The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“That was nice,” Verna said. “Giving his buttermilk pie to Mrs. Jenkins.” Raylene’s buttermilk pie, which had a spoonful of whiskey in it, was a specialty; giving it away required a serious sense of generosity.

“Baby’s quit working out at Mickey’s moonshine operation,” Myra May added with a chuckle. “His mother says he’s got religion. He’s decided to do work that the Lord won’t frown at. And she thinks he’ll have more of a social life, working in town.”

“She’s probably right about that,” Verna replied. “I know the Lord worked miracles with loaves and fishes, but I doubt He’s up to sending Baby a girlfriend out there in the woods.” She paused. “If he’s looking for work, I might be able to use him for a few hours. We’re moving files to the courthouse basement, and some of the boxes are too heavy for Melba Jean and Sherrie. Too heavy for poor old Hezekiah, too. He can push a broom and run the flag up and down, but that’s about it.”

“Ask him,” Myra May urged. “He’ll probably jump at the chance, especially if you can manage to pay him cash money. We can’t—at least, not this week.”

“I’m short on cash,” Verna said, “but it looks like I’ll have plenty of scrip—for whatever that’s worth.” She frowned. “Before he came in, you were saying that Liz is having a bad time. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is Grady Alexander,” Myra May replied. “You’ve heard about him and his bride-to-be, I suppose.”

“What?” Shocked, Verna felt her mouth drop open. “Our Liz is getting married? So that’s why she skipped work today! But when I talked to her, she didn’t sound very happy. And why didn’t she tell me? I wonder why—”

“It’s not Liz who’s getting married.” Myra May pulled a pointed metal nail file out of her coverall pocket. “It’s Grady. To Archie Mann’s niece, Baby’s cousin. Sandra, her name is. She’s barely twenty, and Grady’s what—thirty-five? I’ve never seen her, but she’s supposed to be very pretty.”

Verna was dumbfounded. “But . . . but . . . what about Liz?” she sputtered. “Why, she and Grady have been going together forever!”

“That was then. This is now. The wedding’s on Saturday, over at Rocky Bottom.”

“So soon?” Verna brooded over that. And then she understood. “Oh,” she said. “Of course. Oh, poor Liz!”

“Yeah. Poor Liz.” Glumly, Myra May sloshed the spark plugs in the can. She fished one out and began to scrape a gritty sludge off the threads. She obviously knew what she was doing. “Men are so cruel.”

“What a jerk!” Verna muttered. “Somebody ought to—” She stopped. She was too much of a lady to say out loud what she thought somebody ought to do to Grady Alexander. But she was thinking it.

“My sentiments exactly,” Myra May said. She picked up a small wire brush and began brushing the spark plug energetically.

“Poor, poor Liz,” Verna said again. “I wonder how she found out.”

“I hope to God it was Grady who told her—if he was man enough.” Myra May dunked the spark plug in the gasoline again and wiped it off with a clean rag. “I heard it on the switchboard after lunch and went to her office to see if there was anything I could do. But she wasn’t there. Mr. Moseley said she was taking the day off.”

“Does he know? Mr. Moseley, I mean.”

“I think he does, from the way he looked—sort of tight around the mouth, as if he’d like to give Grady a bloody nose and a couple of black eyes.” Myra May put the clean spark plug on the bench and took another out of the can. “He didn’t say that, of course.”

“He wouldn’t do it, either,” Verna muttered. “He’s a lawyer.”