The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“I suppose that’s true, but that’s not what I was going to say.” Myra May’s eyes were on her now, direct and steady. “What bothers me is the idea that he betrayed her by getting involved with another person. The baby is irrelevant.”


Violet frowned. That was an odd thing for Myra May to say. And that look—what did it mean?

“You really think so?” she asked, puzzled. “I don’t. I think Liz will be mortified, knowing that people are talking about Grady and wondering if she and he had . . . well, you know.” She squared her shoulders. “But whether they did or not is nobody’s business.”

“Well, it’s her friends’ business to make sure she’s all right,” Myra May said tartly. “As soon as Rona Jean comes in, I’m going to go see her.” Rona Jean Hancock was on the switchboard from two to ten, then Nancy Lee would come in for the night shift. When they had first taken over the Exchange, there’d been no nighttime service. But now, people expected to be able to use their telephones around the clock.

“That’s fine,” Violet said. She was about to go back behind the counter when Myra May put a hand on her arm.

“I would be hurt if you got involved with somebody else.” Her voice was low and gruff and her fingers dug into Violet’s arm.

“Hey, don’t!” Violet disengaged Myra May’s fingers. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about, Myra May. I’m not—”

“Just remember,” Myra May said in a warning tone, and dropped her hand. “Just remember.” She turned away to go back into the Exchange office.

Violet stood still, feeling the pressure of Myra May’s fingers on her arm and the disconcerting directness of her gaze. She could be short-tempered and unpredictable, and it sometimes took every ounce of patience Violet possessed to navigate her moods. What was bothering her now?

And then, in a flash, she understood. It was Mr. Duffy. That’s what it was.





SEVEN


Verna Asks Questions



The shower had been over by the time Mr. Duffy drove Verna home after the meeting at the Dispatch office on Monday evening. But he found an umbrella in the back of his Oldsmobile and walked with her to the front door, holding it protectively over her head. Verna thought again how good it felt to have a hand on her elbow and was on the verge of inviting him in for a cup of coffee. But her black Scottie, Clyde, met them at the door and growled so savagely that she abandoned the idea. She apologized for Clyde, but Mr. Duffy only smiled.

“He’s protecting his mistress,” he said, looking down at the little dog. “Clever fellow. Admirable instincts.” For some reason, Clyde seemed to take this as an insult and peppered his growls with sharp, loud barks.

Verna gave up. “Thank you for the ride,” she said, over Clyde’s objections.

With a smile, Mr. Duffy raised his hat. “Entirely my pleasure, I assure you, Mrs. Tidwell. I wonder . . . If I may be so bold, would you like to go to dinner with me some evening?”

“Why, that would be very nice,” Verna said, surprised. Walter had asked her to dinner once or twice, before they were married. But since he had died, no one had bothered. Of course, most of the Darling men were already spoken for, but still—

“Very good.” He smiled again, warmly. “I’ll call you.”

Clyde had stopped barking the moment Verna closed the door. She turned her back and leaned against it, feeling soft and tingly and full of something like wonder, as if she were a teenager who had just come home from her first date, or a plain young woman who had just been told that she’s pretty, or—

Clyde whined plaintively and pawed at her shoe. She bent down and scooped him up, holding him in front of her so she could look into his bright, alert little eyes.