The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

The Marigold Motor Court had been built by Floyd DuBerry and his wife Pauline. It was on the Monroeville Highway, across from Jake Pritchard’s Standard Oil filling station and just down from the intersection of Country Club Drive. In 1927, when things were still booming, Floyd built seven one-room frame cottages, spread some gravel over the mud in his yard for parking, and put up a sign right next to the highway. It was a big sign, so people driving in their automobiles could see it from a hundred yards away, announcing that each cottage had a flush toilet and a shower bath, electric lights, and CLEAN SHEETS AND TOWELS, all for only seventy-five cents a night, a dollar for two. This was substantially cheaper than the Old Alabama Hotel, which charged two dollars a night for a single and three for a double. The DuBerrys didn’t serve food, but a couple of the cottages had what Pauline called a “kitchenette,” with a hot plate for cooking and a sink for washing up. Or people could drive or walk into town to the Old Alabama or the Darling Diner to eat. Unfortunately, Floyd had died of a heat stroke a couple of years later, leaving Pauline all alone. But she was the type who could cope, and the Marigold filled a useful niche.

“The motor court is a very good idea, Violet,” Myra May replied approvingly. “She could move in there right away.”

“I’ll give Pauline a call and ask if we can work out something about the rate,” Violet said. She held out her hand. “Come on, Myra May. Let’s finish that fudge cake.”

As Myra May followed Violet into their parlor, however, she was frowning slightly. She was thrilled, of course, that they had found such a wonderful cook to replace Euphoria. It really did seem like magic, and she was grateful. But she kept coming back to the question: why would a person with Raylene’s skills and experience want to come to Darling? Why did she want to work in a diner in such a small town? Was she simply looking for a new and different experience?

Or had she encountered some hard times, was running out of options, and this was the last place she’d tried?

Or was she simply . . . running?





EIGHT




A Louse, a Jerk,

and a Two-Timing Heel



Over the past few months, Charlie Dickens had fallen into the habit of seeing Fannie Champaign on a regular basis, once a week at least, sometimes twice. He hadn’t intended this to happen, of course. He was ashamed to admit it even to himself, but when he first began asking her to go out with him, he had persisted not so much because she was such an interesting person (she was a little too quiet to suit him), but because she was such an interesting mystery. Nobody knew anything about her—where she came from or why she had moved to Darling. And if that wasn’t enough of an incentive to keep after her, Charlie had another. It was simply because she kept saying no.

Now, Charlie understood very well that “no” was not an adequate reason to pursue a woman. Still, he was intensely intrigued, for (like most newspaper reporters) he liked to know all the whys and wherefores and had the feeling that the whys that escaped him were the most essential. In this case, he was confronted with a puzzling—and challenging—enigma. He would ask Fannie to go to a movie or a picnic or some other Darling event, and she would say no, or sometimes just shake her head, never giving a reason. He would walk away with a laugh and tell himself it didn’t matter—and then he would think about it and wonder.

Was she saying no because she didn’t find him interesting or attractive? Or because she didn’t like men in general?

Or because she liked doing whatever it was she did and didn’t want to be interrupted?

Why, why, why?

Charlie was also aware that there were many other mysteries about Fannie, such as where she had come from and why she had decided on Darling, which seemed like a very strange place to try to establish a hat business. And where she was getting the money to live on, since it was clear (at least to Charlie) that making hats was a pretty poor way to support yourself, even for a woman of modest needs and desires. Perhaps she had a personal income—inherited money, a trust fund, or something of the sort—and didn’t need to work. Perhaps she simply made hats because she wanted to make hats, and had come to Darling merely because she thought the countryside was pretty, the climate appealing, the people congenial. There were worse reasons to choose a town, Charlie supposed. But in order to get to the bottom of these mysteries, he would have to do some research. He would have to get acquainted with her. That is, he would have to take her out, and she wouldn’t.

So it went for some months, Charlie asking (and getting more and more challenged and intrigued), and Fannie firmly saying no—until one day, not long after Christmas, she finally and surprisingly and even a little reluctantly said yes. Feeling as triumphant as a teenager, Charlie took her for a fine supper at the Old Alabama. Two weeks later, she said yes to his invitation to the Methodist Ladies January pie supper, and after that to the Dahlias Valentine party, and then to the Lions’ Irish stew supper on St. Patrick’s Day—all this, of course, in the way of research.

And then she began inviting him to her apartment for supper (chicken and dumplings or jambalaya or catfish) and an evening of dominoes or pinochle while they listened to the radio. They both liked “André Kostelanetz Presents,” and Fannie adored George Burns and Gracie Allen. Charlie didn’t like Burns and Allen (Gracie was such a dumb Dora), but he discovered that he did like to hear Fannie laugh.