The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star (4 page)

With a frown, Lizzy looked down at her list, wondering if she had reminded Aunt Hetty about the plant. “Aunt Hetty, did I ask you to pot up the Texas Star for the presentation?”

“The
Hibiscus coccineus
,
you mean,” Verna and Mildred said, almost in unison.

“The Texas Star,” said Aunt Hetty firmly. She refused to use Latin names. “Puttin’ on the dog,” she called it—acting as if you were special because you knew a few words that nobody else knew (or could spell), in a language that had been dead since Hector was a pup. “Yes, you asked me, child. And yes, I potted it up, so it’s all ready for you to hand it over to the guest of honor. I promised Mildred I’d bring it over to her house before the party.” She gave Lizzy a kind look. “Now, you stop worryin’ so, Liz. You’re nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs.”

“I can’t help it.” Lizzy sighed. “I’m a natural worrier. And there’s so much to keep track of!” She felt that formless apprehension again, the uneasy conviction that with so much going on, something very serious was sure to go wrong—and this time, the finger of scorn would be pointed at the Dahlias. She looked down at her list again. “Mildred, do you need any volunteers to help you with the party?”

Mildred considered. “Myra May and Euphoria, from the diner, are catering the food. I’ve lined up two colored girls from Darling Academy to serve at the buffet, and a couple of boys to set up dining tables and chairs in the garden. Thanks for asking, Liz, but I think it’s all pretty well organized.” With a delicate laugh, she added, “We’ll be serving sparkling punch, of course—and a little something extra for those who like to imbibe. Roger has charge of that, naturally.” She leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “He usually tells our guests to bring their own corkscrew.”

Verna snorted into her lemonade. Aunt Hetty chuckled. She might be a little old-fashioned, but she had never believed, as she put it, in “prohibitin’ what comes natural. And there’s nothin’ more natural on God’s green earth than good corn whiskey.”

“Mmmm,” Lizzy murmured. Alabama had been officially dry since 1915, and the Volstead Act had taken effect, nationally, in 1919. But Lizzy had noticed that in Darling, there seemed to be even more booze after Prohibition than there had been when Alabama was wet. Judging from what she read in the newspapers, this seemed to be true across the country, too. At a time when ordinary folks were out of work and desperate, moonshiners and bootleggers were big business everywhere. They made sure that anyone who wanted to have a drink could get a bottle or two—even in the South, which, as Will Rogers joked, would keep on voting dry as long as there was anybody sober enough to stagger to the polls.

“Well, then.” Mildred sat back in her chair. “The party is all taken care of, the Odd Fellows are in charge of the carnival, and the air show promises to be a thrilling event. Lizzy has everything under control. And I, for one, intend to sit back, relax, and just have a good time.”

“Oh, yeah?” Verna raised a cynical eyebrow. “It’s been my experience, Mildred, that when everything seems to be under control, that’s just the time when it
isn’t.
When everything just plain goes to hell in a handbasket.”

Lizzy shuddered. “Don’t say that, Verna.” She looked back down at her list, which seemed to have grown longer and more complicated in just the past few minutes. “I can’t bear to think of it.” Or of that shapeless apprehension that was lurking at the back of her mind.

“Oh, but it’s true,” Aunt Hetty said wisely. She patted Lizzy’s hand again. “You have got to stop trying to make everything turn out exactly the way you think it ought to, child. If you don’t, you’ll be crazy as a bedbug.”

Afterward, Lizzy wished that she had paid more attention to Aunt Hetty. But if she had known everything that was going to go wrong before the Watermelon Festival even opened, she might have thrown in the towel at that moment and canceled the whole entire weekend.

Myra May Mosswell reached up and switched off the Philco radio on the shelf behind the counter in the Darling Diner. “In a Shanty in Old Shanty Town,” performed by Ted Lewis and his band, had been at the top of the charts for several weeks and it seemed like WODX, down in Mobile, was playing it every fifteen minutes or so. Every time she heard it, she wondered just what kind of silly fool would actually be ready to give up his palace and go back to that old tumbledown shack next to the railroad track, even if his silver-crowned queen—presumably his mother—was waiting for him. And what kind of man who lived like a king would let his gray-haired old mother live in a little old shack with a roof that slanted down to the ground? It didn’t make a lick of sense.

Myra May herself had been lucky enough
not
to grow up in a shanty. Her daddy had been a prosperous Darling doctor and they had lived in a very nice house. Her mother, Ina Ray, had died when Myra May wasn’t any bigger than a minute—and she hadn’t died at home, either. She had been taken sick on a visit to her parents in Montgomery, where she was buried. Myra May had never even seen her mother’s grave.

Dr. Mosswell, who felt his young wife’s loss very keenly, adamantly refused to speak of her, so Myra May had no secondhand recollections of her mother to comfort her. Nothing except for the gold-framed photograph she kept on the dresser upstairs, a striking young woman in the lacy white shirtwaist and ankle-length gored skirt of the prewar era, holding her baby girl in her arms. Every time Myra May looked at the photograph, she felt an aching emptiness in her heart. Her life would have been so different if her mother had lived to love her, laugh with her, and take care of her. Instead . . .

