  This surprising ability amused Myra May and Raylene, but it delighted Violet, who had once wanted to be a dancer herself. She began to encourage Cupcake to dance for the customers in the Diner. They loved it, and pretty soon people were asking if Cupcake would sing and dance for them while they ate.

  “She’s cuter than Shirley Temple!” they exclaimed admiringly. “And every bit as good a dancer. She could have a career in the movies!” Which thrilled Violet, who loved it when people admired her little girl.

  Given Cupcake’s natural talent, it wasn’t long before Violet decided to enroll her in Nona Jean Hopworth’s kiddy tap dance lessons in nearby Monroeville. Nona Jean was a former Ziegfeld showgirl who had danced professionally as Lorelei LaMotte. After leaving Ziegfeld (and starring in a less-thanstellar role as gangster Al Capone’s girlfriend) Nona Jean had come to Darling to live with her aunt, old Miss Hamer.* After her aunt died, she married Howie Hopworth, the owner of a chiropractic clinic in Monroeville.

  Nona Jean was so impressed by Cupcake’s native abilities that she immediately included her in a dance recital with her older students, just before Thanksgiving. With one of the older girls, Cupcake sang and tapped “Baby Take a Bow,” Shirley Temple’s show-stopping routine from the movie Stand Up and Cheer, which had been released that summer. To Violet’s great delight, Cupcake earned a standing ovation and did her “Tiptoe” dance as an encore.

  After the recital, Nona Jean was so enthusiastic about her new pupil that she offered to teach Cupcake for free. But Myra May hated to be beholden and said no to that offer. So Violet was paying Nona Jean fifty cents every week for an hour’s lesson with the older kiddies. And she got Beulah (at the Beauty Bower) to show her how to wrap the little girl’s hair in rags to create sausage curls—not the fifty-six curls that Mrs. Temple was rumored to wrap for Shirley every night, but enough curls to make Cupcake extra-pretty. Beulah even gave Violet a bottle of her homemade quince-seed setting lotion, which helped to hold the curls in Cupcake’s baby-fine strawberry blond hair.

  Raylene, however, didn’t seem quite so enthusiastic about Cupcake’s great success. For some reason, the recital seemed to trouble her, and for the past several weeks, she’d been watching little Cupcake with a hawk-like intensity. Whatever her suspicions, she was keeping them to herself. But she warned Myra May and Violet (both of whom were mystified) to lock all the doors at night and keep a close eye on their little girl.

  Cupcake wasn’t just theirs, however. She seemed to belong to all of Darling, just as little Shirley Temple—now one of the brightest stars in the entire Hollywood galaxy—belonged to all of America. President Roosevelt, Shirley’s most important fan, was deeply impressed by her heartwarming smiles and merry optimism. “As long as our country has Shirley, we will be all right,” he said. Darling folk felt the same way about Cupcake. As long their town had Cupcake to cheer them up, they could survive just about anything.

  Which did not bring any special comfort to Cupcake’s Gramma Ray. She often seemed to be looking off into a future that nobody else was seeing, and it was clear that something was worrying her. Puzzled, Myra May and Violet both realized that she wasn’t her usual quietly contented self, and each of them, privately, asked what was on her mind.

  But she always shrugged off their questions with a dismissive, “Oh, it’s nothing, really.” She would smile and go on with her daily work, keeping the Diner’s kitchen humming and turning out those delicious pies that made Earlynne think twice.

  Nevertheless, Raylene paused every now and then to give Cupcake a special hug. And as Christmas got closer and closer, she kept a wary eye out for strangers.

  * * *

  *You can read about Nona Jean and her partner, Lily Lake, in The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “YOU CAN’T POSSIBLY GET BY ON FIFTEEN DOLLARS A WEEK!”

  Thursday, December 20

  The frame building next door to the Darling Diner boasts two stories. On the first floor is the editorial office, production plant, and print shop of the Darling Dispatch, which is owned and published by Charlie Dickens. On the second floor is the office of Moseley and Moseley, Attorneys at Law, which is reached by a steep flight of open stairs that angle up the west side of the building.

  For the past few years, there has been only one Mr. Moseley: Benton Moseley, who inherited the firm from his father, grandfather, and various uncles who practiced law at the same location for the past seventy-some years. Mr. Moseley (who once served a term in the state legislature and is still deeply involved in the state’s Democratic politics) also has an office in Montgomery. He’s in the habit of spending three or four days a week in the state capital.

  But Liz Lacy, Mr. Moseley’s longtime secretary, is always at her desk: attractive, smiling, and ready to help, no matter what sort of legal hot water you’ve gotten yourself into. Mr. Moseley often says that Liz is indispensable, and that she knows so much about the law that she would doubtless pass the state’s bar exam with flying colors. But Lizzy understands that he’s joking—at least about the bar. There are no female lawyers in Alabama.

