“No, I’m not leaving Mr. Moseley,” Lizzy said. “Or Darling. I promise.”
“That’s what you say now,” Verna muttered. “What happens if Mr. Nichols asks you to relocate?”
Lizzy tossed her head. “I’ll just say no,” she replied confidently.
“It might not be as easy as that,” Verna remarked. She looked up. “Here comes Miss Rogers with the puzzles, girls. Are we ready to beat the pants off the competition?” It was an apt remark, since they were the only all-female team.
“We’re ready!” they chorused.
“Here’s your puzzle,” Miss Rogers said, putting the box on the table. “You may open it and begin when I blow my whistle. You have read all the rules?”
Verna rolled her eyes, but Aunt Hetty replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
When Miss Rogers had gone on to the next table, Lizzy held up the box. “Look, Divas!” she chortled. “It’s a poinsettia puzzle!” And so it was—smaller than the one they had used for practice and with a slightly different background, but otherwise almost the same.
“Looks pretty simple,” Aunt Hetty muttered. “I’ll take the red pieces.”
“Green for me,” Verna volunteered.
“I’ll do the frame,” Lizzy said.
“Which leaves me the background,” Bessie said. “This ought to be easy, ladies.”
It was. Which is why, exactly fifty-five minutes and thirty seconds after Miss Rogers blew her starting whistle, Aunt Hetty put in the very last piece.
“Jigsaw!” she cried, and waved her cane in the air.
A ripple of applause swept the bleachers. The Dahlias in the audience all stood up and cheered. The Puzzle Divas had won!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“I HAVE SOMETHING TO CONFESS”
Monday, December 24
On the morning of Christmas Eve, Lizzy woke up to an intriguing pearly light, and Rowser’s fervent dawn crow seemed oddly muted. When she looked out her bedroom window, she understood why. Her garden was covered in a blanket of glittering white snow. And it was still coming down—large, lazy, lacy flakes that filled the air with magic.
“Oh, how beautiful!” she exclaimed in delight and gave Daffy an extra hug. She dressed in brown wool slacks and a red blouse and red sweater, ready for a chilly day ahead. The snow would be gone soon, but it would be perfect for the children’s Christmas party this afternoon. It would be a day they would never forget.
At the office, Mr. Moseley said nothing about Ryan Nichols or Lizzy’s new job with the Federal Writers’ Project. Instead, he came in, flung his hat on the rack, and said, with gusto, “I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that we’re done with Neil Hudson, at least for the time being. You can send Cupcake back to her mamas at the Diner.”
“Oh, they’ll be so glad!” Liz exclaimed. “What did you find out from Mr. Gillis?”
“Coffee first,” Mr. Moseley said, taking off his overcoat. “Bring yours, and I’ll tell you.”
Lizzy put one of the fresh croissants she’d bought at The Flour Shop that morning on a plate. She filled his coffee cup and refilled hers and sat down in front of his desk.
“This is wonderful, Liz,” Mr. Moseley said with his mouth full. “Please tell Earlynne she can bake croissants for me any day of the week. I hope the bakery is a great success.”
“I’ll tell her,” Lizzy said. “So what did Mr. Gillis say about Mr. Hudson? I’m dying to know!”
“Jake is a master when it comes to uncovering things that people would like to hide,” Mr. Moseley replied. “It turns out that Hudson hasn’t had a job for several months and is currently living with his girlfriend—both of which the court would view darkly if he were seeking legal custody of his daughter. But the kicker is that he was arrested late last week. So he won’t be coming to Darling, at least not right away.”
“Arrested!” Lizzy exclaimed. “What for?”
“For passing hot checks, to the tune of several thousand dollars. He hasn’t made bail, so he’ll be spending the holidays in jail.” He wolfed the rest of his croissant and washed it down with a swig of coffee. “Kidnapping Cupcake won’t be high on his priority list for a while.” He gave her a serious look. “Which doesn’t mean that he won’t make another try, when he gets out of jail. Tell Violet and Myra May not to drop their guard.”
