The Darling Dahlias and the Poinsettia Puzzle

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Lizzy hung up, feeling comforted. Surely, with all these wonderful Dahlias linking arms to protect Cupcake, they could keep her safe. And with Aunt Hetty, Bessie, and Verna already on her list, she thought that seven—eight, counting herself—were enough volunteers, at least to start with. On the schedule she had drawn up, Cupcake would stay at one house in the morning, another in the afternoon, and a third overnight. Each of her hosts would take her where she was expected next. And since the little girl knew all the Dahlias and had visited each of them at one time or another, they all seemed like family to her. She would feel perfectly at home wherever she was. And Myra May and Violet would know she was safe.

  So on her way to take her bread to The Flour Shop, Lizzy had stopped at the Diner to pick up Cupcake and take her to the first Dahlia on her list—Ophelia Snow. The little girl was dancing up and down and eager to go, adorably dressed in a velvet-trimmed red wool coat and wool bonnet, made for her by her Gramma Ray’s friend Pauline, who was an excellent seamstress. With her Little Buttercup doll in one hand and a small cardboard suitcase in the other, she was as cute as cute could be. Myra May and Violet kissed her and said a loving goodbye, telling her to be a good girl and mind her manners.

  “I always mind my nanners!” she cried, with a stamp of her little foot, and off they went.

  After Lizzy left her bag of fresh-baked loaves with Mildred at The Flour Shop, she and Cupcake walked the short distance down Rosemont to Ophelia’s house. There, the Snow children, teenagers Sam and Sarah, had just started decorating the Christmas tree, which stood green and lovely—and still quite bare—in a corner of the small parlor. Christmas stockings hung on a nearby shelf, and a row of electric candles shone in the front window.

  “Hi there, Cupcake!” Sarah said when she answered the door. “You’re just in time to hang the ornaments on our Christmas tree. Here, honey—let me take your coat.”

  “Oh, goodie!” Cupcake chortled. “Can I put the angel on the top?”

  “Of course,” Sarah said. “Sam will lift you up high so you can reach it. Let’s do that right now.”

  While the children were working on the tree, Lizzy and Ophelia sat down in the kitchen over a bowl of hot vegetable soup and an egg salad sandwich. Ophelia’s clever stowaway wall-hung ironing board was still down, and her new CCC uniform, freshly ironed, was hanging on the back of the door. She was brimming with excitement about her new job at the Civilian Conservation Corps camp, where she was in charge of reorganizing the commandant’s office.

  “I love working for Captain Campbell,” she said. “He’s a little strict but he’s nice, and everybody else is so sweet to me.” With a giggle, she added, “I never thought I would like to wear a uniform, but it’s actually fun—makes me feel like one of the boys.”

  Lizzy ate the last bite of her sandwich. “I’ll bet you don’t look like one of the boys,” she said, with an admiring glance at the trim uniform: a light khaki blouse, darker brown skirt, and brown tie. “And it solves the problem of what to wear for work every day,” she added. “When we’re on a tight budget, clothes are a problem.”

  Ophelia made a regretful face. “But I really hate leaving Charlie Dickens in the lurch. I’m afraid he won’t be able to find anybody to take my place.” She tilted her head to one side. “You’re only working mornings for Mr. Moseley right now, Lizzy. You have your afternoons free, don’t you? Maybe you could—”

  “Oh, no,” Lizzy broke in. “I already have an afternoon job. I’m writing, remember?” It went without saying that she could use the money. Getting by on fifteen dollars a week was no picnic. But while the news-reporting part of Opie’s job might be interesting, Lizzy wasn’t anxious to operate that balky old Linotype. And she knew she would not enjoy selling ads.

  “I understand.” Ophelia sighed ruefully. “You’re doing what you need to do for you, and that’s right. But I feel awf ’lly guilty about leaving Charlie. He gave me a job that kept our family afloat when we were so desperate for cash. I just hope he can find somebody dependable.” She pushed her soup bowl away. “Somebody who can actually write a sentence. And who can wrestle that beastly Linotype.”