  Recently, however, there’d been a change of schedule. Miss Lacy could be found at her desk from eight to twelve in the mornings only, and the office was closed most afternoons. It was a matter of economics. In October, the country had observed the fifth anniversary of Black Tuesday: the day the Wall Street stock bubble had burst, destroying the get-rich-quick dreams of millions of Americans. The New Deal was helping many families keep body and soul together, but the Depression still had a stranglehold on the nation’s overall economy.

  Like many lawyers across the country, Mr. Moseley was having a hard time keeping his Darling practice afloat. While his clients in Montgomery mostly paid their legal bills on time and in cash, the citizens of Darling were more likely to pay late and in kind. Three laying hens, for instance, or even a fat pig. A bushel of sweet corn in July. A half-cord of firewood in December. Recently, Mr. Moseley had told Liz that he could afford to pay her for only twenty hours a week.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am to do this, Liz,” he’d said grav
ely. “The minute things start looking up again, I’ll want you back at your desk full time.”

  There’s more to this story, for Liz and Benton Moseley were not just coworkers but friends. Years earlier, when she’d first come to work for him, Lizzy had labored under the weight of an enormous, soul-shaping crush so powerful that it threatened to consume her. She was conscious of it every moment, and had to work hard—oh, so hard—to pretend to be what he thought she was: a secretary who did her work professionally and dispassionately.

  Over time, Lizzy’s romantic fantasies had given way to practical reality, and now the two of them occasionally shared dinner and a movie, just for fun. In fact, Mr. Moseley (who had been married and divorced) had a socialite lady friend in Montgomery and often visited her when he was in the state capital.

  Liz understood the situation and no longer yearned to be anything more than Mr. Moseley’s “Girl Friday,” as he sometimes called her. Still, she couldn’t help feeling that it wasn’t quite fair of him to assume that she would be available to come back to work full time as soon as he beckoned. Maybe he didn’t mean to take advantage of her, but that’s how she saw it. It made her feel uncomfortable and just a little resentful.

  Naturally, she didn’t tell her boss any of this. What she said was “I understand, Mr. Moseley. We’ll just have to do the best we can.”

  Twenty hours of paid work amounted to just fifteen dollars a week, half her normal salary. But that was fifteen dollars more than some people were earning, and while things would be awfully tight, Lizzy felt she could manage. Her house was paid for and she didn’t need any new clothes. She walked or rode her bike around town; she didn’t own a car. If worst came to worst, she could give up her telephone. And she could economize on food: she had a large garden that provided all the vegetables she could eat and chickens for her breakfast eggs and even an occasional Sunday chicken-and-noodles dinner.

  Her mother had recently married the owner of Dunlap’s Five and Dime. When Lizzy told her what had happened, the new Mrs. Dunlap said, “Don’t you worry about a thing, dear. Mr. Dunlap and I would love it if you would work for us at the Five and Dime. Why, you can start this afternoon! We’ll be glad to pay you twenty-five cents an hour.”

  Lizzy shook her head firmly. “That’s a lovely offer and I thank you, Mama, but no. I have other things I want to do.”

  “But what?” her mother cried. “And how will you live, Elizabeth? You can’t possibly get by on fifteen dollars a week!”

  “Just watch me,” Liz muttered testily, under her breath. Aloud, she said, “Oh, I have a little cash saved up. I’m sure I’ll be all right.”

  Some people might have been at loose ends without a job to go to every afternoon. But Lizzy knew exactly how to spend those hours: on the novel she was writing, her second. Her first, a historical novel about the War Between the States, would be published the next April by Scribner, one of the three or four top publishing houses in the country—an unbelievable bit of luck, she thought, pinching herself for the umpteenth time to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. The book, called Inherit the Flames, told the story of Sabrina, a young Alabama woman whose family plantation was plundered by Yankee soldiers. Sabrina had to choose between marrying a wealthy older neighbor and struggling to manage on her own.

  Lizzy’s editor, Maxwell Perkins (the same editor who had made F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway famous) had written a gracious note saying that she was a talented writer with a great career ahead of her. Her agent, Nadine Fleming, had said that Inherit the Flames was a “wonderful” debut novel but warned that the Depression had already killed off a great many potential bestsellers. Writers were forced to find whatever work they could: giving advice to the lovelorn, doing screenplays, ghostwriting. Liz shouldn’t get her hopes up.

  “The best thing you can do is keep on writing,” Miss Fleming had said. “I want you to be ready with plenty to offer when this horrible Depression ends and books start selling again.”

  So Lizzy was determined to put her now-free afternoons to good use. She was satisfied (no writer is ever entirely happy) with the progress she was making with her second book. She felt as if she understood the story she was telling about the War Between the States, and she admired her characters, a pair of orphaned sisters who had to look out for each other.

  Her evenings, however, were another matter.

  The difficulty was Grady Alexander, who lived just down the street. He and Lizzy had once been what Darling folk called a “number.” Lizzy herself had planned to marry Grady—when she felt ready to make a lifetime commitment. What had kept her from it was her longtime dream of being a writer. Being a housewife and a mother and a writer . . . well, it was a little hard to imagine finding time in the day to be all three.

