The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

Fannie sighed. “Because I suddenly realized I was still in love with . . .” She bit her lip and turned her face away.

“With . . .” Verna prompted. Was it someone Fannie had met in Atlanta? Myra May had said something about a broken engagement. Or was it—

“With Charlie Dickens.” Fannie turned back, her eyes filled with tears. “I know I should be mature enough to forget about him, Verna, but I can’t. I’m sure you heard what happened last summer. I thought that Charlie and I . . . well, that he was serious about me. But I did something very foolish. I told somebody that we planned to be married. It was wishful thinking more than anything else, I suppose, but it got all over town. And then I found out I wasn’t the only woman in his life. He was already involved with Lily Dare, the aviatrix.”

“Oh, I don’t think—” Verna began, but Fannie cut her off.

“No, no, it’s true,” she said emphatically. “He told me so. I’m sure you remember when she was in town to do that air show. He made it very clear that they would spend that time together. It hurt too much to see him—or to see them—so I decided to go to Atlanta and stay with my cousin for a while. She has a dress shop there, and I knew there would be a market for my hats—there, and in Miami, where my sister has a shop. I expected that by the time I came back, I could start all over again, fresh. But I can’t.” She swallowed hard. “I still—”

She broke down and began to sob.

Verna put her arms around Fannie and they stood close together, Verna feeling a jumble of emotions, sadness for Fannie and guilt for her own foolishness. She had been too quick to leap to the wrong conclusion, based on Rona Jean’s faulty information. After a moment, she dropped her arms and stepped back.

“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly. “Have you tried to talk to Mr. Dickens since you got back?”

“No, of course not.” Fannie shook her head vehemently. “I’m too embarrassed. I know I made a fool of myself. And after Lily Dare—” She gulped. “Anyway, it’s no use. He made that perfectly clear when he told me about her. I even thought of staying in Atlanta, of not coming back to Darling at all. But I love my little shop. And I have friends here—you and Liz and Myra May and the others. The Dahlias are my family. And Darling feels like home.” Her voice dropped so low that Verna almost missed the last few words. “The only home I have.”

But Verna heard the pain in Fannie’s voice and thought of the way Charlie Dickens had looked since she left, as if he had lost his last friend, or lost his way in a forest of regrets. She knew she ought to speak.

“I think,” she said, “that there may be a basic misunderstanding here.” The clock in the courthouse tower cleared its throat and began striking noon. “I have to go—I need to make a long-distance phone call. But would you mind if I dropped just a word or two in Mr. Dickens’ ear? I won’t say anything that would embarrass you, I promise. But if he understood how you feel—”

“Oh, thank you, but I don’t think so, Verna,” Fannie said quickly. She picked up a piece of fabric and began turning it in her fingers. “I shouldn’t have worried you with my problems. It’s best just to leave things as they are. Most people have probably forgotten about my foolish claim to an engagement. And I don’t want Mr. Dickens to feel that I’m still carrying a torch for him, like some impressionable young schoolgirl. Even if I am,” she added, with a wry twist to her mouth.

Verna persisted. “Well, then, could you agree to leave it to me? The next time I see him, I could raise the subject, and if he seems to want to discuss it, I could approach it very . . . well, discreetly. He would never know that you and I have talked.”

Fannie bit her lip. “Are you—are you sure?” She darted a glance at Verna. “I really wouldn’t want him to think I—”