  Liz glanced up at the clock over Ophelia’s kitchen range and was surprised to see how late it was—nearly twelve-thirty. “Speaking of writing, I’d better head home, Opie. I haven’t even started my garden column for next week, and I’d like to make a little progress on my novel.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “Cupcake is scheduled to spend the night at Bessie’s. Could you walk her over there after supper?” Magnolia Manor was only a couple of blocks away.

  “Sure thing. Jed will want to go with us, I’m sure.” Ophelia frowned apprehensively. “You don’t think there’s any real danger of that fellow—Neil Hudson—showing up here in Darling right away, do you?”

  “Nobody knows for sure,” Lizzy said, putting on her coat. “He might be sitting back and allowing his lawyer to handle the situation. Or he might take matters into his own hands.” She bit her lip. “It’s worrisome, Ophelia. I wish I knew.”

  “Well, she’ll be safe and snug as a bug in a rug with us,” Ophelia said confidently. “You can count on it.”

  “Thank you,” Lizzy said gratefully. “I know she’ll have fun here. The ladies at the Manor will read to her, and tomorrow she goes to Alice Ann, who’s having a birthday party for her grandson.” She felt that the little game she’d arranged was a good way of dealing with the situation, and was glad for the Dahlias’ willing support.

  There was something, though, that still troubled her. When she and Verna had gone to the Diner to let Myra May and Violet know what was happening, Myra May had been deeply concerned by the idea that somebody might try to take Cupcake away from her Darling home. Violet, on the other hand, had seemed intrigued by the possibility that Hollywood might recognize Cupcake’s talents, especially when she heard how much money Shirley Temple was earning.

  “Can you imagine what that much money would mean for Cupcake’s future?” She had sounded impressed by the idea. “College and new clothes and a car and . . . and just everything! And think how many people would get to see our little girl in the movies. Why, she would be famous!”

  Walking home through the chilly December afternoon, Lizzy wondered. Did Violet really want fame and money for the little girl? Did that mean that she would consider a movie career for Cupcake—if that were possible?

  And what would happen if Mr. Hudson showed up in Darling tomorrow or the next day and tried to persuade Violet to let him take the child to Hollywood? He might tell her that he had solid connections with the studios—or, more enticing, an offer for an audition. He might even suggest that Violet go along. What would she say to such a seductive invitation? And how would Myra May feel if she left and took Cupcake with her?

  The questions themselves made Lizzy deeply uncomfortable. Even worse, she didn’t have any answers.

  A block away, in the Dickens’ apartment over Fannie’s hat shop, Mr. and Mrs. Dickens were trading questions and answers in an important conversation.

  To start with, Charlie had told Fannie about his meeting at the Cotton Gin the night before and answered her questions about his involvement with the sheriff’s investigation at the prison farm.

  Fannie shook her head. “That was dangerous, Charlie, but I’m glad you did it. It sounds like the information you got has been a big help.” She smiled. “Your experience as an investigative reporter came in handy, didn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “And maybe that will help excuse what I did.” Then he confessed how he had discovered the initials J. C. in Fannie’s tidy account books, with the amount of fifty dollars a month. “I apologize for snooping in your private accounts,” he said. “But it seemed to me that if we’re going to file a joint income tax return in April, the sooner I know where we are, financially speaking, the better.”

  Fannie sighed. “I can see the logic in that. I know I should have told you. It’s been bothering me for months. I’m glad
to have it out in the open. But—” She pressed her lips together and her eyes filled with tears. “It’s just so . . . so difficult.” And then, to Charlie’s discomfort, she broke down and sobbed.

  Of all things on this earth, Charlie hated to see his pretty wife cry. He gathered her in his arms, smoothed her hair, and whispered “There, there,” until she quieted. “Now tell me,” he commanded.

  Fannie took a deep breath. “Jason is my son,” she said. “He’s nine—and he has polio. He’s been at Warm Springs for a year now. I visit him whenever I take one of my sales trips. The check is for his board and room and rehabilitation. I didn’t tell you because Jason was born out of wedlock, and I was ashamed. His father—”

  Charlie laid a finger on her lips. “You don’t need to tell me that part.”

  “But I want to. Warren was . . . a terrible mistake. We had been married for three months when I discovered that he was already married.”

  “Married!” Charlie exclaimed. “A bigamist! That bastard!”

