The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

Verna could see that the men were going to be at it hammer and tongs the whole night long. So she picked up her pocketbook and stood up.

“If the meeting is adjourned, gentlemen,” she said, “I have other things to do.” To Mr. Tombull, she added, “I trust that the county commissioners will do what has to be done to formally authorize the use of scrip for the payroll.”

“Oh, you bet,” Mr. Tombull said with enthusiasm. “We got a meeting tonight, to do just that. You don’t have to come,” he added hastily. “I’ll tell ’em that you’re on board with this.”

Verna nodded. To Mr. Duffy, she said, “And I assume that someone will deliver sufficient scrip to my office in time for Friday’s payroll.”

Mr. Duffy had risen, too. “I’ll bring it myself,” he said gallantly, and smiled at Verna. She noticed that his eyes were gray, and that when he smiled, there were dimples in either cheek. He did not look like a stuffed shirt when he smiled.

Verna’s rising seemed to signal the end of the meeting, and all the men stood up. Charlie took another swig from his bottle, Mr. Tombull and Jed continued their disagreement, and Mr. Moseley began to empty out his pipe. Mr. Duffy put his hand on Verna’s elbow and escorted her to the door.

“I want to thank you for being so cooperative,” he said, opening the door for her. “You’re showing the others how this can be done. Your example will get the program off to a good start.” His glance and the almost intimate tone of his voice made them colleagues, as if they were somehow united against an opposing force. “A great many people are going to find this hard to accept. Your part in it may actually make the difference between the success and failure of the program.”

“I’m glad to help,” Verna said, and was absurdly glad that she had thought to put on that red lipstick.

They were outside now, on the sidewalk, and the courthouse clock was striking six, startling the flock of gray pigeons roosting in the tower. Verna glanced up at the sky. It had clouded over completely, a thick, threatening blue-gray. The breeze from the south was stronger now, and old Hezekiah came hurrying out the courthouse’s basement door to take down the flag.

“It’s looking like rain,” Mr. Duffy said. “My car is parked in front of the bank. May I drop you somewhere?”

Verna was unexpectedly tempted. She remembered what Myra May had said about Mr. Duffy being “slick,” whatever that meant, but she had seen nothing during the meeting that gave her any special apprehension. She lived only a few blocks away, down Robert E. Lee, and she always looked forward to walking home from work, passing in front of the familiar houses and yards, enjoying the flowers and the neighborhood children who played in the street. But that dark sky was certainly ominous. And she hadn’t failed to notice that Mr. Duffy’s hand on her elbow felt surprisingly natural and pleasantly protective, although of course there was nobody on Darling’s courthouse square or the surrounding streets that she needed protection from. Still, with Myra May’s caution in mind, she resisted the temptation.

“It’s not far,” she said. “If I hurry, I can beat the rain.”

But just at that moment, like a signal from the heavens above, there was a blinding flash of lightning and a sharp crack of thunder, and without thinking, she flinched and turned her head toward Mr. Duffy’s shoulder.

He tightened his grip on her elbow. “That settles it,” he said authoritatively. “I am driving you home. And if Mr. Tidwell objects, I’ll be glad to explain to him that I refused to allow his wife to get drenched—or struck by lightning. So come along, please. I’m not in the habit of taking no for an answer.”