The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

All of this repair and refurbishment went on while Lizzy was at work. When she came home every evening, her mother couldn’t wait to tell her in great detail what had been done during the day. The entire neighborhood was buzzing with curiosity, for no one except Verna (who had recorded the deed but was sworn to secrecy) had the slightest idea of who had bought the old Flagg house and was fixing it up. Not even Mr. Manning could provide a clue, which was nearly driving him crazy. It was a huge mystery.

All through that summer, the house was her mother’s most significant topic of conversation. It had to’ve been bought by somebody from out of town, Mrs. Lacy decided—one of Mr. Flagg’s large family of cousins, or somebody who had visited the house years before and liked it. But why hadn’t the buyer come to see the work that was being done? And why wouldn’t Mr. Moseley say a word—not a single, solitary word—about the purchaser? People had asked him, several times, and he had refused. Why? Why? Why?

All these questions were answered on the day the work was finally finished. Lizzy came home one evening bringing the key. She invited her mother to go with her across the street to see the house. This was natural enough, since Mr. Moseley had handled the Flagg estate, and Lizzy worked for him. Her mother was delighted to be let in on the process. They walked all through the house and yard, Mrs. Lacy oohing and ahhing over everything and expressing her delight at the renovations and her continuing puzzlement at who in the world could have done all this.

They were standing in the new kitchen, admiring the Monitor refrigerator, when Lizzy told her mother that it was her house, and that she herself would be moving into it that very week. And yes, that sweet, affectionate orange tabby cat sitting comfortably on the windowsill, beside the pot of African violets, was her cat. Both were gifts from Aunt Hetty Little, who always had cats and African violets to spare. The tabby’s name was Daffodil—Daffy, for short.

Her mother was so flabbergasted that it took a moment for the news to sink in. But when it did, she was mightily offended. There were tears and surprisingly loud recriminations, given the fact that the kitchen window was open and a Southern lady (Mrs. Lacy was a Southern lady to the core) rarely raised her voice, at least not loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

But she had a right to raise her voice over this issue, didn’t she? In Mrs. Lacy’s generation, marriage was the only reason a woman ever left her mother’s house, so she had happily embraced the notion that her spinster daughter—now past marriageable age—would never leave her, and would always be available to be managed. And now this! She (Mrs. Lacy) had devoted her whole life to Elizabeth, and how was she to be repaid? Why, by thanklessness and ingratitude, that’s how!

Well, Elizabeth could just sell the house—that’s what she could do. Now that it was fixed up so nice and furnished and all, and especially with that refrigerator, it would sell in a jiffy, and at a tidy profit. Or maybe it would be better to move the refrigerator across the street. Yes, that’s what they should do. Sell the house, but keep the refrigerator. And the kitchen range, too. And if it didn’t sell, Elizabeth could rent it. Why, just think of the income! They could afford to take a trip—go to Atlanta and see the sights, or add a room to Mrs. Lacy’s house. They could do great things with the income the house would bring in every month!

But Lizzy’s spine had become unexpectedly stiff. She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and pointed out that she had been employed in Mr. Moseley’s law office for fifteen years, during which time she had managed to save a tidy little nest egg, enough to move to—say—Montgomery or Mobile, where she could find a job in another law office without any difficulty at all.

So if her mother preferred that she sell the house, she would do so—and then begin looking for a new job elsewhere. Or she could stay right here in Darling and live in her own little house just across the street and look in on her mother every day to make sure that Sally-Lou was doing a good job. (Sally-Lou was the colored woman who lived in and did Mrs. Lacy’s cooking and housekeeping, allowing her mistress to live like a Southern lady.) There had been a few more tears, of course, but that was pretty much the end of it. Mrs. Lacy saw the wisdom of Lizzy’s proposal—or pretended to, anyway. Lizzy and Sally had carried Lizzy’s clothes and things across the street, and Lizzy had settled into her new home more happily than she could ever have imagined. Even today, two years later, she was filled with a very deep joy as she walked up the porch steps.

Her home. Her very own house and garden.

And there, by the door, was the present from Grady: a Mason jar filled with water and the cutting he had promised her from one of the farms that he visited in his job as county agriculture agent. It was already beginning to put out white roots and begging to be transplanted into her garden so it could settle in and start to grow tall and strong. It was a Confederate rose.





FIVE





THE GARDEN GATE


By MISS ELIZABETH LACY

FRIDAY, MAY 16, 1930, DARLING DISPATCH