“I will,” Lizzy said. “At least they’ll have the holiday free from worry.” She thought about what Bessie had said about Violet wanting to take Cupcake to Hollywood and wondered if they had heard the last of that question.
Mr. Moseley was going on. “I’ll call Hudson’s lawyer today and tell him that we know about the arrest and his client’s questionable living arrangements. I’ll also let him know that Violet has no intention of surrendering custody of the child and that she is filing for adoption this week. If Hudson wants to contest, he’ll have to come here for the hearing. But he won’t have a leg to stand on. Jake tells me that last week’s arrest wasn’t his first, by a long shot. Hot checks, stock fraud, resisting arrest—the man has had several skirmishes with the law.”
“Violet is filing?” Lizzy asked in surprise. “She hasn’t said anything to me about—”
“She doesn’t know it yet,” Mr. Moseley said comfortably. “When you get a chance, go across the street to Verna’s office and get the state adoption forms. Then ask Violet to come to the office and I’ll help her fill them out. I’d like to get the paperwork filed before Friday. The sooner we get it taken care of, the better.”
Lizzy bit her lip. She was deeply grateful to Mr. Moseley for helping, but there was a problem. “I’m not sure that Violet can afford to do that right now,” she said. “There’s the filing fee and court costs and your—”
“I’ll waive my fee. And the county owes me for the last couple of months as county attorney. I’ll take it in trade—Violet’s filing fee and court costs in exchange for what Cypress County owes me.”
Lizzy was overwhelmed by his generosity. “But do you think . . . I mean, I know what the bank balance looks like. I—”
“And speaking of money,” Mr. Moseley went on, “I’m troubled by the thought that you’ve had to go out and find a half-time job to make ends meet, Liz. I’ve been thinking about our situation. There are a couple of accounts that I can move here, from the Montgomery office. That should make up the difference in your salary.” He grinned at her as if he were very pleased with himself. “You can come back full time whenever you want.”
Lizzy was staggered by his offer. She opened her mouth to answer, but the words didn’t come. Was he doing this out of guilt, or out of a genuine concern for her welfare? What could she say?
He gave her an interrogatory look. “I hope you haven’t signed on with Uncle Sam just yet.”
She took a deep breath. “No, but I . . . I—” Her voice faltered. She was genuinely interested in the Writers’ Project, and the thought of working with Ryan Nichols was intriguing. But she loved her job here, and she knew that the Writers’ Project would inevitably get in the way of her writing. What should she do?
“Well, you don’t have to tell me now,” Mr. Moseley said, to her relief. “We can let it ride until after the holiday. But I do hope you’ll say yes.” He frowned. “Where is that Santa Claus suit? I suppose I should try it on, in case we need to make a few adjustments before the party this afternoon.”
A little later, Mr. Moseley came out of the office, clad in the old red Santa suit, with the white cotton beard hooked over his ears. In a muffled voice, he said, “How do I look?”
“Festive,” Lizzy said with a laugh. “Turn around and let me have a look.”
He turned, and Lizzy saw that he was holding a sprig of something green behind his back. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Oh, this?” He turned to face her, holding it up. “It’s just a twig of mistletoe. I thought I’d add it to our office decorations. But first, maybe we ought to give it a try—see whether it works. What do you say?”
“Whether i
t . . . works?” Lizzy asked hesitantly. Her skin prickled.
He pulled off the white cotton beard. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of mistletoe magic.” With one hand, he held the mistletoe over their heads. He put the other hand on Lizzy’s shoulder and drew her toward him. He bent down and kissed her lightly, almost playfully on the lips, lingering just a little.
But for Lizzy, it wasn’t a playful kiss. In a flash, it pulled up all the old romantic feelings, the yearnings she had worked so hard to suppress. It’s nothing, she told herself. Just a silly Christmas game. It doesn’t mean anything, so don’t take it seriously. Don’t—
But then his mouth came down hard on hers and the whisper of caution was drowned out by the beating of her heart. Her arms were around his neck and she felt herself responding with a reckless, unruly passion that took her utterly by surprise, sending tremors pulsing through her, weakening her knees.
