The Sweetest Thing

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The Sweetest Thing

Copyright © 2011

Elizabeth Musser

Cover design by Andrea Gjeldum

Cover photography by Malgorzata Maj/Trevillion Images

E-book edition created 2011

Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

Scripture quotations identified ESV are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version,® copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

www.bethanyhouse.com

Bethany House Publishers is a division of

Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

ISBN 978-1-4412-3232-8

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

This story is dedicated to four amazing women:

Valerie Ravan Andrews

Margaret Coggins DeBorde

Kim Levy Huhman

and

Laura Hendrix McDaniel

We've laughed and cried together through

grade school, high school, college, and adult life;

we've shared secrets and dreams with each other;

you've challenged me, inspired me,

prayed for me, believed in me, and loved me.

Friendship doesn't get any sweeter than that.

Merci!
I love you all.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Ads

Back Cover

CHAPTER

1

Perri

I met Dobbs on the day my world fell apart. It was 1933 and most everyone else's world in the good ol' United States of America had fallen apart years ago. But I had survived virtually unscathed for four years. The Depression, as far as I could tell, had hardly invaded my niche of paradise.

And then it came to a screeching halt, along with Herbert Hoover—on the last day of his presidency. The banks died, and so did my world.

It didn't start off as a terrible day. In fact, it felt as if there was electricity in the air. I slept in late that Saturday—I had gone to a fraternity party over at Georgia Tech the night before, and I was worn out. Mamma woke me at ten, as I'd asked, and after gobbling down my grits and eggs, I joined my whole family in the dining room, where our radio sat perched on the buffet.

The announcers were in a ruckus of excitement, describing the scene there in Washington, D.C. “There are crowds and crowds here stretching across ten acres of lawn and pavement, all awaiting the president-elect. . . .”

Mamma and Daddy and my younger siblings, Barbara and Irvin, and I scooted as close as we could to the radio. Jimmy and Dellareen, our servants, were there, too, with their five children. Mamma had invited them over on that Saturday—they usually only worked for us on the weekdays—to hear Mr. Roosevelt being sworn in.

It was as if America were holding her breath, waiting to see if maybe this new president could save us from ourselves. I felt a nervous anticipation and Mamma kept her society smile plastered on her face, but Daddy did not try to hide his dark mood. That very morning, March 4, 1933, every last bank in America had closed its doors, and Daddy was a banker. The country was afraid—or maybe
terrified
was a better word.

As we waited for the speech to begin, Mamma went over to Daddy and pecked him on the cheek. “Holden, I believe Mr. Roosevelt is going to get us back on track.”

“It's too late, Dot” was Daddy's reply.

Typical
, I thought, irritated that he might spoil the drama of the moment. I guess Daddy had every reason to be pessimistic. As one of the heads at Georgia Trust Bank, he looked at the economic situation with little hope for a miracle cure—no more reliable than the fancy elixirs that Jacobs' Drugstore proposed at the soda fountain.

“He's simply a charmer, that Mr. Roosevelt,” Daddy said to Mamma. “He's never said one practical thing about how he is going to change things. His speeches are optimistic rhetoric with a little humor mixed in. No one knows the man.”

Mamma patted Daddy's hand and gave a little shrug. We could hear music in the background, and every once in a while the announcer cut away to a commercial about Coca-Cola or Sears and Roebuck Company or Haverty's Furniture. Finally it was time for the new president to speak. Dellareen hushed up two of her little boys who were squabbling on the floor. I sat on the dining room table, my feet propped in Irvin's lap, and no one told me to get down.

I think we were all praying for a miracle. Everybody in the United States needed a miracle. Bankers and servants and everybody in between. Republicans and Democrats, old people and young. Personally I was happy to see Herbert Hoover leave office. I'd had enough of “Hoovervilles” and a hundred other things we had mocked the poor president for. The thought of change excited me.

Mr. Roosevelt's voice crackled across the radio lines, and we all leaned forward a little more.

. . . This great nation will endure as it has endured, will revive and will prosper. So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself—nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance. . . .

We all listened, enraptured—except perhaps for Daddy—by the voice of Mr. Roosevelt, his paternal tone reassuring, confident, pronouncing words I thought could produce miracles.

“And he embodied that strength and optimism by pulling himself out of the wheelchair and making his shriveled-up legs walk across the stage to the podium,” the announcer ranted after the speech ended.

I hoped that the new president's speech had buoyed dear Daddy's spirits. I had watched his mood grow more and more morose over recent months. My father often confided in me—things about his business, which I found fascinating. But lately he'd spent a lot of time alone in his study, and the night before I had overheard him arguing with Mamma about the banks closing.

