The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

“And now they live just down the block,” Mrs. Lacy said in an accusing tone, reinforcing her implication that Grady’s defection was entirely Lizzy’s fault. “I suppose you know that they’re expecting again?”


Lizzy pulled in her breath. “Actually, I didn’t,” she said evenly, “but I’m glad to hear it.” The first baby had been a little boy, Grady Junior. “I hope the next one will be a girl. That would be nice for Sandra.”

“She’s not well, you know,” Mrs. Lacy said with a meaningful glance. “Her aunt Twyla says she’s very sick.”

“That’s too bad. I hope her health improves.”

“Oh, of course. For the sake of her two little children.” Mrs. Lacy heaved a dramatic sigh. “And to think that you could have—”

“No, Mama,” Lizzy said firmly. “I couldn’t. And I didn’t. And I’m glad.” She pushed the door open for her mother. “Oh, and congratulations again. I just can’t tell you how delighted I am for you and Mr. Dunlap. I know you’ll be very happy together.”

She shut the door firmly and stood with her back to it for a moment, thinking back over their conversation, past the fascinating news that Mr. Dunlap was about to take her mother off her hands—forever, she hoped—and back to what her mother had said about Adele Hart. Then she went into the entry hallway and picked up the candlestick phone that sat on the little table under the mirror. She rang the operator and heard a young woman saying, “Number, please.”

“Lenore, is that you? Will you ring the sheriff’s office for me, please?”

“It’s me, Henrietta,” the operator said. “I can ring the office, but the sheriff isn’t there. He’s upstairs here at the diner, talking to Violet and Myra May.”

“Well, ring the office anyway,” Lizzy said. “Maybe the deputy is there.”

A moment later, Lizzy was talking to Wayne Springer, telling him that she had seen Rona Jean Hancock at the Monroeville movie theater with a man who might have been a CCC officer. “They were a little . . . well, passionate,” she said in an explanatory tone. She added that her mother had told her that Adele Hart had seen somebody—a man in a CCC uniform—waiting for Rona Jean outside the diner. “I thought this was something the sheriff should maybe look into. Will you tell him, please?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” the deputy said. “I’ll do that.” He paused. “That’s H-a-r-t?”

“Yes. Adele Hart. Artis Hart is her husband. They live next door to the laundry, but if the sheriff stops in during the day, she’ll probably be at work. He should go there first.”

There. She had done her good deed for the day. Lizzy put the phone down and stood for a moment, thinking. She had promised Verna she would bring a salad for supper tonight, so she ought to go out to the garden and see what she had in the way of salad fixings—the last of the lettuce, if the heat hadn’t done it in. But she knew there were some tomatoes, a cucumber or two, and a few green onions. She looked out of the window, noticing that the sky had grown darker and that there were thunderclouds piling up to the southwest. She probably ought to get the salad makings now, before it rained. And since she had the rest of the afternoon free, she should finish up the “Garden Gate” column she’d been working on, in case Charlie had room for it in the special edition of the Dispatch.

But first, there was Nadine Fleming’s letter.

Back in the kitchen, Lizzy slid into the dining nook, lifted the oilcloth, and took out the letter. She sat down holding it for a moment, thinking about prayers and wondering whether—and how—her life might be changed by what the letter held or whether she would go on doing just what she was doing now, for the rest of her days. Then she unfolded it and read the first few lines.

And burst into tears.





ELEVEN



THE GARDEN GATE