  That’s what she had told herself, anyway. But lurking in a dark corner of her heart was another, more veiled reason. She had worried that—while she certainly had a deep affection for Grady (who was an all-around nice guy and would make a more than acceptable husband), she didn’t love him quite enough to sign a lifetime contract. Maybe, if she waited just a little longer, she would love him more.

  So she had held back when Grady pressed her to go all the way. It wasn’t that she was “saving herself for marriage,” as the magazines coyly put it. Rather, she felt that if she gave Grady what he wanted, he would take it as her pledge that she would marry him. And she just wasn’t ready for that.

  Lizzy’s dilemma had ended abruptly when Grady got a young woman in trouble and had to marry her. His new wife, Sandra, gave birth to a healthy Grady Junior, but she hadn’t lived to enjoy her son and husband. She was buried under a pink granite headstone in a quiet corner of Darling Cemetery. She left behind a shocked and grief-stricken family and a few pious individuals who remarked that her death was plain proof that you couldn’t transgress God’s law and get away with it.*

  After his wife’s death, Grady had a predictably difficult time managing child care. He had a good, full-time job as the agricultural agent for Cypress County. During the week, he left his son with Sandra’s mother. On weekends, he brought him home—to a house that was just up the street from Lizzy’s.

  And therein lay the problem for Lizzy. Grady wanted to pick up their relationship where they had dropped it when he and Sandra had impulsively done the deed that resulted in Grady Junior.

  “We can start over again,” he’d told Lizzy. “It will be better this time, because we know what’s important. We can have a family of our own—give little Grady a sister and a brother.” His tone was imploring. “Please, Liz, I need you.”

  Lizzy’s first response had been a quick no. “We can’t turn back the clock,” she’d said. “What’s done is done. We’re different people now.”

  Which in spite of being terribly clichéd was also terribly true. Grady was now a widower and a father. Lizzy was about to be a published author, with a second book in her typewriter. She was also Mr. Moseley’s indispensable assistant, and she intended to keep that job. She had more than enough on her plate.

  But Grady had meant it when he said, “You’re not getting off so easily, Liz. I won’t allow it.”

  He didn’t. He called her at work, sent her notes and little gifts, and never let more than a few evenings pass without dropping in to see if she needed any chores done.

  And after she’d given him her answer, Lizzy had been bombarded by second thoughts. She understood how truly terrible the past months had been for him—losing his wife, whom he surely must have loved, and being left with the care of a motherless baby. A part of her still loved him, she supposed. And still another part was pure and simple Darling: a woman was meant to marry and take care of her husband and children. Any woman who didn’t do that wasn’t living up to her God-given role as a woman.

  Even if some big, important editor in New York said she had a great career ahead of her as a writer.

  Mr. Moseley wouldn’t be back from Montgomery until the next day, so the office was still d
ark and quiet when Lizzy came in at eight on that Thursday morning. She turned on the lights, plugged in the coffeepot, and glanced around, appreciating the look of Christmas. The wreath of pine boughs hanging on Mr. Moseley’s office door was fresh and green, with a red velvet ribbon, silvery bells, and a bright holiday scent. A small Christmas tree sat on a table in a corner of the reception area, with Lizzy’s funny little gifts for Mr. Moseley—a Betty Boop necktie, a box of big gold-colored paperclips, a pen in the shape of a feather quill—prettily wrapped and nicely arranged under it. There was a bright red poinsettia on the coffee table in the waiting area, and another on Lizzy’s desk.

  And hanging in Mr. Moseley’s closet, wreathed in the seasonal scent of camphor, was the fur-trimmed, red flannel costume he always wore when he played Santa Claus at the annual children’s Christmas party at the courthouse across the street. It was a tradition Lizzy remembered with delight from her own Darling childhood, when Mr. Moseley’s father and uncles had given candy and treats to the children of the town—wearing that very same suit. She was glad that Mr. Moseley was keeping up the Christmas tradition.

  The office was full of things that suggested traditions, and Lizzy loved them all. The polished floors were made of sturdy oak planks from Briar Swamp, installed when the building was built by Mr. Moseley’s grandfather, before the War Between the States. The Oriental rug had been brought from Turkey by Mr. Moseley’s father in 1914, the year the Great War began. The gilt-framed diplomas and certificates of three generations of Moseley attorneys hung on the walls. And the front window looked out across the street to the Cypress County courthouse, where the American flag and the Alabama flag fluttered against the gray December sky.

  When Lizzy first came to work for Mr. Moseley as a young high school graduate, it had seemed to her that Darling’s solid, sturdy courthouse symbolized justice, while the law books on the shelf in Mr. Moseley’s office spelled out all the rules in black and white. Between the law books and the courthouse, there could never be any mistake in distinguishing what was right and what was wrong—or so she had thought,