Bent appeared not to have heard him. “From what Liz told me, Alexander dumped the news on her on Monday night, when she thought they were going to the movies. There was no warning at all, not a single word. It came like a lightning bolt out of a clear blue sky. She had no idea he’d even been seeing anybody else, much less—” His voice was flat and hard as a board. “I reckon you know why they’re getting married.”
“I can guess,” Charlie said. “And so can everybody else in town.”
“Which makes it that much worse for her. Fellow that does something like that—lets a good woman down that way—is the worst kind of rat.” Bent lowered his head and shook it savagely, like a bull about to wheel on a matador. “Oughta be taken out and horsewhipped.”
“Yeah,” Charlie said. The thought of Fannie Champaign stabbed through him and he closed his eyes against the piercing pain. “Horsewhipped.”
ELEVEN
THE GARDEN GATE
BY ELIZABETH LACY
Last Saturday, a group of Darling Dahlias met in the clubhouse to put up rhubarb and rhubarb sauce. (Thanks to Mildred Kilgore, who brought it all the way from Tennessee.) Aunt Hetty Little, Verna Tidwell, Earlynne Biddle, Bessie Bloodworth, and your correspondent used the two new 23-quart pressure canners the Dahlias bought with the proceeds from their vegetable sales, and canning jars donated by fellow club members. The Darling Diner is buying a dozen jars so Raylene Riggs can bake some strawberry-rhubarb pies, so Violet Sims says to watch the menu board. We gave the rest of canned rhubarb to the Darling Ladies Guild, which will distribute it. But we’d like our jars back, so we can use them again. If you are a rhubarb recipient, please drop off your jar (washed, please!) on the front porch at the clubhouse, at 302 Camellia Street. You can keep the lid.
At our recent club meeting, Bessie Bloodworth took all the Dahlias out in the garden and gave us a demonstration of proper pruning. She showed us how to pinch the shoot tips of petunias, zinnias, and marigolds to get a nice bushy growth, and how to shear the alyssum and lobelia after they’ve flowered, to trick them into flowering again. She reminded us that we should prune all our spring-flowering shrubs as the flowers fade, for better flowering next spring, and then put us to work on the azaleas, which needed quite a bit of attention. Did you know there are some “self-cleaning” flowers that will drop their dead blooms all by themselves? These accommodating plants include ageratum, cleome, and impatiens. Alice Ann Walker says she doesn’t have a lot of time for deadheading, so maybe she’ll plant her entire garden with them.
Miss Rogers, Darling’s devoted librarian and noted plant historian, gave a lecture at the Ladies Guild last month on the uncommon names of some of the common plants we grow in our gardens. For example, Miss Rogers says that the name of Lunaria annua comes from the Latin luna, or moon, which refers to the round, silvery seed pods. In olden times, this plant was thought to have magical properties, such as being able to unshoe horses that stepped on it. Some old-timers thought it brought bad luck and wouldn’t have it in their gardens, while others thought it brought abundance and good luck and planted lots of it. Lunaria (which belongs to the cabbage family) is also called moonwort, moonshine, silver plate, silver pennies, silver dollars, money-in-both-pockets, and pennies-in-a-purse. People who think it’s bad luck call it the Devil’s halfpence and the Judas coin (referring to the thirty pieces of silver Judas was given to betray Jesus). Most of us, though, call it honesty. Miss Rogers says nobody knows exactly why, but maybe it’s because the seed pods are so transparent that you can see through them to the seeds inside, which makes as much sense as any other explanation.
Aunt Hetty Little took a group of Darling children out to harvest spring greens. She reports that they found plenty of watercress, poke, lamb’s quarters, sheep sorrel, dock, and dandelion. She says she likes to do this every year so the next generation will know that the Creator has planted a garden for us and we need to learn how to harvest it. She gave all the children a handwritten copy of her recipe for spring greens, so they could go home and teach their mothers how to cook what they gathered.