  Fannie smiled faintly. “He swore he would get a divorce from his first wife, but I sent him away. A week later, I learned that I was pregnant.”

  If Charlie had been inclined to be judgmental, all that was out the window now. “Oh, Fannie, I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

  “Life has to go on,” Fannie said, in a practical tone. “I moved in with my cousin Amy in Atlanta after Jason was born. I worked in a milliner’s shop there, learning the trade. When I came to Darling, I intended to bring him with me, but Amy—she has no children of her own—persuaded me to let him stay in Atlanta with her until I got settled. But he contracted polio and was desperately sick for several months. When he got better, we took him to Warm Springs. He was paralyzed from the waist down, but he’s improving all the time. That warm water is a miracle.”

  “Carpenter,” Charlie mused, thinking of the name on the check. “Is that your cousin’s name?”

  “Yes. She registered him under both our names: Champaign and Carpenter. He and Amy are very close—he calls both of us mother. Amy is just an hour away from Warm Springs, so she visits him every weekend. I go when I can. And I’m lucky to have enough money to take care of his rehabilitation.” Her voice broke. “I should have told you about Jason before we were married, but I . . . I was afraid. I know how you feel about having children, and I didn’t want you to feel burdened.”

  A storm of emotions swept through Charlie. But when he could speak, he said only, “How soon can I meet him?”

  Fannie’s eyes opened wide. “Meet him?” she whispered. “You want to—”

  “Of course I do,” he said. “How about tomorrow? It can’t be much more than two hundred miles. If we leave by eight, we can be there by noon. Is there a place we can stay overnight? It’s Christmas, after all.”

  “Oh, Charlie,” Fannie wept. “This is the best Christmas present I could hope for. Thank you. Thank you!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “THE SKY’S THE LIMIT”

  At home, Lizzy changed out of her slacks into a comfortable red sweater and the baggy red-checked flannel pants—her “grubbies”—that she liked to wear around the house. She brewed a cup of coffee and took it upstairs to the small bedroom she used as her writing studio. Daffy, happy to have her all to himself for a few hours, followed her upstairs, where she sat down and rolled a clean sheet of paper into the typewriter.

  Over the past several years, Lizzy’s weekly Garden Gate column had developed quite a following among readers of the Dispatch. Sometimes it was mostly garden club news, because the Dahlias liked to see their names in print, and because they had some interesting (and sometimes amusing) garden adventures. But more often, she wrote about the plants in her garden, or native plants growing wild in the woods and fields and streams around Darling—and always with a personal slant, for she loved plants and liked to imagine that they were her friends. She wanted her readers to share that close-up view, so she let them see the redbird couple busily building a nest in the old-fashioned pink Noisette rose on the fence. Or invited them to enjoy the sharp scent of garden mint along a wet flagstone path, listen to the whisper of the spring wind stirring the willow tree to life, and feel the soft, downy leaves of lamb’s ears and woolly mullein.

  After a while, she had decided that Dispatch readers must be sending clippings to their friends, because she started getting letters from all over the South—not just from Alabama, but from Florida and Georgia and Mississippi—asking gardening questions or telling her what they knew of the plants she had written about. Sometimes they sent her seeds and bulbs, too, which was nice. She would grow them, or try to, and take photographs to send to the donors.

  Now, Daffy jumped into her lap, purring comfortably, and she stroked him while she thought about next week’s column. This one would be a little different, for she was writing about the poinsettia perched on the corner of her writing table—the one Ryan Nichols had given her. It was different because of all the gardeners in Darling, only Aunt Hetty Little (who had quite a remarkable green thumb) had ever successfully raised them through several seasons. Also, the plant wasn’t native to Alabama. Or to the South, or even to the United States.

  In fact, Lizzy knew from her library research that the poinsettia had originally come from Mexico, where the Aztec Indians believed it to be magical. Unlike most of the other plants in their tropical forests, it was at its most beautiful during the shortest, darkest days of the year, when its leaves changed from green to a brilliant, startling red. The gods were said to have sent the poinsettia to remind people that transformation only comes out of darkness and difficulty. How much of this was fact and how much was fancy, she had no idea—but it seemed to her to be a lovely metaphor for their own dark times and the hope for new growth and brighter opportunities.

