The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

“If I can wrestle Jed’s wet denim overalls through the crank wringer on that antique washing machine of mine,” she liked to tell her friends, “I can wrestle that Linotype. It takes about the same amount of muscle.”


“Hi, Myra May,” Ophelia said, tucking her brown hair back under her blue kerchief. Ophelia worked full time as the Dispatch’s advertising and subscription manager, Linotype operator, and society reporter, assigned to cover clubs and civic organizations. (Charlie handled what he laughingly called the “city desk.”) Married to Jed Snow, the owner of Snow’s Farm Supply and the mayor of Darling, Ophelia had never planned to “work out,” as the Darling matrons disdainfully put it, for she considered taking care of her husband and two children job enough. But she had gotten in over her head the previous year when she bought a smart living room suite on Sears’ time-payment plan and needed to find the money to make the monthly payments. She couldn’t ask her husband because too many of the farmers were behind on their seed and equipment bills at the Farm Supply. And while being mayor of Darling allowed Jed to swagger around with his thumbs hooked in his suspenders, looking important, it didn’t pay one red cent in salary.

In fact, scarce as jobs were, Ophelia counted herself lucky that she happened to come into the Dispatch office the same afternoon that Mr. Dickens was trying to figure out how to replace Zipper Haydon, who was retiring from several decades at the Dispatch. (It was surely time, for Mr. Haydon was old enough to remember when the rabble of Union soldiers had ripped their way through Darling in the last days of the War for Southern Independence.) Mr. Dickens needed somebody who could type and correct copy, operate the Linotype, get to work on time and sober—and do it all for ten dollars a week. Ophelia could type sixty words a minute, spell like a dictionary, never touched a drop on principle, and thought ten dollars sounded like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Jed had sulked when he first learned that she was going to work, but he quit complaining when he saw the extra money coming in.

Charlie handed Ophelia Myra May’s ad. “The girls are gonna audition cooks for the diner—like a chorus line or something. Might be a story in it. You write something up, we’ll run it on the local page for Friday.”

“Audition cooks?” Ophelia glanced in surprise at the ad. “What happened to Euphoria?”

Myra May explained again. “A story would be swell,” she added enthusiastically. “It would get a lot more attention than an ad.” As an afterthought, she said, “Violet wondered if Florabelle’s sister might like to try out.”

Ophelia frowned. “Wisteria—that’s her name—would be great for fried chicken. Her biscuits are middling. But I’m telling you as a friend that you’d be disappointed in her piecrust. You’d have to find somebody else to bake pies.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” Myra May said thoughtfully. “A different pie cook, I mean. That way, we wouldn’t have all our eggs in one basket, so to speak.” She sighed, thinking of the party. They’d had their eggs in Euphoria’s basket, and now they were smashed, all over the floor. How in the world could they handle that party?

The door opened, and the three of them turned to see Elizabeth Lacy, one of Myra May’s best friends. She was slender and summery in a pink print silk crepe dress with organdy ruffles at the neck and arms. Her brown hair was cut short, parted on one side, and fell in soft waves on either side of her heart-shaped face. She looked like Loretta Young, who was featured on a recent cover of Movie Classic magazine.

Liz wasn’t just pretty, but warm and caring, as well. She worked as a secretary and legal clerk in the law office of Moseley and Moseley, upstairs over the Dispatch. And even if she didn’t always get the credit due her, most Darlingians knew that Mr. Moseley couldn’t manage without her. She handled the paperwork, met the filing deadlines, and kept the office running during her boss’s frequent absences. People said that the only thing she couldn’t do was appear for him in court. Old Judge McHenry couldn’t see very well, but he’d know the difference between Liz and Mr. Moseley right off.

“It’s Tuesday, so here’s Mr. Moseley’s legal advertisements,” Liz said, handing Charlie a typed page. She looked from Myra May to Ophelia. “What’s this?” she asked, laughing lightly. “A meeting of the Dahlias’ officers—and you didn’t invite me?” Ophelia was the vice president and secretary, and Myra May was the communications chairwoman. Liz, of course, was the president.

“Auditions,” Ophelia said. “At the diner.” She held up Myra May’s ad, which required Myra May to tell her story one more time.