Earlynne Biddle reports that she went out to the cemetery to put flowers on her in-laws’ plot and noticed that the Confederate roses our club planted along the fence are doing very well. (Miss Rogers says to remind you that, whatever people may tell you, the Confederate rose is not a rose. It is a hibiscus. In fact, it is Hibiscus mutabilis, so called because the blossom changes color during the day, from white to pink to red.) Earlynne says she’ll be glad to pull up the weeds around the plants and put down some mulch. If you would like to help, phone her at 355, evenings and weekends only. Daytimes, she’s helping her husband, Henry, out at the Coca-Cola bottling plant.
Mildred Kilgore is also working these days, at Kilgore Motors. But she and her Make Darling Beautiful committee have made time to plan the new quilt garden that the Dahlias will be installing on the courthouse lawn. Mildred says they decided to start with something simple and geometric, so they chose a log cabin design. As you quilters know, log cabin patterns usually begin with a square in the middle, with rectangles arranged on each side of the square, varying light and dark fabrics. The garden will have the same design, with red, yellow, blue, and white. Members of the committee have already started growing the plants, which will be ready to move to the garden in just about three weeks. Mildred is growing red celosia, Raylene Riggs (who is coincidentally living out at Marigold Court) has yellow marigolds, Beulah Trivette has planted white begonias, and Lucy Murphy is responsible for blue ageratum. Extra plants will be put around the flagpoles.
Bessie Bloodworth is in charge of this year’s vegetable garden, in the big empty lot next door to the Dahlias’ clubhouse at the corner of Rosemont and Camellia. Mr. Norris and Racer plowed the garden last month and peas, beans, and salad greens are already planted. Next weekend, we’ll be planting corn, cucumbers, and southern peas. Call Bessie at the Magnolia Manor if you have a few hours to share and she will put you to work. You do NOT have to be a Dahlia to volunteer! This is a community project. All the food will be given away to those who can use it. So thank you for being generous with your time.
The Dahlia Blackstone Garden (named for our club’s illustrious founder) will be open during the Darling Dahlias Garden Tour the second week of June. Fannie Champaign (recently returned from a stay in Atlanta) and Verna Tidwell are coordinating this year’s tour. If you’d like to add your garden to the list, just call the county clerk’s office and ask for Verna, or drop in at Champaign’s Darling Chapeaux on the courthouse square. Verna says that if your garden is in the tour and you don’t want folks to pick your pretty flowers, be sure to put up some signs. We’ve had complaints about flower-pickers in the past, so forewarned is forearmed.
TWELVE
Verna Is on the Case
After Rona Jean had told her about Fannie’s surprising outburst of tears following her movie date with Alvin Duffy, Verna had given some thought to the next step in her campaign to learn the whole truth about the mysterious new president of the Darling Savings and Trust. She already suspected that the man was up to no good. The sooner she found out exactly what he was planning, the better.
Of course, she reminded herself, Fannie might not be willing to talk about Mr. Duffy, and she would have to respect that. But if there was something between them, it would be good to know what it was before she got back in touch with Ima Gail in New Orleans for the next step in her investigation.
And she had a good excuse for dropping in on Fannie. The two of them were responsible for the upcoming Dahlias Garden Tour, and she had a list of organizational details that they needed to iron out. At some point, she thought, she would try to work Mr. Duffy into the conversation and see what developed.
So on Wednesday, Verna took off a few minutes early at lunchtime and walked across the street to Champaign’s Darling Chapeaux, on the west side of Rosemont. The hat shop, which had been closed while Fanni
e was in Atlanta, was small but very pretty inside, like a tiny jewel box. One wall held shelves and shelves of Fannie’s beautiful creations, romantic, floppy-brimmed concoctions ornamented with clouds of tulle and bouquets of silk flowers laced with satin ribbons. Most of Fannie’s hats were like those worn by nineteenth-century Southern ladies, rather than the sleek, smart, head-hugging felt cloches that were all the rage in New York and Paris. The Darling ladies loved the fanciful hats, and so did the Darling men, including Charlie Dickens, that crusty curmudgeon, who had once been heard to say that a lady’s hat should make her look like a lady, not like a German artillery officer.
