The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

And then, as if she had been waiting just outside for Myra May to think about her, the screen door opened and a woman stepped inside. She was tall, about the height of Myra May, with heavy dark brows, a firm mouth and chin, and auburn hair streaked with gray, cut short and snugged around her ears. She was dressed in a blue cotton dress with a white eyelet V-collar and white patent belt and white low-heeled shoes and carried a canvas bag and a leather purse over her arm. She marched straight up to the end of the counter and spoke to Myra May in a businesslike voice softened by a Southern drawl.

“Miz Mosswell? I’m Raylene Riggs. We talked on the phone. I’m here to try out for the cook’s job.” She held up the bag with a smile. “Brought my apron,” she added, “and a few special little things—like chocolate for fudge cake—that I wasn’t sure you’d have on hand. I’m just real sorry I couldn’t get here earlier. Mr. Clinton didn’t want to leave until he had a full load.”

Mr. Clinton drove an old red Ford that served as a taxi between Darling and Monroeville. It was cheap (only fifteen cents one way, while the train was a quarter) and convenient. But you had to wait until he got enough passengers, which could be an hour or so. And sometimes you might have to ride with a crate of live chickens or a lapful of somebody’s dog.

At Mrs. Riggs’ announcement, there was a sudden silence in the diner. Four men’s heads swiveled for a look. Under his breath, Buddy Norris uttered two words, in a low, crooning voice: “Fudge cake.”

Myra May lifted the hinged countertop that served as a gate. “Glad you could make it, Miz Riggs,” she said cordially. “You just come right straight to the kitchen. The lunch crowd is just starting to show up. You can get started right away.”

“How’s your fried chicken?” J.D. growled, as Mrs. Riggs went past him on the other side of the counter.

“You can ignore J.D.,” Myra May said, low. “He’s mad because of the meat loaf.”

But Mrs. Riggs had already turned to him. Her smile softened her firm mouth and transformed her rather plain face. “Well, you’ll have to be the judge, Mr. Jay-dee, but folks tell me that my fried chicken is pretty good. What they seem to like best, though, is my pies.” Her brown eyes were fixed on him. “My sweet potato meringue pie, for instance.”

J.D.’s mouth fell open and he stared at her. “Sweet potato meringue pie!” he said, almost incredulously. “My sainted aunt Mamie used to make the best sweet potato meringue pie I ever tasted. She put coconut in it.” He closed his eyes. “I ain’t had pie that good since she died.”

“Why, isn’t that a coincidence?” Mrs. Riggs replied with a husky laugh. She lowered her voice to a seductive whisper. “It just so happens that I brought some coconut with me, too. That pie is always so much better with a half cup of coconut—but it should be toasted just a little. Did your aunt Mamie ever put toasted coconut into her pie?”

Still staring and nearly overcome with emotion, J.D. could only nod. “I would give just about anything in the world for a taste of that pie,” he managed at last. “With some toasted coconut.”

“Sounds right to me,” Myra May said, and gave him a look that said, plain as day, Put that in your pipe and smoke it, J.D.

Mrs. Riggs straightened. “Well, if you’ll be a little patient, I think we can fix you up,” she said with another smile, and followed Myra May. At the kitchen door, she turned and gave J.D. a wink.

“It was like magic,” Myra May said later that night. She and Violet were finally able to sit down in their upstairs flat with glasses of cold iced tea and two small pieces of a fudge cake so rich it was almost like a double chocolate brownie and delectable beyond belief. “I swear, she charmed that spiteful old J.D. right down out of his tree. And that was even before he tasted her sweet potato meringue pie.”

Smiling, Violet cuddled a sleepy Cupcake up against her. “And did you see the look on Buddy Norris’ face when he took the first bite of that fudge cake? He said it was just like his mother’s.” She shook her head, marveling. “What Raylene did in the kitchen today was nothing short of magical. Honestly, Myra May—I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my very own eyes. She cut up three chickens and fried them, fried up that big mess of catfish, put together a huge bowl of potato salad, cooked vegetables, baked three sweet potato pies, and made that fudge cake.”

“Yeah.” Myra May chuckled. “I thought Euphoria was lightning fast, but compared to Raylene, she was about as slow as a turtle on a cold December morning.”

Mrs. Riggs had insisted on being called Raylene from the minute she put her apron on. She said it made her nervous when people called her “Mrs.” when she was cooking. “I always think they’re talking to somebody else and I’m looking over my shoulder to see who it is,” she said with a little laugh. “So you just call me Raylene and I’ll be easy in my mind.”