Instead, Myra May had been brought up like a very proper young Southern lady by her very prim and proper Aunt Belle (whom Myra May irreverently called Auntie Bellum). In spite of this smothery upbringing, she certainly knew what a shanty looked like and smelled like, because there were plenty of them on the other side of the L&N railroad tracks. She also knew that every person of her acquaintance—that is, every man, woman, and child in Darling—would a darn sight rather live in a palace, although in these hard times, they would be happy if they had electricity and indoor plumbing and the rent paid up for the next month.

Myra May glanced around, checking to be sure that everything was in order. It was a half hour past closing time on a Monday evening, and the front door was securely locked. The diner’s lights were off, except for the flickering red neon Coca-Cola sign on the wall over the Dr Pepper clock, which cast moving red shadows across the oilcloth-covered tables. The red-checked curtains had been pulled neatly across the lower half of the front window, the red and gray linoleum was swept clean (and mopped, where Mr. Musgrove, from the hardware store next door, had dropped the catsup bottle), and the red-topped, chrome-plated counter stools were wiped and stowed neatly under the long red linoleum-topped counter. Behind the counter, the coffee urn was waiting for its next-day job. And on the other side of the pass-through window to the kitchen, the cookstove top was clean and ready for Myra May to start the bacon and eggs and fried potatoes at six the next morning, and for Euphoria to come in at nine and start baking her Pie of the Day. Since tomorrow was Tuesday, that would be peanut butter meringue pie, which was a favorite among the noon crowd.

Myra May sighed. That is,
if
Euphoria came in tomorrow, which she might not. She had taken off her apron and gone home sick after this morning’s breakfast—at least, that’s what she’d said, although she didn’t look sick to Myra May. Which left Myra May, Violet, and Earlynne Biddle’s boy Bennie to handle the noon crowd
and
the supper crowd by themselves. Again.

At the back of the diner, the door to the telephone exchange was open and Myra May could hear the low murmur of Nancy Lee McDaniel’s voice as she worked the switchboard. There was a cot with a pillow and a blanket back there, so Nancy Lee or Rona Jean Hancock or Henrietta Conrad—whoever was on overnight duty—could catch forty winks between calls. All three were light sleepers, which was good, because they had to wake up fast when somebody rang the switchboard. After midnight, calls were usually emergencies, either for Doc Roberts (somebody having a baby or one of the old folks sick) or for Sheriff Roy Burns (somebody getting liquored up and using his neighbor’s cow for target practice). And just last Friday, Nancy Lee had fielded a call for Chief Pete Tate of the Darling Volunteer Fire Department. Mr. Looper’s barn was on fire. Resourcefully, Nancy Lee had remembered that Friday night was Chief Tate’s poker night and had overheard (on the exchange, where else?) that this week’s game was in the back room at Musgrove’s Hardware. The chief got the word and Mr. Looper’s barn was saved.

Past the open door to the telephone exchange were the stairs that led up to the flat that Myra May shared with her friend and co-owner, Violet Sims, and their little girl, Cupcake, the sweetheart of Darling. At this very moment, Myra May could hear Violet’s light footsteps over her head as she moved around, putting Cupcake to bed and getting ready to settle down to some needlework (she liked to embroider little things for the baby) or a library book before bedtime. Violet was one of Miss Rogers’ most devoted customers at the Darling Library. She liked to improve her mind.

Myra May took off her apron and hung it on the peg beside the door to the exchange. She was well aware that their upstairs flat was not a luxury penthouse and the diner was by no means the Ritz. That distinction belonged to the Old Alabama Hotel, on the other side of the courthouse square, where guests sat down to dining tables that were all gussied up with white tablecloths, damask napkins, tall candles, and crystal bowls of flowers. And while they enjoyed their tomato frappe, asparagus vinaigrette, filet mignon wrapped in bacon, and maple nut sundae, they could listen to Maude LeVaughn playing tasteful dinner music on the rosewood square grand piano in the hotel lobby. Everybody said that it was all just as elegant as the finest Mobile hotel.

The Old Alabama, however, had recently raised the cost of a meal from seventy-five cents to a dollar, which generally limited the clientele to traveling gentlemen who had come to Darling on an expense account—and there weren’t too many of them, these days. Most Darlingians couldn’t fork over four bits a plate for dinner, even if it did come with flowers, candles, and Maude LeVaughn at the piano.

On the other hand, almost everybody could afford a meal at the Darling Diner. The tables were covered in oilcloth; the paper napkins stood up proud in a shiny metal holder with red Bakelite salt and pepper shakers on either side; and instead of Maude LeVaughn’s keyboard rhapsodies, the Philco behind the counter was likely to be reporting the current price of pork bellies and soybeans or playing Ted Lewis and his “In a Shanty in Old Shanty Town.”

But you could get a plate of fried chicken, meat loaf, or liver and onions, along with sides of boiled cabbage or green beans or okra with fatback and onions, or potato salad and sliced fresh tomatoes, plus all the coffee you could drink. This would set you back just thirty cents, plus ten cents if you wanted a piece of pie—a generous piece, one-sixth of a whole pie instead of the measly one-eighth served over at the hotel.

