The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“He won’t, I promise.” Verna picked up the bag with her beret in it. “I’ll check back with you later. Okay?”


Fannie gave her a long look. “Oh, all right,” she said with a sigh. “But I’m sure it won’t do any good.”

After Verna left, Fannie went back to work on the hat she was making—a fanciful creation that she planned to send to Lilly Daché, the glamorous French milliner who had happened to see her work in Atlanta and commissioned one or two hats a week for her shop on New York’s Fifth Avenue. Mme Daché also had a shop in Hollywood, where she designed hats for actresses to wear in the movies. With a smile and a wave of her hand, she had said that Fannie’s hats were très glamorous, and confided, “Glamour is what makes a man ask for your telephone number. But it also is what makes a woman ask for the name of your milliner.”

Of course, the hats that Fannie was sending to Mme Daché would be sold under Mme Daché’s internationally famous name, not Fannie’s. But Fannie didn’t mind this little deception in the slightest—she was just glad to have the work. Her hats sold quickly and for very good prices, and she didn’t need the recognition. All she wanted was to continue to do the creative work she adored and to live in Darling, the town that held her heart. She would have been happier, naturally, if she could live with the man she loved. But she couldn’t, so she would just have to learn to adjust.

Now, it might be hard for some to understand why Fannie had given her heart to that gruff, sometimes caustic newsman, Charlie Dickens. But love is often a complete mystery. Who can explain why we settle our hearts on one person and not another, or why some of our attachments are tossed away by the slightest wind, while others endure through the most savage hurricane?

Fannie’s love for Charlie might be inexplicable, but it was deep and strong and had survived his brutal rejection.

*

Five minutes later, Verna was going into the Dispatch office, where she met Mr. Moseley on his way out. He tipped his hat and held the door open for her. “Hello, Mrs. Tidwell.” Over his shoulder, he called, “I’ll meet you at the Johnsons’ in an hour or so, Dickens,” and left.

After a few moments, Mr. Dickens came to the counter, where Verna was waiting. His shirt was rumpled, he needed a haircut, and he looked as if he’d been out on the town all night. What in the world does Fannie see in this man? Verna wondered. Couldn’t she have given her heart to someone who didn’t pour his cares into a bottle?

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Tidwell?” He gave her a wry smile. “If you’ve brought me a story for the Friday paper, I’ll try to fit in it. If not, I’ve already got plenty.”

Verna took a deep breath. “I’m here to meddle in something that’s none of my business,” she said briskly. “If you’ll let me explain, I’ll try to be brief.”

She was. She didn’t pull any punches, either.

*

A few moments later, at the Telephone Exchange, Verna pulled up a chair beside Violet Sims, who had the noon shift on the switchboard. The circuits were even busier than they were the day before, and it took nearly twenty minutes to get her call through to Ima Gail in New Orleans. She waited in goose-bumpy suspense, wondering what she was going to learn. But at last she heard her friend’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Did you find out anything about Mr. Duffy?” Verna asked.

“Well, actually, I did,” Ima Gail said. “Or rather, Jackie-boy did. One of his drinking buddies knows your Mr. Duffy rather well. He’s apparently had more than his share of problems in the past several years. In his personal affairs, that is.”