The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

Bessie Bloodworth was looking straight at Miss Rogers, one eyebrow cocked. “This will give us a whole new perspective on you, Dorothy.” Charlie caught the slight emphasis on Dorothy and wondered at it.

Miss Rogers looked straight back. “I should certainly hope so, Bessie.” Another emphasis. Then she smiled. “Isn’t it lovely that we have already agreed to plant all those Confederate roses in the cemetery for Confederate Day?” She pulled in her breath and said tentatively, “Perhaps . . . perhaps we could mention Rose Greenhow at our ceremony?”

“I think we can do better than that,” Bessie replied. “I think the Confederate Rose ought to be the main feature of our program. Liz is organizing the event. I’ll talk to her and see what we can work out.”

Charlie pushed his chair back. “Well, ladies, I’ve interrupted your card game quite long enough.” He tucked Miss Rogers’ papers into the pocket of his jacket. “Thank you for letting me have a look at your pillow, Miss Rogers. I’d like to come back with my camera and photograph it—perhaps tomorrow, if that would suit you. As I said, I do believe you have a national treasure.”

“Yes, by all means, Mr. Dickens.” Miss Rogers touched the pillow with one finger. “A national treasure.” Her voice was soft, as if she were savoring the words. “A secret code, embroidered by my grandmother—my grandmother, the Confederate spy.”

Bessie Bloodworth stood. “Mr. Dickens,” she said firmly, “we have been remiss. We’ve been eating and drinking in front of you, while you told us this marvelous story. Now it’s your turn. You are not leaving here until you’ve had some refreshment. I’ll fix you a plate.”

Miss Rogers got up, too. “And I’ll get another pitcher of lemonade, Bessie.”

*

It was nine thirty by the time Charlie retrieved his unlit cigar from the porch railing, stuck it into his mouth, and walked out onto Camellia Street. The night was pitch-black and there was a distant growl of thunder, with lightning flaring to the west. He could smell the rain coming, the warm, restless scent of damp earth and wet trees, mixed with the sultry fragrance of magnolias and the lighter perfume of honeysuckle and sweet peas and roses that tumbled over the fences along the street.

He picked up his pace. Maybe he should have taken the umbrella that Bessie Bloodworth had offered him. But if he hurried, he could make it home—he rented two large upstairs rooms from Mrs. Beedle, a block north of the courthouse square—before the rain arrived.

The brick sidewalk along Camellia Street was narrow and uneven and there were no streetlights. Seven or eight years ago, in the mid-1920s, Ozzie Sherman had installed a big Delco diesel generator to power his sawmill north of town. Ozzie was a first-class entrepreneur, and before long, he had formed the Sherman Electric Company and talked the Darling town council into a contract to run electricity through the town and install streetlights around the square.

A year or two later, when things were still booming, the council had bought Sherman Electric from Ozzie and added two new Delcos, expanding the electrical system across town. They had made a deal with the county, as well, to run electricity all the way out to the Cypress County Fairgrounds—an important deal, for electricity at the fairgrounds would make it possible to book big events that wanted to operate after dark.

But the money hadn’t held out. After the market crashed and the economic downturn began, the town and the county had run out of cash. Everything had stalled, the county’s road and bridge projects, Darling’s plans, everything. There wouldn’t be any civic improvements in Cypress County for a long time to come, as Charlie had pointed out in his various editorials.

But a streetlight on Camellia would have been an unwelcome intrusion, Charlie thought. The dark was soft and warm and the occasional golden glow from a parlor window spilled out onto the sidewalk, offering enough light so that strollers could avoid the worst of the uneven surface. A few people sat in their porch swings and gliders, listening to radios perched on the sills of open parlor windows, the tips of cigarettes glowing in the dark. Somebody played a guitar, singing along softly.