Finally he dropped his arms, stepped back, and took a deep breath. “Uh, merry Christmas, Liz.” He sounded shaken.
Lizzy felt vulnerable and undone, as if the kiss had stripped her—not of her clothing, but of her pretenses, her charades, the calm façade she had built with such effort. She felt bare, exposed.
“Merry Christmas,” she managed, trying vainly to control her breathing. She pressed a hand to her heart, feeling its foolish hammering. Shakily, she stammered, “And . . . and a happy New Year, too, Mr. Moseley.”
“Mr. Moseley?” He rolled his eyes. “Good grief, girl. We’ve just shared a kiss that rattled the rafters. Can’t you call me Bent?” He looked down at his costume and chuckled. “Or Santa.”
Now she could laugh, a little, anyway. “Merry Christmas, Bent.”
But her laugh covered a new and wrenching recognition. She had thought she had boxed up her yearnings for Bent Moseley and put them on the highest shelf in the darkest closet of her recollection, out of sight, out of mind. Now, like the genie out of the bottle, they had escaped to devil her. Still feeling the urgency of his mouth on hers, she doubted whether she could put them back. What did that mean? What—
“Liz.” He put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a long, searching look, his jaw working, his eyes dark. “I have something to confess.”
Here it comes, she thought. He was going to apologize for kissing her, like the Southern gentleman he was. She half turned away, not wanting to hear him say “I’m sorry,” or “Let’s forget it happened and get back to business as usual.” He would be her boss, she would be his secretary. That’s all it could ever be.
But he put his fingers on her face and turned back toward him so she could not escape his gaze. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a very long time.” His voice was gruff. “I didn’t realize just how much I wanted it until I saw you with that good-looking Nichols fellow on Saturday night. I knew he was going to kiss you goodnight. I wanted to be the one to do that. And I was hoping like hell that he wouldn’t get past your front door.”
She stared at him, speechless. And then, to her surprise, felt the laughter bubbling up in her, laughter she couldn’t push down. “He didn’t,” she said, half choking on a giggle. “My mother stopped him.”
“Your . . mother?”
“She came to her door and turned on the porch light. She waved her hanky at us.”
“Her hanky?” His laugh was deep and rich. “Remind me to thank your mother the next time I see her.” He held up the mistletoe over their heads. “I’m wondering. How about if we give this a second try, Liz? See if the magic is really real.”
Happily, Lizzy was ready to step into his arms, but the telephone rang.
Mr. Moseley dropped his arm and sighed. “If it’s Judge McHenry, tell him I’ll meet him in chambers, as soon as I get out of this silly suit.” He paused, his eyes on hers. “Can I take a rain check on that kiss, Liz? And not on your front porch. I would prefer someplace where your mother can’t wave her hanky at us.”
Mutely, Lizzy nodded. She stepped to her desk and reached for the phone. She had to clear her throat twice before she could trust herself to speak.
“Law office,” she said brightly. “How may I help you?”
THE GARDEN GATE BY ELIZABETH LACY
If you’re asked what flower you think of when you think of Christmas, you’ll probably say, “Why, the poinsettia, of course.” And you would be right, for it is the traditional Christmas plant.
The wild poinsettia is native to a mountainous area of southern Mexico, where it flowers during the short, dark days of December and January. The ancient Aztecs prized the plant, using the red “flowers” (they are actually specialized leaves, known as bracts) to make a purple dye and the milky white sap to treat fevers. An early Mexican botanist gave it the botanical name Euphorbia pulcherrima—“the most beautiful Euphorbia.” Because it flowered around Christmastime, Franciscan priests called it the “Flower of the Holy Night” and used it in their religious celebrations. Now, it is known by many descriptive names: Star flower, Crown of the Andes, Shepherd’s rose, and Fire flower—among others.
The plant was brought to North America in the late 1820s by Joel Roberts Poinsett, the first American ambassador to Mexico. Intrigued by the fiery blooms, he sent several to his plantation in South Carolina, where he later propagated them in his greenhouse. He began sharing them with friends and botanical gardens, and they became known as poinsettias.
