The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose Read Online Free Page B

shouldn’t be leaking again,” Verna replied bleakly.
    “It never rains but it pours,” Bessie said sadly, shaking her head. “I hope it’s not an omen.”
    But it was. The Dahlias didn’t know it, but things were going to get worse before they got better.
    Much, much worse.

TWO
    Verna

    The storm had indeed blown over by the time the Dahlias left for home, and as Verna and Ophelia walked together down Rosemont, they were treated to the beautiful sight of gardens after the rain. Diamond drops sparkled amid the blossoms of dogwoods and crabapple and the floppy pink and white blooms of cabbage roses and peonies hanging heavy with wet.
    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