The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

But he was also uncomfortably aware that if Mr. Johnson had lived, it would have been a very different story. The man would have been blamed for what was happening with the bank. He wouldn’t have been Darling’s hero. He would have been Darling’s scapegoat. Now, he—Alvin Duffy—would play that role.

Mrs. Peters left the room, still sniffling, and Al sat down at the desk, taking stock. It was a grave situation, and any way you looked at it, he thought, he had pretty much exhausted his options. The Florida bank he’d been talking to—the last one on his list of possible purchasers—had turned him down, even at the rock-bottom price Delta Charter was asking. Today was Wednesday. He had until Friday to come up with somebody who was willing to buy half the shares in the bank. If he couldn’t, the Darling Savings and Trust would be closed, permanently. It would be his responsibility to do the dirty work here: clean up the bank records, sell off the furnishings, discharge the staff, and put the bank building itself up for sale—although he knew, realistically speaking, that it was likely to be years before the building found a buyer. Empty bank buildings stood on the Main Streets of half the towns in the country. Ghosts of a prosperous past, relics of an affluent era, they would be standing, vacant and neglected, for a very long time.

And he? What would he do? He was no longer the golden boy at Delta Charter—anyway, he didn’t want to go back to the city. After the deaths of his first wife and his son and the betrayals by his second wife and his friend, New Orleans held no pleasure for him. He was ready for a new life, a new start, in a quiet little town like Darling, where wives and husbands honored their vows and friends did not betray friends.

Sadly, that town wasn’t going to be Darling. He would stay for a week or so to see the Darling Dollar program implemented and make sure that people understood how it operated. But his work here was finished. He would have to find a new town and a new employer. Regretfully, he thought of that pretty woman in the red newsboy cap, who had sharp eyes and a quick wit and asked intelligent questions. He’d have to find new friends.

But enough of that. He picked up his pencil and pulled a stack of papers toward him. The sooner he finished up this stuff, the sooner he could be on his way. The prospect didn’t cheer him.

He was still working when the telephone on his desk rang. It was Bent Moseley, who got right down to the point. “You’ve heard that George Johnson died?”

“Yes. Bad news,” Al said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m sorry, Moseley. He was a good man in a tough situation.”

“Exactly. Well, to make it short, I’ve been discussing your predicament—the bank’s predicament, that is—with George’s widow. Her main purpose in urging her husband to sell the bank was to get the management load off his back. She was convinced it was wrecking his health.”

“Sounds like she was right,” Al said, “although I never would have guessed it to look at him.”

“Agreed. Anyway, I’ve told her the situation, and she agrees that Darling could be in for a very difficult time. Bottom line: now that he’s gone, she’s willing to buy back twenty-five percent of the bank shares at the same price George sold for—if you can find a buyer for the other twenty-five percent.”

“That’s good news.” Al made an effort to sound genuinely pleased. “Be sure and thank her for me, will you? Her offer makes it a little easier. But I have to say that I’ve scraped the bottom of my barrel. If there’s somebody out there willing to do this, I haven’t met him yet. If you have any ideas—”

“I’ll keep thinking,” Mr. Moseley said. “Good luck.”