Some of Fannie’s millinery confections were displayed on hatstands in the white-curtained window, others on tall hat racks, others simply stacked on the shelves. Against the far wall, under a large, gilt-framed mirror, stood a small table and boudoir chair, both skirted in white organza. There, milady could try on one hat after another until she found exactly what she was looking for—which could take quite a while, given the wide selection. Shelves on the third wall held bolts of tulle and silk organza and veiling, along with trays of gold and silver ornaments, clear glass bowls displaying bouquets of silk flowers and coils of colored ribbons, and vases filled with fantastic feathers of all colors and sizes, from frothy ostrich feathers down to the tiniest yellow canary feather. Even though they didn’t have much money to spend on hats, every Darling woman thought that Champaign’s Chapeaux was a magical place and they loved to pop in. Still, everyone wondered (privately or to their friends, but never of course to Fannie) how a milliner managed to stay in business in such a small town. The Depression had already closed two hat shops in the much larger city of Montgomery. Fannie’s survival was a mystery.
Verna herself was not fond of fanciful hats—they made her feel like a vaudeville impersonator. She didn’t like cloches, either, so she was in the habit of going bareheaded. But before Fannie went off to Atlanta, she had made a très chic blue felt beret for Verna, and she was wearing it today. It went perfectly with her cream-colored blouse and trim gray jacket and skirt.
When Verna opened the door and stepped into the shop, she saw Fannie at her workstation, sewing an ostrich feather on a wide-brimmed white straw hat. She was not a conventionally pretty woman, but Verna thought she looked quite lovely just now, with the light from the front window brushing her cheek and softly tangling in her curly russet-brown hair. She wore a simple dress of pale yellow dotted swiss, with cap sleeves and a white Peter Pan collar. It made her look young and vulnerable.
“Verna!” Fannie exclaimed, laying her work aside. “It’s so good to see you again!” She jumped up and gave Verna an impulsive hug. “I’ve missed you! And I love the way you look in that blue beret!”
That was Fannie, quick and affectionate and at the same time shy and modest, in a fetching, old-fashioned way. Somehow, Verna couldn’t quite square what she knew of her friend with Rona Jean’s report that Fannie had wanted Alvin Duffy to kiss her and then cried her heart out when he hadn’t. Had Fannie’s months in Atlanta changed her?
“I like the way it looks, too,” Verna said. “And I’ve missed you, Fannie. It’s awfully good to have you back in town. Listen, if you have a moment, I wonder if we could look over this list of things that need to be done for the garden tour?” She took the list out of her purse.
“Of course.” Fannie reached up and pull Verna’s beret off her head. “But before we do that, let me show you something. I was thinking of you as I put this together.”
She turned and took down a red-and-gray-tweed newsboy-style hat from a hatstand on the shelf. “It’s perfect for you, Verna, especially with your new hairstyle. And it doesn’t need any trimming at all. With this style, plain is better. Here—sit down and try it on.”
When Verna sat down in front of the mirror, she discovered that Fannie’s newsboy hat was, indeed, just perfect for her. It made her feel dashing and adventuresome, quite unlike her usual practical, no-nonsense self—and not at all like a vaudeville impersonator. She picked up the gold hand mirror and turned this way and that, admiring it.
“It’s smashing!” she said excitedly. “I have to have it! How much?”
“How about a dollar fifty?”
Verna rolled her eyes. “Fannie, you never charge enough for your work.” She opened her pocketbook and took out two dollars. “Here—and I still think I’m getting a bargain.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Fannie said seriously.
“Yes, I do,” Verna said. She looked at herself in the mirror again. “I think I’ll wear it. With this gray jacket, I like red even better than blue.”
“I’ll put your beret in a bag for you,” Fannie offered.
“Thanks. And I need your help with this.” Verna handed her to-do list to Fannie, and they spent the next few minutes looking it over, with Fannie making suggestions and Verna scribbling quick notes.
When they were finished, Verna tucked the list away and said, offhandedly, “Oh, there’s something else, if you have just a moment.”
Fannie handed her the bag containing her blue beret. “What is it?”
Verna took a breath. “I understand that you and Mr. Duffy are . . . friends.”