Mamma had a positive outlook on life, which helped soothe my brooding father. His moods were as dark as his hair—hair that was black without a trace of gray. I thought it odd that my father, so often melancholic, looked young and vital, while Mamma had rings under her pretty green eyes, and her dark blond hair needed dyeing every other month, an extravagance that we had never thought extravagant until Daddy had come home the month before angry and forbidden poor Mamma to go to the beauty parlor.

Mamma was resourceful and figured out a way to get her hair cut and dyed on her own—Dellareen knew lots about fixing white ladies' hair. I'd watched Dellareen preparing her concoction and hoped to heavens it worked, so my Atlanta friends wouldn't think that the Singleton family had fallen on hard times.

That Saturday in early March, Mr. Roosevelt had soothed the nation with his words, and I actually felt hopeful. I had friends, parties to attend, and dates galore, and now the new president was somehow going to fix the nation's economy. And the banks. Oh, please, the banks, especially Daddy's.

“Perri, I'd really like for you to go with me to the train station in a little while,” Mamma said after lunch. Irvin had scooted out to play baseball with friends at the park, Barbara was over at her friend Lulu's house, and Daddy had retired to his study.

I wanted to walk down the street to see my friend Mae Pearl and ask her what she thought of Roosevelt's speech. I made a face. “Aw, Mom. Why?”

“Josephine Chandler is going to pick up her niece who's arriving from Chicago. She'll be staying at the Chandlers' for the rest of the year and is going to attend Washington Seminary.”

“Starting school now—in
March
?”

“I think her family's come on hard times, and Mrs. Chandler has offered for the girl to live with her and get an education.”

Everyone has fallen on hard times,
I thought, a little frustrated with Mamma for ruining my afternoon plans. But this girl was lucky. The Chandlers lived in the biggest house in the neighborhood and had parties almost every week in the summer, and loads of girls I knew would have given up iced tea in August to spend time in the Chandler home.

“Holden, we're gonna take the Buick to the Chandlers',” Mamma called back to Daddy. He must have grunted his approval because the next thing I knew we were driving down Wesley Road toward Peachtree in Daddy's two-door Buick Victory Coupe. Daddy was so proud of that car that he hardly ever let Mamma drive.

He's in a good mood on account of Mr. Roosevelt,
I thought.

Mamma, always a little nervous behind the wheel, made me nervous, too, but I tried not to show it. Mrs. Chandler was waiting for us, her driver ready to take us in the Pierce Arrow convertible to the train station. Oh, it was an elegant car! She climbed in the front passenger seat, and Mamma and I huddled together in the back as the breeze of early spring tousled our hair, lifting and twirling it like new leaves on a dogwood tree.

“Her name is Mary Dobbs Dillard. She's sixteen or seventeen and will be in your class at school, Perri.” Mrs. Chandler turned in her seat to speak to us, and her perfectly coiffed hair blew slightly in the wind. “I hadn't seen her in years, and then I went up to Chicago last fall and found her there with my brother and his wife and their other children in a very difficult situation. I insisted she come down here. She's quite intelligent and deserves a good education.

“My brother, Billy, bless his soul, he means well. All kinds of benevolent ideas to help others, but it seemed to me like his family was starving while he handed out his charity. I wanted the two younger sisters to come as well, but Billy's wife, Ginnie, said they were too young to live away from home.”

I pictured Mrs. Chandler's niece in my mind—skinny, hollow-eyed, meek, hungry—and imagined that Mrs. Chandler's brother looked something like the subject of the masterful photograph by Dorothea Lange—my heroine in those years—called “White Angel Breadline.” It showed a group of beat-up men, old-looking but probably not old, waiting in a breadline, and it focused on one man, facing the camera, a worn hat on his head and a tin cup cradled in his arms. He was leaning on a fence, and he looked completely destitute.

We pulled up to the elegant Terminal Station, with its arches and tall towers, and Mrs. Chandler, Mamma, and I hurried into the station and found the track where the destitute girl of my imagination was scheduled to arrive. A few minutes later, in a mist of steam and fog, Mary Dobbs Dillard stepped off the train, and I gasped.

