Read Online The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush by Susan Wittig Albert - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Wittig Albert
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added, “it doesn’t really matter, does it? You’re making out just fine.” The taste of the words in her mouth restored her contempt. Yeah, Mr. Charles Dickens was making out, all right. He was making
money
. Making counterfeit money with Mr. Alvin Duffy to save the town from drying up and blowing away. “What do you care what Fannie Champaign does or doesn’t do?”
His mouth twisted and he pushed his full plate away. “I
don’t
care,” he gritted. “I don’t give a good goddamn, and don’t you dare tell her I do.”
He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a quarter and two nickels, and slapped them down on the counter. He got off the stool and went to the door, fumbling to get it open, then remembered his hat and fumbled it onto his head before he managed to get the door open again and went out, slamming it behind him. Myra May looked after him. She still felt contempt, but at the same time she was feeling sad and sorry for what she’d done.
J.D. leaned over, hooked Charlie’s plate with a gnarled right hand, and slid it toward him. “No point in lettin’ good chicken livers and mashed potatoes go to waste,” he said. “Seein’ as how they’re areddy paid for.” He picked up his fork and dug in.
“Order’s up,” Raylene called from the kitchen. Still thinking about Charlie Dickens and Fannie Champaign, Myra May went to the pass-through, put the plates and a full coffeepot on a large tray, and headed back to the corner table, where Jed Snow and Mr. Duffy were continuing to talk, their heads together.
She set the plates on the table and was about to refill Mr. Duffy’s coffee mug when the nearby door to the Telephone Exchange opened and Violet came out. She glanced around as if she was looking for someone, until she saw Jed. Then her eyes went to Mr. Duffy, and she came toward the table.
“Are you Mr. Alvin Duffy?” she asked tentatively.
Mr. Duffy looked up. His eyes lightened when he looked at Violet. “I am. And why are you asking, pretty little lady?”
Pretty little lady?
Myra May almost snorted. What kind of flattery was that? Violet knew how to put that jerk in his place.
But to Myra May’s surprise, she saw that Violet had lowered her head and was blushing. “Because you’ve got a telephone call at the switchboard. It’s long distance, from New Orleans. I guess the person who’s answering your telephone at the bank knew you were coming here for lunch.”
This sort of thing happened often. Myra May herself had once tracked Doc Roberts to the billiard parlor, where he’d had to finish his game in a hurry and deliver Sadie Frey’s twins. And just last Monday, she had called Levinia Frost on behalf of Mrs. Hancock at the grocery store, who wanted to know if Levinia would go next door and ask Mr. Biggens (who had no telephone) if he had any early strawberries he wouldn’t mind selling. Mrs. Burden, who was on Levinia’s party line, picked up the phone and volunteered that her daughter had some and would be glad to bring them in. The Telephone Exchange kept everybody in touch, one way or another.
“Ah, yes,” Mr. Duffy said, putting his napkin down and pushing his chair back. “The call I’ve been waiting for.” He looked at Jed. “A lot hangs on this call, Mayor Snow. I wouldn’t go so far as to say the future of Darling, but that just might be the case.” He stood up and put his hand on Violet’s arm. “Would it be all right if I take the call at the switchboard, Miss—?”
“Sims,” Violet said, with a smile that showed her dimples. She raised her eyes to Mr. Duffy’s face and Myra May thought that the blush in her cheeks had deepened. “Come on back. I’ll get you all fixed up with a headset.”
“Wonderful! Lead on, Miss Sims. It is
Miss
Sims, isn’t it?” He fished in his pocket. “And here’s a dime for my phone call.”
“Oh, you don’t need to do that, Mr. Duffy,” Violet said. She gave him another quick smile. “It’s on the house.”
Myra
money
. Making counterfeit money with Mr. Alvin Duffy to save the town from drying up and blowing away. “What do you care what Fannie Champaign does or doesn’t do?”
His mouth twisted and he pushed his full plate away. “I
don’t
care,” he gritted. “I don’t give a good goddamn, and don’t you dare tell her I do.”
He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a quarter and two nickels, and slapped them down on the counter. He got off the stool and went to the door, fumbling to get it open, then remembered his hat and fumbled it onto his head before he managed to get the door open again and went out, slamming it behind him. Myra May looked after him. She still felt contempt, but at the same time she was feeling sad and sorry for what she’d done.
J.D. leaned over, hooked Charlie’s plate with a gnarled right hand, and slid it toward him. “No point in lettin’ good chicken livers and mashed potatoes go to waste,” he said. “Seein’ as how they’re areddy paid for.” He picked up his fork and dug in.
“Order’s up,” Raylene called from the kitchen. Still thinking about Charlie Dickens and Fannie Champaign, Myra May went to the pass-through, put the plates and a full coffeepot on a large tray, and headed back to the corner table, where Jed Snow and Mr. Duffy were continuing to talk, their heads together.
She set the plates on the table and was about to refill Mr. Duffy’s coffee mug when the nearby door to the Telephone Exchange opened and Violet came out. She glanced around as if she was looking for someone, until she saw Jed. Then her eyes went to Mr. Duffy, and she came toward the table.
“Are you Mr. Alvin Duffy?” she asked tentatively.
Mr. Duffy looked up. His eyes lightened when he looked at Violet. “I am. And why are you asking, pretty little lady?”
Pretty little lady?
Myra May almost snorted. What kind of flattery was that? Violet knew how to put that jerk in his place.
But to Myra May’s surprise, she saw that Violet had lowered her head and was blushing. “Because you’ve got a telephone call at the switchboard. It’s long distance, from New Orleans. I guess the person who’s answering your telephone at the bank knew you were coming here for lunch.”
This sort of thing happened often. Myra May herself had once tracked Doc Roberts to the billiard parlor, where he’d had to finish his game in a hurry and deliver Sadie Frey’s twins. And just last Monday, she had called Levinia Frost on behalf of Mrs. Hancock at the grocery store, who wanted to know if Levinia would go next door and ask Mr. Biggens (who had no telephone) if he had any early strawberries he wouldn’t mind selling. Mrs. Burden, who was on Levinia’s party line, picked up the phone and volunteered that her daughter had some and would be glad to bring them in. The Telephone Exchange kept everybody in touch, one way or another.
“Ah, yes,” Mr. Duffy said, putting his napkin down and pushing his chair back. “The call I’ve been waiting for.” He looked at Jed. “A lot hangs on this call, Mayor Snow. I wouldn’t go so far as to say the future of Darling, but that just might be the case.” He stood up and put his hand on Violet’s arm. “Would it be all right if I take the call at the switchboard, Miss—?”
“Sims,” Violet said, with a smile that showed her dimples. She raised her eyes to Mr. Duffy’s face and Myra May thought that the blush in her cheeks had deepened. “Come on back. I’ll get you all fixed up with a headset.”
“Wonderful! Lead on, Miss Sims. It is
Miss
Sims, isn’t it?” He fished in his pocket. “And here’s a dime for my phone call.”
“Oh, you don’t need to do that, Mr. Duffy,” Violet said. She gave him another quick smile. “It’s on the house.”
Myra
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