There were plenty in town who preferred the diner, and not because it was cheap, either. It was on account of Euphoria Hoyt, the colored cook who had come as part of the deal when Myra May and Violet bought the diner and half of the Darling Telephone Exchange from old Mrs. Hooper a couple of years before, and who was famous all across southern Alabama. Euphoria was known not just for her crispy, crusty fried chicken, but also for her pies, especially the ones with meringue on top, which stood up in tantalizing bronzed peaks and swirls and curls all over their chocolate or lemon or banana cream filling. In fact, Euphoria’s reputation was a more important drawing card at the Darling Diner than candles and flowers and Mrs. LeVaughn’s piano music at the Old Alabama Hotel.

But there was a drawback. Euphoria might be one of the best cooks in southern Alabama, but she was also queen of the kitchen, ruler of the roost, and sovereign of the skillet, all rolled into one—and she knew it. She made sure that Myra May and Violet and even Earlynne Biddle’s boy knew it, too. And lately, she had begun acting on her queen-hood, coming in late or going home early, at her royal pleasure.

In fact, today was the third time in the past seven days that Euphoria had taken off her apron and headed out the door, leaving Violet to make the biscuits and Myra May to fry the chicken and bake the meat loaf. The two previous times, Euphoria had shown up right on time the next morning, tying on her apron just as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened the day before. But even though Myra May knew she should sit down and have a serious heart-to-heart with Euphoria about this deplorable behavior, she just couldn’t stiffen herself to the task. Her heart quailed within her. She lacked the courage. While Myra May was tough about a great many things, she was a scaredy-cat when it came to dealing with Euphoria.

And with good reason. If Myra May got feisty about the need to show up and leave on the dot, Euphoria might just up and quit. And that would be a catastrophe, especially since they had agreed to cater the garden party at the Kilgores’ on Friday night. Thirty couples, plus special guests. Myra May wasn’t sure that she and Violet could handle the job alone, without Euphoria.

Without Euphoria.
Myra May pushed this thought away with a shiver. But the burden of worry was like a twenty-pound sack of cornmeal grits on her shoulder as she said good night to Nancy Lee and turned away to climb the stairs. The more she thought about it, the more she feared that they were going to have to find another cook. But where on earth could they find somebody whose fried chicken and meringue pies could hold a candle to Euphoria’s? Not in Darling, that was for darn sure.

Myra May was not going to carry that worry into the flat she shared with Violet and Cupcake, however. When they first bought the diner and agreed to share the upstairs apartment, Violet had made a very strict rule. Except in the case of a dire emergency, like a fire or food poisoning among the customers, they would leave the diner’s business downstairs in the diner and spend their evenings together talking about anything else.

Now, if you happened to glance at Violet’s pretty face, petite figure, and frilly, feminine dresses, you likely would never guess that this young woman had a spine of steel. She also had a very definite way of explaining just how things ought to be done, although she always sweetened it up here and there with a winning smile and “honey” or “darlin’” delivered with a charming Southern accent. Violet might be slight and frilly, but she could work as hard and as long as any man, and at the end of the day, she’d look just as cool and unruffled as she had that morning.

Myra May, on the other hand, had never been anybody’s idea of pretty—or sweet, either. She had a square jaw, a determined mouth, and a long history of tomboy ways. As a girl, she insisted on wearing overalls to play, like the boys in her class at school, and refused ribbons, ruffles, and Mary Janes. No matter how often Auntie Bellum attacked her dark brown hair with the curling iron, it still hung limp and straight—until her friend Beulah scissored it off in a bob that was cool and easy, and that was the end of the curling iron forever. It was the end of dresses, too, for Myra May had taken to wearing trousers, which suited her much better. Poor Aunt Belle (dead now some dozen years) had despaired of her awkward, gawky niece ever finding a husband who would tolerate her straight-shooting, pull-no-punches way of meeting the world.

After high school, Myra May went away to the University of Alabama, where she majored in Domestic Science, minored in Education, and figured out that she lacked the patience to be a teacher and tell kids what to do—or the inclination to marry somebody who would tell
her
what to do. After college, she came back to Darling to take care of her ailing father. After his death, she got a job managing the kitchen at the Old Alabama and then (with Violet) bought the Darling Diner, demonstrating that her bachelor’s degree in Domestic Science had not been a complete waste of time and money after all.

Myra May was on the third step when Nancy Lee called out from the switchboard. “Oh, Miz Mosswell, somebody’s askin’ for you. Do you want to talk to her down here at the board or would you druther I wait and ring you when you get upstairs?”

Myra May turned around and went back down. “Down here,” she said, picking up the other headset and sitting at the switchboard next to Nancy Lee. “If you ring upstairs, it’ll wake Cupcake.”

“Well, we sure wouldn’t want to bother that sweet little thing,” Nancy Lee said, and plugged her in.

Myra May put on the headset. “Hello,” she said.

There was a breathy pause.

“Hello,” Myra May repeated. “Who is this?”

“This is . . . Raylene Riggs,” a soft female voice said. “Am I speakin’ to Miz Mosswell?”