Here in Darling, Mrs. Hetty Little (Aunt Hetty, to her friends) has been able to grow poinsettias all year long. If you want to keep your Christmas poinsettia alive and thriving until next year, she has some tips for you.
She suggests that you keep your holiday plant in a sunny window as long as its bracts are red, watering it as usual. In March, when the leaves fade, prune it back to about six to eight inches tall and let the soil dry out before you water it. In May, repot the plant in a fast-draining slightly acidic soil. When it starts to put out new leaves, feed it some of your favorite balanced fertilizer. (Or try Aunt Hetty’s recipe, below.) Once the new stems have grown out at least four inches, you can begin taking cuttings, if you like. The cuttings should be three to four inches long, with two to three mature leaves.
As the stems grow out, pinch them back to shape your plant and encourage branching. In October, it’s time to begin what Aunt Hetty calls the “dark treatment,” to mimic the short days of the plant’s native region. Place the poinsettia where it will get about eight to ten hours of sunlight. Then put it in the dark for the rest of the day and night, either covering it with a light-proof cardboard box or moving it into a dark, windowless room or basement. Water and feed it as usual. After about eight weeks (around Thanksgiving), the colored bracts should begin to emerge. Put your plant back in the light and enjoy it through the holidays, patting yourself on the back for helping it survive and thrive throughout the year.
Aunt Hetty says that another tricky thing about poinsettias is the temperature. Poinsettias are tropical plants, and they don’t like to be cold. Move them to a warmer spot when the temperature falls to around 50 degrees.
And one other thing Aunt Hetty wants you to know. Don’t believe it when people tell you that the poinsettia is poisonous. The milky sap may irritate your skin (it is a Euphorbia, after all), and the leaves and bracts don’t taste good—they might even make you nauseous. But they won’t kill you or your pets, so don’t worry. Just enjoy their brilliant red color, so vivid at Christmas time.
AUNT HETTY’S FAVORITE FERTILIZER
Aunt Hetty swears by a fertilizer tea she makes in an empty one-gallon jug. Put the following ingredients into the jug and fill it with rainwater. Let it sit for a day or two, then shake, strain, and use at full strength to water the soil around your plants. They’ll drink it up!
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon ammonia
3 teaspoons blackstrap molasses
3 tablespoons hydrogen peroxide
1/4 cup coffee grounds
1/4 cup crushed bone scraps
2 crushe
d egg shells
1 dried banana peel
LAGNIAPPE *
If there were no other reason to live in the South,
Southern cooking would be enough.
Michael Andrew Grissom
Southern by the Grace of God
Earlynne and Mildred are still working on a full list of the pastries and other good things they plan to sell at The Flour Shop. But in the meantime, they thought you might like to try these traditional sweet Southern goodies for your holiday table.
PECAN TASSIES
A longtime Southern favorite, the pecan is the official state nut of Alabama. There are over a thousand varieties, many named for Native American Indian tribes: Cheyenne, Mohawk, Sioux, Choctaw, and Shawnee. The word “tassie”—a small cup—has been around for centuries, too. Robert Burns, in 1790, used it in one of his poems: “Go fetch to me a pint o’ wine, And fill it in a silver tassie.” It’s easy to see how the word became used to describe little pastries baked in muffin tins. These pecan treats are bite-size finger food, which makes them ideal for a party tray.
1/2 cup butter (room temperature), plus 1 tablespoon butter, melted
3-ounce package cream cheese (room temperature)
1 cup flour
1 large egg
3/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Pinch of fine salt
1/2 cup pecans, finely chopped
Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F. Spray a 24-cup mini-muffin pan with cooking spray, or set out 24 silicone mini baking cups.
Beat butter and cream cheese until smooth. Add flour and beat until completely blended. Cover and chill for 1 hour.
Whisk together melted butter, egg, brown sugar, vanilla, and salt until smooth. Set aside.
The Darling Dahlias and the Poinsettia Puzzle Page 25