The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

Without Euphoria. Myra May pushed this thought away with a shiver. But the burden of worry was like a twenty-pound sack of cornmeal grits on her shoulder as she said good night to Nancy Lee and turned away to climb the stairs. The more she thought about it, the more she feared that they were going to have to find another cook. But where on earth could they find somebody whose fried chicken and meringue pies could hold a candle to Euphoria’s? Not in Darling, that was for darn sure.

Myra May was not going to carry that worry into the flat she shared with Violet and Cupcake, however. When they first bought the diner and agreed to share the upstairs apartment, Violet had made a very strict rule. Except in the case of a dire emergency, like a fire or food poisoning among the customers, they would leave the diner’s business downstairs in the diner and spend their evenings together talking about anything else.

Now, if you happened to glance at Violet’s pretty face, petite figure, and frilly, feminine dresses, you likely would never guess that this young woman had a spine of steel. She also had a very definite way of explaining just how things ought to be done, although she always sweetened it up here and there with a winning smile and “honey” or “darlin’” delivered with a charming Southern accent. Violet might be slight and frilly, but she could work as hard and as long as any man, and at the end of the day, she’d look just as cool and unruffled as she had that morning.

Myra May, on the other hand, had never been anybody’s idea of pretty—or sweet, either. She had a square jaw, a determined mouth, and a long history of tomboy ways. As a girl, she insisted on wearing overalls to play, like the boys in her class at school, and refused ribbons, ruffles, and Mary Janes. No matter how often Auntie Bellum attacked her dark brown hair with the curling iron, it still hung limp and straight—until her friend Beulah scissored it off in a bob that was cool and easy, and that was the end of the curling iron forever. It was the end of dresses, too, for Myra May had taken to wearing trousers, which suited her much better. Poor Aunt Belle (dead now some dozen years) had despaired of her awkward, gawky niece ever finding a husband who would tolerate her straight-shooting, pull-no-punches way of meeting the world.

After high school, Myra May went away to the University of Alabama, where she majored in Domestic Science, minored in Education, and figured out that she lacked the patience to be a teacher and tell kids what to do—or the inclination to marry somebody who would tell her what to do. After college, she came back to Darling to take care of her ailing father. After his death, she got a job managing the kitchen at the Old Alabama and then (with Violet) bought the Darling Diner, demonstrating that her bachelor’s degree in Domestic Science had not been a complete waste of time and money after all.

Myra May was on the third step when Nancy Lee called out from the switchboard. “Oh, Miz Mosswell, somebody’s askin’ for you. Do you want to talk to her down here at the board or would you druther I wait and ring you when you get upstairs?”

Myra May turned around and went back down. “Down here,” she said, picking up the other headset and sitting at the switchboard next to Nancy Lee. “If you ring upstairs, it’ll wake Cupcake.”

“Well, we sure wouldn’t want to bother that sweet little thing,” Nancy Lee said, and plugged her in.

Myra May put on the headset. “Hello,” she said.

There was a breathy pause.

“Hello,” Myra May repeated. “Who is this?”

“This is . . . Raylene Riggs,” a soft female voice said. “Am I speakin’ to Miz Mosswell?”

“Yep, that’s me,” Myra May said curtly. “Myra May Mosswell.” By now she was suspecting that this was some sort of sales call. Well, she knew how to handle that. She’d make it short and not-so-sweet. “Just what is it you’re wanting, Miz Riggs?”

Clearing her throat, the caller spoke hesitantly. “Well, I . . . I’m stayin’ with some friends just now, over here in Monroeville.” Some twenty miles to the east, Monroeville was the county seat of Monroe County. “Years ago—years and years ago, really—I used to come over to Darlin’ to visit. I always thought it was a right pretty little town, the kind of place I’d like to live. I’m lookin’ to settle down now, after travelin’ around all over, and I—”

“Excuse me,” Myra May broke in. “It sounds to me like you’re lookin’ for Mr. Manning. That would be Mr. Joe Lee Manning, Junior. He handles real estate, and last I heard he had a whole long list of houses for sale or rent.” A long, sad list, most of them bank foreclosures, sitting silent and empty. She reached for the switchboard plug that would connect the caller to Mr. Manning. “It’s a little on the late side, but I can ring him for you. I’m sure he won’t mind.” He wouldn’t, either. Joe Lee Manning would drag himself out of bed at any hour to unload one of those vacant houses.