“The Darling grapevine at work,” Fannie said with a fatalistic sigh. “Nothing in this town escapes notice, does it?”
“Well, are you?” Verna pressed.
Fannie gave her a straight look. “Acquaintances is a better word. I ran into him at the movie the other night. We sat together during the show and he walked me back to Mrs. Brewster’s. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m staying there until I can get into my flat. Miss Richards is supposed to have it until June, but I think she may be moving out early.” She made a face. “I hope so, anyway. Mrs. Brewster’s is like a prison. I would have much preferred to go to the Magnolia Manor, but all Bessie’s rooms are taken.” She raised one eyebrow. “So why are you asking about Mr. Duffy?”
Verna met her eyes. “Because one of the girls who lives on your floor saw you say good night to him. And then she heard you crying. She put two and two together and thought you might be upset because of something Mr. Duffy said.” Verna didn’t mention the missed kiss, which Rona Jean might or might not have interpreted correctly. And she didn’t mention Rona Jean’s name, not wanting to get her into trouble.
“The girl added wrong,” Fannie said tartly. “I do confess to crying, though. I stayed away until I thought I was over him and I could safely come back. But now I—” She threw up her hands. “Yes, I was crying, Verna. I’m afraid I do too much of that.”
“But not about Mr. Duffy?” Verna asked in surprise. Rona Jean had been mistaken.
“No, of course not. Why would I cry over him? I barely know the man. In fact, when we said good night, he asked me out to dinner. I thought it would be an agreeable thing to do—and Mr. Duffy certainly seems like a perfect Southern gentleman. I was about to say yes, but when I opened my mouth, I heard myself saying no.”
A perfect gentleman? Verna was jolted. That assessment didn’t fit the picture of Mr. Duffy she had been drawing in her mind.
“But if you thought it would be an agreeable thing to go to dinner,” she asked, “why did you say no?”
Fannie sighed. “Because I suddenly realized I was still in love with . . .” She bit her lip and turned her face away.
“With . . .” Verna prompted. Was it someone Fannie had met in Atlanta? Myra May had said something about a broken engagement. Or was it—
“With Charlie Dickens.” Fannie turned back, her eyes filled with tears. “I know I should be mature enough to forget about him, Verna, but I can’t. I’m sure you heard what happened last summer. I thought that Charlie and I . . . well, that he was serious about me. But I did something very foolish. I told somebody that we planned to be married. It was wishful thinking more than anything else, I suppose, but it got all over tow
n. And then I found out I wasn’t the only woman in his life. He was already involved with Lily Dare, the aviatrix.”
“Oh, I don’t think—” Verna began, but Fannie cut her off.
“No, no, it’s true,” she said emphatically. “He told me so. I’m sure you remember when she was in town to do that air show. He made it very clear that they would spend that time together. It hurt too much to see him—or to see them—so I decided to go to Atlanta and stay with my cousin for a while. She has a dress shop there, and I knew there would be a market for my hats—there, and in Miami, where my sister has a shop. I expected that by the time I came back, I could start all over again, fresh. But I can’t.” She swallowed hard. “I still—”
She broke down and began to sob.
Verna put her arms around Fannie and they stood close together, Verna feeling a jumble of emotions, sadness for Fannie and guilt for her own foolishness. She had been too quick to leap to the wrong conclusion, based on Rona Jean’s faulty information. After a moment, she dropped her arms and stepped back.
“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly. “Have you tried to talk to Mr. Dickens since you got back?”
“No, of course not.” Fannie shook her head vehemently. “I’m too embarrassed. I know I made a fool of myself. And after Lily Dare—” She gulped. “Anyway, it’s no use. He made that perfectly clear when he told me about her. I even thought of staying in Atlanta, of not coming back to Darling at all. But I love my little shop. And I have friends here—you and Liz and Myra May and the others. The Dahlias are my family. And Darling feels like home.” Her voice dropped so low that Verna almost missed the last few words. “The only home I have.”
But Verna heard the pain in Fannie’s voice and thought of the way Charlie Dickens had looked since she left, as if he had lost his last friend, or lost his way in a forest of regrets. She knew she ought to speak.
The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush Page 20