The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

Aunt Hetty pressed it into Lizzy’s hand, dropping her voice. “I glanced at some of the poems, dear. They didn’t look all that cheerful to me, but maybe you’re a better judge.” She held out the crocheted flower garden afghan. “This is from me. To wrap yourself up on a chilly evening.”


“Alice Ann couldn’t be here,” Ophelia said, “but she promised to leave a dozen eggs at Mr. Moseley’s office when she comes to town tomorrow. She says her hens are laying extra good right now. And Lucy Murphy says she’s taught herself to tat and you’re going to get her first doily, as soon as she finishes. If it’s decent, that is. She’s not making any promises.”

Liz held the book and the afghan against her breast. “You Dahlias,” she said, shaking her head in amazement. “You are . . . you are wonderful!”

“Wonderful is us,” Ophelia replied, tossing her head. “Definitely.” She handed the cake to Verna. “Verna, this is my mama’s moonshine whiskey cake, which has been handed down in our family for years. I was lucky to get Mrs. Hancock’s last box of raisins. She said she can’t pay her bill at the grocer supply and she doesn’t know when she’ll be able to get more. So we should enjoy every last bite.” She gave Lizzy a loud kiss on the cheek, then pulled back, looking at her critically. “Sweetie, you could use a comb and maybe a dab of lipstick. Come on upstairs with Beulah and me and we’ll get you prettied up, while the rest of these girls finish setting up your party.”

So there was nothing for Lizzy to do but allow herself to be led upstairs, where she put on the blue dress she had worn the night before and let Beulah do her makeup and Ophelia comb her hair.

“There,” Beulah said with satisfaction, as the three of them looked at Lizzy’s reflection in the dressing table mirror. “All beautiful!” And when she saw the tears well in Lizzy’s eyes, she whipped out her handkerchief. “Don’t you dare cry over losing that fella,” she cautioned. “Your Maybelline will run!”

“But I’m not,” Lizzy protested. “I’m crying because I have such wonderful friends.”

“No time for crying.” Ophelia pulled her to her feet. “Time to party. Come on!”

Myra May had spread a blue-checked tablecloth on the picnic table, and Bessie had put her flowers in a crystal vase, right in the middle. Raylene Riggs had sent enough thin-sliced ham sandwiches and macaroni salad for everyone. There was a pitcher of lemonade made with Beulah’s lemons. And Ophelia’s cake turned their simple picnic into a feast. They finished eating as the soft April dusk closed around them, sweet with the scent of honeysuckle that clambered in the company of the climbing rose over Lizzy’s back porch. Myra May had lit several candles in Mason jars and the flames flickered in the darkening evening.

As a companionable silence fell, Lizzy cleared her throat. “You were so sweet to come out tonight to cheer me up,” she said quietly. “But I want to correct . . . well, a misimpression. I didn’t mean to deceive anybody, but—”

“Deceive us?” Aunt Hetty chided. “What in the world are you talking about, child?”

“Well, maybe ‘mislead’ is a better word. What I mean is, it’s true that I’m feeling just terrible about this whole thing—about Grady getting married.”

“We know that,” Verna said. “So what—”

Lizzy held up her hand. “But I’m not feeling sorry for myself, and I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I think we should feel sorry for him.”

“Oh, come on,” Ophelia said, with a sarcastic emphasis. “Nobody needs to feel sorry for Grady Alexander. He is a jerk, pure and simple.”

“A cad,” Bessie said hotly.