The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

Raylene shook her head. “I couldn’t, Myra May. He had already told you I was dead.” Her muscles of her jaw tightened. “I can’t tell you how much that hurt. But I had to agree with him that it would be too confusing, too difficult for you to handle. And it looked like your Aunt Belle was taking good care of you—”

“Auntie Bellum,” Myra May said, and managed a tearful laugh. “Oh, she took good care of me, all right.”

Raylene threw back her head and laughed. “Yes. Antebellum. She was a Mosswell, that’s for sure—stiff and unbending and old-fashioned as all get-out. I am sure that woman wore a steel-boned corset until the day she died, bless her heart. But I stayed around for a while after I talked with your father, and watched you with Belle. You were such a beautiful little girl, and so strong and lively—a handful. Too much, I suspected, for your aunt. And too much, certainly, for your daddy. But they were taking good care of you. I was sure of that.”

“That might be true,” Myra May said somberly. “But I almost never saw him, you know. Not then. Not when I was a little girl. He was always away, taking care of other people’s kids. Auntie Bellum said it was because I reminded him of you, which I thought ought to make him happy, since he always said he loved you. It didn’t, though.”

“I’m sure it didn’t,” Raylene murmured, touching Myra May’s cheek. “But as I was watching you, it seemed to me that you looked happy. And I knew I couldn’t give you all the things your father could give you—a comfortable home, nice clothes, an education. Especially an education. What kind of an education would you have if you came with me? So I went away feeling sorry for myself and thinking I’d come back when you were older and independent. But things happened in my life and the years went by and—

She broke off, frowning a little. “You were, weren’t you, Myra May? You were happy, growing up? You seem so happy now that I think you must have been happy then.”

“Most of the time, yes, I suppose,” Myra May said, “except for missing you. All I had was your photograph, and a big empty hole where you were supposed to be.” She knew that her voice sounded petulant and whiney, a little girl’s voice, but she couldn’t help it. Yes, she was happy now. But there had been long stretches of her girlhood when she was pinned under the thumb of strict Aunt Belle and all she could do was squirm. Those years would have been much happier if she’d had her mother. Wouldn’t they?

“Don’t look so sour, Myra May,” Aunt Hetty said in a kindly tone. “You neither, Ina Ray. Doesn’t help to hold a grudge, y’know. Life’s too short for that.”

Raylene wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I remember something I heard you say once, Aunt Hetty. Something about keeping our faces to the sun so we can’t see the shadows.”

“And planting sunflowers and marigolds amongst the collards and sweet potatoes and okra,” Aunt Hetty added. “It’s true, too. Life’s too short to be bitter. Look on the bright side, is what I say.”

Raylene chuckled. “How could I be bitter,” she said, “when I have everything that’s wonderful and sweet, right here.” She bent over and cupped Myra May’s face in her hands. “Right here, right in front of me.”

Myra May caught at her hands. “You’ll stay this time, though? You’ll stay?”

“That’s why I’m here.” The tears were running down Raylene’s cheeks. “That’s why I’m here, my precious, my beautiful daughter.”





EIGHTEEN




Closed Until Further Notice



Charlie Dickens usually ran off the weekly Dispatch on Thursday evening, so he could take the papers to the post office for mailing on Friday morning. But this week, he had postponed the press run in order to escort Lily Dare to the special showing of Hell’s Angels, and then he had spent the night at the airstrip in the company of Rex Hart. Having shared a companionable bottle of Mickey LeDoux’s white lightning with the fellow, Charlie was about ninety-nine percent certain that Hart had had nothing whatever to do with the sabotage of Lily’s airplane. He seemed to be concerned about the safety of the planes—as well he might be, since his job depended on it.