  With that in mind as the subject of her column, Lizzy took out the notes she had made at the library and settled down to work. She became deeply engrossed in what she was writing, and when she pulled the last sheet of paper out of the typewriter and glanced at her wristwatch, she saw to her surprise that it was nearly four o’clock. She stretched happily. The afternoon had flown by and it was almost time to—

  The doorbell rang.

  “Oh, drat,” Lizzy muttered crossly. She hoped it wasn’t her mother, coming across the street with an invitation to eat with her and Mr. Dunlap. Or Grady, insisting that she have supper with him and Grady Junior. And since she wasn’t expecting anybody, she was dressed in her sloppiest, most comfortable at-home clothes. Which wouldn’t matter to her mother. And she no longer needed to impress Grady.

  Actually, she didn’t want to see either of them—and she definitely didn’t want to go anywhere to eat. It was Saturday night, and she planned to wash her hair, jump into her flannel pajamas, and snuggle down under a quilt with Agatha Christie’s latest mystery, Murder on the Orient Express (which Verna had loaned her) while she listened to Music by Gershwin on the radio. She would tell whoever was knocking that she was not available.

  Irritably, she put Daffy on the floor and started down the stairs. The doorbell pealed again, and she answered under her breath. “Just hold your darn horses, will you? I’m coming as fast as I can.” She yanked the door open. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but now is not a good time—”

  It wasn’t Grady, and it definitely wasn’t her mother.

  It was Ryan Nichols. The man from the WPA, who had paid a surprise call back in October. The man who had sent the poinsettia.

  “Mr. Nichols!” Lizzy exclaimed, surprised and flustered. “How very . . . nice to see you. Won’t you come in?”

  He took off his brown fedora. His glance went from her mussed-up hair to her flannel pants. “I’m afraid I’m interrupting,” he said contritely. “I’m sorry. I should have telephoned.” He half turned away. “I’ll try again later.”

  “Oh, no, please.” Lizzy wished she weren’t wearing her grubbies. She must look a mess. She could feel her cheeks flushing as red as that poinsett
ia. “I thought you were my mother or Grady or—”

  She stopped herself. Why was she apologizing? The man had come unannounced. He might have caught her in her underwear. Fine, then. Just fine. She looked the way she looked. He could take what he got.

  “Come in,” she said. “It’s cold outside. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  Hat in hand, he stepped inside. In a clipped Yankee accent, he said, “A cup of coffee would be swell. Or tea. Whatever is convenient. If you’re sure I’m not—”

  “Not at all,” Lizzy said, and the thought crossed her mind—quite unexpectedly—that she was very glad that Mr. Nichols had dropped in, even without calling. She heard herself say, with more composure than she felt, “By the way, I owe you a big thanks for that lovely poinsettia. It just happens that I had already decided to write my Garden Gate column about the plant this week. Your gift arrived at exactly the right moment.” She held out her hand. “May I take your coat?”

  “I’m glad you liked it,” Mr. Nichols said. He took off his camel-colored overcoat and handed it to her. He was wearing a dark brown wool blazer and red polo shirt with khaki pants. He looked different—more rugged, more down-to-earth—than he had on his previous visit, when he was wearing a business suit.

  “I’m always a bit puzzled by poinsettias,” he went on. “How they’re persuaded to turn red just at Christmas, I mean. There must be a secret to it. Maybe your column will tell us what it is. I’d like to read it.”

  “It’ll be in next Friday’s Dispatch,” she said, as she hung his coat on the rack. “I’ll be sure to send you a clipping.”

  She turned toward the kitchen, disturbingly aware of his physical size. He was something over six feet and broad-shouldered, and he moved with a loose, athletic confidence. The blond hair that fell across his forehead was sun-bleached; his eyes, pale blue. His face was darkly tanned. He wasn’t handsome; his features—a firm jaw, high cheekbones, pale blue eyes—were too craggy for that. But there was a hint of ironic amusement in his eyes, an interrogative quirk to one eyebrow, and a come-and-go smile that took the edge off his quick Yankee speech. And when he sat down at the table, it was with a comfortable easiness that suggested that he had been there a dozen times before. Even Daffy, curling around his ankles, seemed to think he was a long-lost friend.