The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

At another time, the sight of gardens washed by a rain would have made Verna smile. But today, she had something on her mind that weighed her down and silenced her. She wished she could cheer Ophelia, too, for she understood her friend’s financial worries. But she couldn’t think of anything to say beyond a sympathetic, “I hope things will get better soon, for all of us.”


And since Ophelia wasn’t her usual effervescent self, either, the two of them walked as far as the Snows’ house without saying more than a few words. Then, with a brief hug, they said good-bye. Ophelia climbed the porch steps to her front door and Verna turned left on Larkspur, walking the rest of the way alone.

Verna still lived in the small house at the corner of Larkspur and Robert E. Lee, the house that she and Walter had bought when they were first married. Her husband, a history teacher at the Darling Academy, had been killed when he absentmindedly walked out in front of a Greyhound bus on Route 12, a tragedy that left Verna a widow with no funds except her salary and Walter’s little bit of life insurance. To remedy that, Mr. Earle Scroggins, the Cypress County probate clerk and Verna’s boss, had encouraged her to invest the insurance payment in the stock market, which looked to be heading for a meteoric rise.

“I’ll be glad to give you the name of my broker,” Mr. Scroggins had said, in the patronizing tone that Verna found so irritating. “You act right away, little lady, and you’ll make a killing. You’ll be rich for life. Guaranteed.”

But naturally mistrustful as she was, Verna suspected that no matter what Mr. Scroggins said, the market could go down just as easily as it could go up. So she had used the money to pay off the mortgage, figuring that the best insurance she could have was a roof over her head. Of course, the four-room house was small, with only one bedroom. But it was comfortable and homey. And since she and Walter had no children, its size was just right for her.

For her and Clyde, that is. Clyde was the affectionate black Scottie with whom Verna had shared her home for the past three years. He had shown up at the back door, footsore and bedraggled and begging for something to eat, and she’d fed him, bathed him, and fixed him a place to sleep under the stove in the kitchen. Within a day, Clyde had made himself perfectly at home and, within a week, had declared that he’d rather sleep on her bed, thank you very much. Now, he met her at the door, yelping with the ecstatic delight that always made her smile, no matter how low she might be feeling. She scooped him up with a hard hug, burying her face against his silky black fur while he washed her cheek with an eager tongue. Then she put him out into the fenced yard to take care of his business while she went to the bedroom to change from her sweaty gardening clothes into a green-printed wraparound cotton housedress and sandals.

Pausing in front of the bureau for a moment, Verna glanced at herself in the mirror. Nobody had ever accused her of being the typical sweet Southern belle. She was tall and thin, her brown hair was cut in a no-nonsense style, her skin was olive-toned, and her chin and mouth were decidedly firm. She paid no attention to fashion and beauty fads, since she disliked the idea of changing any part of herself just to court somebody’s approval. She had married Walter when she was too young to know any better, but he’d turned out to be a pretty good husband, all in all. After he was gone, she hadn’t seen any reason to look for a replacement.

After all, why would she want another man in her life? She had her own home, a job that paid the bills and kept her brain sharp, good friends for fun, and Clyde for companionship. She even had a nice little bundle of money in the bank, thanks to an aunt she’d never met. Not being a typical Southern belle might have mattered when she was seventeen and wasn’t sure whether she could take care of herself. Now, though, she saw her self-sufficiency, financial and otherwise, as an asset. At least she had something to fall back on, if—

She turned away from the mirror, not wanting to finish the sentence that was running through her mind, and went to the kitchen, where she took down the red metal Hills Bros. coffee can. She put four scoops of ground coffee into the percolator basket, filled the pot with water from the tap, and put it on the gas stove burner. While she was waiting for it to perk, she sat down at the kitchen table, took out a Pall Mall, and lit it. She could definitely use a cup of coffee. In fact, she felt she could use something a good bit stronger this afternoon.