The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

But the discovery of this buried treasure had resulted in a hot debate about what to do with it. Some wanted to keep everything. After all, the silver, the coins, and the jewelry were heirlooms, and all of it was very beautiful. But Earlynne Biddle had pointed out that these were Cartwright heirlooms and every last Cartwright was dead and gone from this earth and in no position to care about heirlooms. Aunt Hetty Little had pointed out that if the Dahlias kept the silver, the Dahlias would have to polish it, since they couldn’t afford a maid to do it for them. And Verna had added that the whole kit and caboodle must be worth a small fortune, and the club needed cash money a whole lot more than it needed heirlooms.

So the Dahlias voted (Mrs. Johnson being the lone dissenter) to sell. Verna and Lizzy took the silver, the gold, and the jewelry to Ettlinger’s Jewelry store in Mobile, where it brought enough to fix the leaky roof and repair the plumbing, with some left over. The Dahlias could now face the autumn rains without fear of flooding, they could flush without fear of overflowing, and their savings account in the Darling Savings and Trust was, if not fat, nicely plump. They called it the “Treasure Fund.”

“It’s hard to believe we’ve accomplished so much in just five months,” Lizzy replied, fanning herself with her hat as they walked around the house toward the front. She felt a justifiable sense of pride. After all, she was president of the club and she’d worked hard to organize the garden project.

“Hot months, too,” Verna said. The Dahlias had held the first meeting in their new clubhouse in May, and the summer months in Alabama are not exactly the most comfortable months for outdoor work. But the Dahlias were not delicate Southern belles—most of them, anyway. When it came to gardening, they didn’t wilt.

Lizzy pushed her brown hair out of her eyes, put her hat back on, and paused, looking at the large empty lot beside the house. The area had once been Mrs. Blackstone’s vegetable garden, with a border of strawberries, two peach trees, and a fig tree in the back. Old Zeke had mowed the weeds for them, but the place still looked straggly and forlorn.

“I’ve been thinking about this area,” she said. “What would you say to turning it back into a vegetable garden—not for just us Dahlias, but for everybody? There are lots of folks in this town who might be willing to trade some garden work for sweet potatoes, carrots, turnips, okra, collards—things that are sure to grow. I’m sure we could get Mr. Norris to bring Racer over and plow the ground early next year.” The name of Mr. Norris’ horse was a joke, because the old bay gelding was slow as blackstrap molasses in January. But he knew what to do when he was hitched to the business end of a plow, and he and Mr. Norris made a few dollars every spring by plowing gardens.

“Good idea,” Verna agreed cautiously, “but what makes you think people will be willing to help? Everybody loves a handout, but when it comes with a rake or hoe attached—” She shrugged.

Lizzy clucked her tongue. “Verna, you are so cynical.”

“Just realistic,” Verna replied with a chuckle. “Comes from working in the county courthouse. Want to see people at their worst? Sit behind my desk for a day or two.”

“Well, the folks who come into Mr. Moseley’s law office don’t win any happiness prizes,” Lizzy retorted. “They only need a lawyer when they’re in really bad trouble.” Mr. Moseley was one of Darling’s three lawyers, and as his secretary, receptionist, and legal assistant, Lizzy had an insider’s view into people’s problems. Unlike Verna, she had an innate sense of compassion and concern and always tried to put herself in the other person’s shoes. “But just because I see the ones who are unhappy or in trouble doesn’t mean that everybody in town is like that,” she added.

“Maybe not,” Verna said, “but at least half of them are. Times are tough. People are scared. They’re hanging on for dear life to their jobs or their farms or whatever. If they don’t have money, they’ll do almost anything to get it. If they have it, they won’t spend an extra nickel.”

“Well, then,” Lizzy said reasonably, “maybe they’ll be willing to work for some fresh food—so they can save their nickels.”

They had come around the front of the house now. Mrs. Blackstone’s prize azaleas, hydrangeas, and weigelas had finished blooming months before, but the Autumn Joy sedum was gorgeous, next to some red spider lilies that looked like a fireworks display. Lizzy smiled, thinking that while jobs and money and food were definitely important—you couldn’t live without them—beauty was important, too. Vegetables could provide a feast for the table, but flowers were a feast for the soul.

“Aren’t those lilies pretty?” Lizzy said admiringly. “Or Lycoris radiata, as Miss Rogers would say.” Miss Rogers, the town librarian and its leading intellectual, always insisted on calling plants by their Latin names, an insistence that drove everybody crazy.