The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

And now he had reached the path to Fannie’s shop. He took the two steps up to the narrow porch in a single bound, flung the door open so hard that it banged against the wall, strode inside, and stopped, suddenly aware that he must look like a wild man, not like a suitor coming to plead his case and seek forgiveness.

Fannie was standing on tiptoes at a shelf at the back of the shop, reaching over her head to take down a bolt of red velvet ribbon. Startled, she turned when she heard the door slam violently. She was dressed in something soft and yellow that curved over her bosom and slim hips and flowed with her movement. Seeing Charlie—collar askew, tie undone, hair uncombed—her eyes widened, her lips parted, and the ribbon dropped from her fingers and curled around her ankles.

“Mr. Dickens!” Her voice was urgent, alarmed. “Charlie, what’s wrong? Is something the matter? Are you ill? Are you—”

“Fannie!” In two steps he had reached her and captured both her hands. “Fannie, I—Fannie, I love you. I love you and I am so very sorry. I am an absolute idiot, a scoundrel, a rascal, a liar. There was nothing between Lily Dare and me, not one kiss, not a single embrace, barely a handshake. I made it all up, every last bit of it, out of nothing but pure orneriness and spite. I desperately want to make amends. Can you . . . will you please forgive me? Please, Fannie, I beg you!”

But he knew from the sudden light in her eyes that there was no need to beg. And when his arms went around her and he pulled her against him, she came so willingly, so eagerly, that every last, lingering doubt was dispelled.





FOURTEEN


Mr. Moseley Makes an Offer



After Benton Moseley had tipped his hat to Verna Tidwell at the front door of the Dispatch, he turned and climbed the outside stairs to his law office. He found Elizabeth Lacy at her typewriter, the keys clattering, as usual, at her impossibly fast pace. She was wearing a white dress printed with pink flowers, the sleeves and the collar edged in lace, and her brown hair was tied back with a pink ribbon.

She looked as fresh and pretty as she always did, Bent thought with no little admiration, not at all like a woman whose fiancé—or the closest thing to it—had recently announced that he was marrying someone else. But then Liz had always surprised him with her ability to weather the storms in her personal life—the disagreements with her mother, for instance, who was a holy terror. She probably thought he hadn’t noticed her effort to keep things in the office calm and unruffled, but he had, and appreciated it.

She glanced up from her work. “I’m on the very last page of this document, Mr. Moseley. I’ll have it for you in just a few minutes.”

“I don’t need it until tomorrow,” Bent said, “so there’s no hurry.” He hung his gray fedora on the rack beside the door and shrugged out of his suit jacket. “Phone calls?”

“Two.” She stopped typing and consulted a notebook. “Mr. Farr, in the Birmingham federal office. He said to tell you that he is, and I quote, ‘hauling Agent Kinnard back to Birmingham for a full review. He’s got to stop shooting people.’” She shook her head sadly. “That poor boy. What an awful thing to happen. He was just fifteen. Repeal can’t come too soon, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Repeal isn’t going to put a stop to the moonshine business,” Bent said. “But I am glad to hear that Farr is on it.” He took his pipe out of his pocket and hung the jacket on the rack beside his hat. “Maybe they’ll finally put Kinnard on a short leash. What was the other call?”

“Mrs. Manchester in Judge McHenry’s office said to forget about trying to get Mickey LeDoux and Tom-Boy released to go to the boy’s funeral. She said that the judge put his foot down, hard.”