Excerpt from The Flower Sisters by Michelle Collins Anderson, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Violet! Thought you'd skipped out on us." Fern and Ginger edged in beside her, one on each side.

"Can I bum a cigarette?" Fern Watson was always well turned out, with stylish dresses and shoes to match. But a closer look revealed ragged cuticles and nibbled nail polish, and her dark brown mass of natural curls may or may not have been combed all the way through underneath. Fern was a little haphazard, the type who would forget her head if it weren't attached, which was why she never carried a purse. But she had an easy charm about her—much like her father, the Mayor—and felt no compunction about asking for smokes, rides or even the answers to her math homework.

Ginger sighed and tapped out a cigarette for Fern before placing her own between her bright red lips and lighting it. Her family owned the pharmacy, so she always had the latest lipsticks and powders to help compensate for her plain features. Not to mention cigarettes. And a pocketbook full of cash.

"Dash is on the prowl for you. It's almost intermission." Ginger released a lazy cloud of blue smoke through her nostrils with a sidelong look. "I don't know how you keep up with that boy."

"Yes, do tell, Violet." Fern's giggle was punctuated by a couple of hacking coughs as she choked on her last inexpert inhale.

"Oh, we all have our little secrets." She fingered the locket at her throat, reminding herself that she belonged here.

"Until he gets bored with your little secret and wants to uncover someone else's." Here, Ginger gave a lazy, feline grin.

"Well, it definitely won't be yours." She watched Fern's jaw drop and Ginger's kohl-rimmed eyes widen slightly. That felt good. "Tootles, gals. See you on the dance floor."

Dash Emmonds was stinking drunk. Not that it was anything unusual, especially on a Friday night. He noticed it after the Lindy, when he attempted a low bow to his dance partner of the moment, Hazel, and had a hard time pulling his upper body vertical again. She reached for his arm to help right him, letting her hand rest there for a couple of beats too long. His eyes bounced around a bit before settling on her face. A nice face with a lovely mouth. Forgetting himself, he continued down her neck—long and pale—to her breasts, which seemed bound tightly beneath the shapeless, sparkly dress. Why did these girls want to look like boys these days? He liked curves, he couldn't help himself. Anything but the straight and narrow for Dash Emmonds.

Hazel was blushing when he finally looked up, but her eyes didn't waver from his. Definitely something he wanted to keep in mind when this thing with Violet went south, as he knew it inevitably would. He wasn't the going-steady type. Scratch that. He wasn't the going-steady-for-long type.

"Bye, toots." He caught Hazel's hand up in his and put it to his lips and then headed crookedly for the door. He nodded at Mo and Dale, who had started up a slow, lazy tune and caught the eye of Beebe Monroe, who peered at him over the top of her upright piano and winked. Where was Violet, anyway? How long can it take to smoke a damn cigarette?

The dance floor was filling up again as he pushed past the crowd at the bar and the coat-check counter and through the open door at last. He reached up and straightened his tie and then smoothed his hair back with his hands except one dark blond curl, which he allowed to fall onto his forehead. More than one girl had let him know she liked that curl, starting with his own mother, who used to train the lock of hair with a lick of spit and her forefinger. His father had shaken his head against their vanity, Dash's and his mother's, but then, his father was against most everything: pride, envy, vanity, gluttony, drunkenness, dancing, sex (not that he ever said that word out loud). Everything fun, anyway. God, he hated being a PK: preacher's kid. He was twenty-five now—practically an old man—with no real prospects. Most of his buddies had gone to college and were either back in town learning the family business or off to the big cities—St. Louis, Kansas City, Chicago—to seek their fortunes. He'd tried college, too, which he had loved right up until the moment he flunked out. And to his father's unvarnished disappointment, he wanted nothing to do with God or the church. As far as Dash was concerned, religion was for the stupid, the unimaginative and the chicken-hearted. People who were too afraid to admit there wasn't anything after this life and spent their time banking their prayers and good deeds in hopes of eternal reward. He was having none of it. He'd take his rewards now, thank you very much.

Excerpted from The Flower Sisters by Michelle Collins Anderson. Copyright © 2024 by Michelle Collins Anderson. Excerpted by permission of A John Scognamiglio Book. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.