The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

Verna opened her mouth to object and found that she had no objection, especially since it really was beginning to rain. Moving swiftly, with long, emphatic strides, Mr. Duffy steered her along the sidewalk in the direction of the bank, and Verna had to run to keep up with him.

“There is no Mr. Tidwell,” she half gasped as they crossed the street at the corner. She wasn’t certain whether her breathlessness was caused by their fast pace or by . . . something else. Something entirely new and utterly astonishing.

“I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “That was thoughtless of me. I should have asked. I didn’t think—” He stopped beside a 1932 four-door Oldsmobile, painted an elegant maroon with shiny black fenders and polished chrome bumpers and trim. “Here we are,” he said, and opened the passenger door.

Another lightning flash and almost simultaneous thunderclap startled them both and Verna quickly slipped inside. The rain was coming down quite hard now, and he slammed the door and ran around the car to the driver’s side.

“I am truly sorry,” he said again, sliding under the wheel. He brushed the raindrops out of his hair and put the key in the ignition, giving her a sidelong glance. “You’re widowed?” He hesitated imperceptibly. “Divorced?”

“I’m a widow,” Verna said, meeting his eyes. “And there’s no need to apologize, really. It was a long time ago. I’ve had plenty of time to get used to it.”

Mr. Duffy looked at her for a long moment. “I don’t understand why.” Sounding half amused, he added, as if to himself, “These local fellows—what’s wrong with them? They haven’t got eyes?”

Verna felt herself coloring. And for once in her life, she couldn’t think of a single word to say.





FIVE


Lizzy’s Life Changes—Forever



The old-fashioned grandfather clock struck six and Elizabeth Lacy looked up from her Underwood typewriter, startled. She had been concentrating so hard on her typing that she had lost all track of time. It really was not six, though. She always set the clock exactly seven minutes fast so Mr. Moseley (who was inclined to be late for almost every appointment) wouldn’t be late for hearings in the courthouse across the street.

She finished the last page of the brief she was working on and pulled it out of the typewriter. Mr. Moseley would need it for tomorrow morning’s hearing before Judge McHenry, where he was representing Silas Ford. Poor Mr. Ford had lost his right hand in a sawmill accident and was trying to get Ozzie Sherman—the owner of the Pine Mill Creek Sawmill—to pay his medical expenses. Mr. Moseley was arguing that the accident was really Mr. Sherman’s fault, since he had known for weeks that the saw’s cutoff switch was faulty and hadn’t bothered to get it fixed.

Mr. Sherman, on the other hand (represented by that old windbag George Lukens), was arguing that Silas Ford hadn’t paid attention to the CAUTION sign posted over the switch, which announced in big red letters that there was a problem with it and anybody who used it should be careful. The best thing, of course, would have been workmen’s compensation, but Mr. Ford (according to Mr. Sherman) was a self-employed contractor. That was true for most of the men who worked at the sawmill, which Mr. Moseley said was cheating—a dishonest way for Ozzie Sherman to use a loophole in the law to avoid paying money into the workmen’s compensation system. Mr. Moseley said it was wrong of Ozzie Sherman to get around the law that way. “Trying to figure some folks out is like guessing at the direction of a rat hole underground,” he said, and shook his head in disgust.