My first sight of her was spellbinding. Mary Dobbs was the most gorgeous girl I had ever laid eyes on, but in a strange, unorthodox way. She had softly tanned skin—not at all the perfect pale that we considered stylish—and thick, wavy black hair that she wore loose to her waist. Her eyes were black—truly, big black oval onyx stones—and her face was a perfect oval too, with high cheekbones and skin that had never known a blemish, I was certain. She was small-boned and not particularly tall, but she looked strong, a determined kind of strong. She wore a faded dark blue cotton dress that hung all wrong on her thin, thin frame.

Maybe her family had fallen on hard times, but she did not look meek. She stood straight up, shoulders back, and had an expression of wonder on her lovely face.

“Hello, Mary Dobbs,” Mrs. Chandler said, giving her niece a friendly pat on the back.

Mary Dobbs set down a small suitcase, off-white, scuffed, and well used, to say the least, and threw her arms around Mrs. Chandler and hugged her tightly. “It is so, so good to be here, Aunt Josie!”

Wearing a startled expression, Mrs. Chandler politely undid herself from Mary Dobbs's embrace and said, “I'm so glad you made it safely.” Then she turned to Mamma and me and said, “Mary Dobbs, I want you to meet dear friends of mine, Mrs. Singleton and her daughter Perri.”

Mary Dobbs surveyed us, gave a warm smile that showed a perfect row of teeth, and reached out and took my hand, shaking it up and down forcefully. “Nice to meet you,” she said, and added in a whisper to me, “I've dropped
Mary
. I just go by
Dobbs
now.”

Our eyes met, briefly, and I felt my face go red.

“Well, Mary Dobbs,” Mrs. Chandler said, “I'll get my chauffeur to retrieve your bags.”

She motioned to the driver, but before he could start up the steps to the train, Dobbs shook her head, pointed to the worn suitcase, and said, “This is all I have.”

Again Mrs. Chandler seemed surprised, but she recovered quickly and said, “Well, if this is all, then I suppose we can be going.” The driver picked up the suitcase and headed out of the train station, with us following.

On the way home, I sat in the back seat with Mamma on one side and Dobbs on the other. I watched, fascinated, as Dobbs's long black mane flew out behind her like a flag in the May Day Parade. I didn't know another girl with long hair.

Mamma gave me a little nudge in the side, which meant,
Say something, Perri!
So I asked, “Have you ever been to Atlanta?”

“Once or twice, a long time ago. I don't remember much, but my father has described parts of Atlanta to me.”

“He's from here?”

Dobbs looked at me with suspicion. “Well, yes. My father is Mrs. Chandler's brother. He grew up in the house she lives in now.”

My face heated.
Of course. What a stupid question!

I wanted to tell her she was amazingly lucky to be living in that huge house, but that would not have been polite. For whatever other faults I had, I did know I must be polite, especially with Mamma sitting in the seat beside me. I also wanted to ask Dobbs about her life in Chicago, but considering what Mrs. Chandler had said about their situation, I didn't think that would be polite either.

So we sat in silence.

Mamma turned to me and tried to make conversation. “Perri dear, why don't you tell Mary Dobbs a little about your school, the girls in your class? I'm sure she's eager to hear about it.”

I scowled a little. She didn't seem eager; she seemed
overeager
, her eyes wide with enthusiasm, and that annoyed me. “Washington Seminary is the name of the school. I guess you know that—”

Dobbs cut in, “Oh yes! Washington Seminary—and it's not a seminary at all. It's ‘an efficient and beautiful school for girls'—something like that. There are thirty experienced teachers and four courses leading to graduation, and you have a French club and a Spanish club and all kinds of sports—basketball and field hockey and a swim team—and May Day festivities . . .”

I stared at her with my mouth open. She sounded like an advertisement for the school as she spoke with an accent that was certainly not Southern.

She gave me a warm smile and said, “Aunt Josie sent me last year's yearbook. I've read it through.
Facts and Fancies.
”

“Oh. Well then, I guess you know everything there is to know. Nothing much I can add.”

Mamma glanced at me with disapproval in her eyes, and I shrugged.

“No, I don't know everything,” Dobbs said sweetly. “Of course not. Tell me something about yourself.”

I did not want to talk to this effervescent girl, but Mother nudged me in the ribs. I rolled my eyes. “I'm seventeen, in the junior class—there are thirty-two of us—I write for
Facts and Fancies,
and I'm a photographer. I head up the Red Cross Club, I'm vice-president of the junior class, and I'm in the Phi Pi sorority. I love parties and my circle of friends attends two or three a week. Dances, you know, and all the swell boys are there from the boys' high school, which has the most boring name in the world—Boys High—and from the colleges in Atlanta—Georgia Tech and Emory and Oglethorpe. And several girls in my class are pinned.