The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

Myra May was staring at Aunt Hetty. “Ina Ray?” she whispered. “But she . . . she can’t be! My mother is dead, Aunt Hetty. Don’t you remember? She died when I was a little baby. She went on a visit to Savannah, to see her parents, and she got sick. She died and she was buried there. My father told me. He said she was dead. He said—”

And then Myra May stopped and looked at Raylene. But she was also seeing the gold-framed photograph on her dresser, her striking young mother dressed in a lacy white shirtwaist and long dark skirt, in a photograph taken when Myra May was the baby girl in her mother’s arms. Her mother’s face—and Raylene’s face, thirty years younger. The same firm jaw, the determined mouth, the wide-spaced eyes. Raylene and Ina Ray. They were the same, weren’t they? Weren’t they?

“He said you were dead,” Myra May repeated. She bent over, clutching herself, and began to cry. “Why did he say you were dead?”

Raylene was at her side in two strides, gathering her into her arms. “There, baby girl,” she whispered, holding Myra May tightly against her, both of them crying now. “There, there, baby girl.”

After a few moments, Aunt Hetty coughed. “I understand why Dr. Mosswell sent you away, Ina Ray. But I never understood why he and his sister told ever’body you were dead. Didn’t seem right then. Doesn’t seem right now.”

“They did it because I was dead to them,” Raylene said in a choked voice. “To both of them. They wanted me to be dead to my daughter.” She was still holding Myra May to her, crushing her, as if she would never let her go. “He warned me. He said if I ever came back, he would tell Myra May how evil her mother had been. He would destroy me forever in her eyes, in her heart.”

“Not evil, just foolish,” Aunt Hetty amended quietly. “It was a mistake, you and that young man—but we all make ’em.” She paused. “That young man. I misremember his name.”

“Roscoe,” Raylene whispered. “Roscoe Bennett.”

“Ah, yes. Preacher Bennett’s middle boy. You were so young. And Jeremiah Mosswell was—what? Twenty years older? Twenty-five? And proper. All them Mosswells was stiff and proper as deacons. Never had an hour of fun in their lives.”

“Mama?” Myra May whispered incredulously. She lifted her eyes, the tears blurring her vision so that all she could see was the shape of the pale face, the smiling face in the photograph. “Mama?”

“Yes,” Raylene said. kissed her forehead tenderly. “I am so sorry, Myra May. So, so, so sorry. I don’t know how I could ever have gone away and left you behind. How could I have done that?”

Aunt Hetty sighed. “We do what we have to, Ina Ray. And you were so young. I said at the time, I don’t know what your daddy and mama could ever have thought, marrying you off to a stuffed-shirt Mosswell. Sixteen, were you?”

“Seventeen, just barely,” Raylene replied. “I was rebellious. They thought I needed to be taken in hand, and that Dr. Mosswell was the one to do it,” Raylene said. Myra May heard the note of bitterness in her voice. “He and my daddy were old friends, you know. Daddy trusted him to settle me down. Well, he was bound to do that, body and soul. Settle me down.”

“Jeremiah would do that, and more,” Aunt Hetty said darkly.

Myra May couldn’t take her eyes off Raylene—off her mother. “Mama?” she whispered again. “Is it really you? Really?” Her vision was beginning to clear. The remembered photograph faded and all she could see now was the face of the woman. Raylene’s face.

“Really. Yes, really.” Raylene knelt down beside Myra May. “You’re too young to remember, sweetheart, but the first time I left your daddy, I bundled up all your little dresses and toys and took you with me. We didn’t get far, only to Pensacola. That’s where the police caught up with us and made us go back to the Mosswells, to your daddy and his sister.” She smiled shakily. “You were so sweet, Myra May, such beautiful dimples and little fat hands and a glorious laugh that went straight to my heart. I meant . . . I thought . . . I was sure I’d be able to come back to Darling and get you. I even tried, twice.”

“You did?” Myra May gulped, still incredulous. She put out a hand to touch Raylene’s face. “You really . . . came back for me?”

Raylene nodded. “Once when you were six and again when you were eight.” A smile played across her mouth—a mouth, Myra May thought, that was very like her own. “The first time, I just stayed out of sight and watched. The second time, I got a room at the Old Alabama and walked past your house several times, watching you playing outdoors. When you ran off with one of your friends, I went into your daddy’s office to talk to him. I wanted to take you with me for a visit.”

“But you didn’t talk to me?” Myra May whispered. “You were that close and you didn’t talk to me?”