The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies by Susan Wittig Albert Page B
Authors: Susan Wittig Albert
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Beauchamp’s Cadillac came around the courthouse square on Dauphin and cruised down the block toward them, slowing so that Mr. Beauchamp could have another look. As Lightning turned onto Rosemont, to begin another circuit around the square, Mr. Beauchamp tipped his hat and gave Miss LaMotte a flirtatious smile.
Miss LaMotte turned away, pretending not to notice. She faced Verna, lifting her chin. “I am sorry,” she said sharply, ignoring Verna’s outthrust hand, “but you are mistaken. You are confusing me with someone else. My name is Nona Jean Jamison. I am staying with my aunt here in Darling.”
“Yes, Miss Jamison,” Verna said, feeling rebuffed. She put her hand (her nails really were a little grubby) into her skirt pocket. “I understand that you’re Miss Hamer’s niece, and that you grew up over in Monroeville. But my husband Walter—he’s dead now—and I saw you at the New Amsterdam on West Forty-second Street with Walter’s cousin Gerald. Gerald is from Monroeville, too. So he knew who you were—although he said he would never in the world have recognized you.” She smiled reminiscently. “You and Miss Lake were the Naughty and Nice Sisters. You danced the shimmy, and Miss Lake sang and played the mandolin and made funny jokes. I just want you to know that my husband Walter enjoyed it so much. It was all he talked about on the train back to—”
Miss LaMotte stamped her foot. “I said,” she cried shrilly, “that you are wrong! Wrong, do you hear? I have never been in the theater, and I don’t know a thing about Mr. Ziegfeld’s shows or dancing and singing! I should like to go on about my business now. And I’m sure you have something else to do besides accosting perfect strangers.” Chin up, shoulders straight, clutching her handbag and the paper sack Mr. Lima had given her, she turned away.
But not before Verna saw the shadow of fear in her eyes.
FOUR
Saturday Night in Darling, or Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries
Over the summer, Grady had taught Lizzy to drive his blue Ford coupe and encouraged her to practice whenever they went out. She was saving her money to buy a car, but that would take a while. In the meantime, she could ride her bicycle or walk anywhere she wanted to go in Darling and the surrounding countryside. Her house was only a couple of blocks from the courthouse square, around which most of the town’s businesses were located, including the law office where Lizzy worked, upstairs over the newspaper office.
Directly opposite the Dispatch building, in the middle of the square, stood the Cypress County Courthouse, an imposing two-story red brick building with a bell tower and a white-painted dome with a clock that struck every hour. The courthouse, built in 1905, was surrounded by a ragged brown apron of scuffed grass bordered with bright summer annuals: marigolds, zinnias, nasturtiums, cosmos, and the like. The flowers were planted, watered, and weeded by the Darling Dahlias for everyone in town to see and enjoy. The Dahlias believed that when times were hard, a few flower seeds could go a long way toward making people feel better, and they put that belief into practice wherever they could. Times were definitely hard in Darling these days, although folks who had been up north or back east said it was a lot worse in the big cities, where people were mostly strangers to one another and had to rely on the Salvation Army soup kitchens for food and Red Cross shelters when they didn’t have a place to sleep. “We’d rather be in Darling than anywhere else,” those folks said when they got back home, “especially when things are bad.”
Darlingians generally agreed. Of course, there were the usual complainers, who didn’t like this or that or the other thing. But for the most part, people thought their little town was a fine place to live. It was located in the gently rolling hills seventy miles north of Mobile—a full half-day drive away, more, if the roads were
Miss LaMotte turned away, pretending not to notice. She faced Verna, lifting her chin. “I am sorry,” she said sharply, ignoring Verna’s outthrust hand, “but you are mistaken. You are confusing me with someone else. My name is Nona Jean Jamison. I am staying with my aunt here in Darling.”
“Yes, Miss Jamison,” Verna said, feeling rebuffed. She put her hand (her nails really were a little grubby) into her skirt pocket. “I understand that you’re Miss Hamer’s niece, and that you grew up over in Monroeville. But my husband Walter—he’s dead now—and I saw you at the New Amsterdam on West Forty-second Street with Walter’s cousin Gerald. Gerald is from Monroeville, too. So he knew who you were—although he said he would never in the world have recognized you.” She smiled reminiscently. “You and Miss Lake were the Naughty and Nice Sisters. You danced the shimmy, and Miss Lake sang and played the mandolin and made funny jokes. I just want you to know that my husband Walter enjoyed it so much. It was all he talked about on the train back to—”
Miss LaMotte stamped her foot. “I said,” she cried shrilly, “that you are wrong! Wrong, do you hear? I have never been in the theater, and I don’t know a thing about Mr. Ziegfeld’s shows or dancing and singing! I should like to go on about my business now. And I’m sure you have something else to do besides accosting perfect strangers.” Chin up, shoulders straight, clutching her handbag and the paper sack Mr. Lima had given her, she turned away.
But not before Verna saw the shadow of fear in her eyes.
FOUR
Saturday Night in Darling, or Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries
Over the summer, Grady had taught Lizzy to drive his blue Ford coupe and encouraged her to practice whenever they went out. She was saving her money to buy a car, but that would take a while. In the meantime, she could ride her bicycle or walk anywhere she wanted to go in Darling and the surrounding countryside. Her house was only a couple of blocks from the courthouse square, around which most of the town’s businesses were located, including the law office where Lizzy worked, upstairs over the newspaper office.
Directly opposite the Dispatch building, in the middle of the square, stood the Cypress County Courthouse, an imposing two-story red brick building with a bell tower and a white-painted dome with a clock that struck every hour. The courthouse, built in 1905, was surrounded by a ragged brown apron of scuffed grass bordered with bright summer annuals: marigolds, zinnias, nasturtiums, cosmos, and the like. The flowers were planted, watered, and weeded by the Darling Dahlias for everyone in town to see and enjoy. The Dahlias believed that when times were hard, a few flower seeds could go a long way toward making people feel better, and they put that belief into practice wherever they could. Times were definitely hard in Darling these days, although folks who had been up north or back east said it was a lot worse in the big cities, where people were mostly strangers to one another and had to rely on the Salvation Army soup kitchens for food and Red Cross shelters when they didn’t have a place to sleep. “We’d rather be in Darling than anywhere else,” those folks said when they got back home, “especially when things are bad.”
Darlingians generally agreed. Of course, there were the usual complainers, who didn’t like this or that or the other thing. But for the most part, people thought their little town was a fine place to live. It was located in the gently rolling hills seventy miles north of Mobile—a full half-day drive away, more, if the roads were
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