The Wedding Dress (10 page)

April 30, 1912

Dear Daniel,

I think of you, wondering where you are, praying you are well and safe. I wish you’d write to me. I miss you terribly. Who can make me laugh when I’m feeling blue? Father tries, but I’m immune to his old stories now. They only tickle Mother’s funny bone.

Yesterday, Mother and I shopped downtown, then came home to work the garden with Molly. It was a glorious day and brought to mind our walks on the campus quad.

Emily slammed the diary closed. The rest of the entry was merely pouring out her heart to herself, trying to make sense of her feelings. When Daniel left she knew she love Kknethe entry d him, but in the passing weeks, she’d started to doubt.

Perhaps it was divine that he departed, choosing baseball over her. Phillip called on her a few weeks later and invited her to attend the Black and White Ball.

The invitation seemed more than fortuitous. It appeared divine, indeed.

Shoving her book back to its hiding place, Emily burrowed under her coverlet and sank deep into the feathery mattress, stretching her legs against the clean sheets.

A spark of ire toward Father made her bolt up in bed. Emily shoved her hair away from her face and hammered the quilt with her fist. How different this night might be if she
had
received Daniel’s letters. She plopped back down into her pillows and reached for the bedside lamp. Darkness rose in the room as the light faded.

She was engaged. And she’d be true to Phillip with her word
and
her heart.

Charlotte

Charlotte balanced Starbucks lattes in her hand along with a bag of pastries as she unlocked the shop’s back door, crossing through the old utility room to the kitchen. She set breakfast on the kitchenette table, shook her arm awake, and went back to her blue Cabrio for the box of unused invitations.

“Dix?” It was five minutes ’til opening, and the lights were on and the music played. Bach this morning and his sweet tones fitting for violins. “Dixie? I brought coffee. And food.”

Charlotte angled into the shop, listening for the thunder of her friend’s footsteps. But silence answered.
Hmm
, she must be upstairs.

Back in the kitchen, Charlotte dropped the invitations to the kitchen floor and reached for her latte. She had plans for those invites. Dumpster plans. But first, her breakfast.

She had a new lease on life. Yes, she did. Starting over could be good, a chance to shake things up, get focused. Maybe attend a bridal show in New York or L.A. Even better? Paris. She’d planned on a Paris trip this year until Tim swept her off her feet.

Bray-Lindsay had extended her a standing invitation and she had yet to accept.

After Tim left and Charlotte wept her soul raw, she’d managed a midnight call to Dixie, begging her to open the shop in the morning even though it was her day to come in late. “I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll sleep in.”

But Charlotte didn’t sleep much.

“Dixie, hey, where are you?” Charlotte K”t sil walked toward the sales counter, checking the stairs and second-floor landing. The cash register was up and ready. But locked. Good. “Are you upstairs?” Charlotte stooped by the main display gown to perfect the flow of the chapel train.

“Charlotte, you’re here.” Dixie came around the corner, from the direction of the reveal salon. She grabbed Charlotte’s hand and pulled her along. “Close your eyes.”

“And run into the wall? No thanks. What’s going on? I brought lattes and pastries.”

“Okay, great, but first, close your eyes.”

Charlotte skidded along with Dixie, her knees trembling. The high-octane adrenaline of “taking her life back” that fueled her morning shower and Starbucks drive-through was evaporating. And the depleting fumes of hope, of tomorrow being another day, ran thin. She’d fooled herself into believing this was a fresh new day. Forget Tim Rose. Tim who?

No, today gripped her heart with a hard, sad fist.
It’s over. Love done gone
. “Dix, really, I’m not in the mood.” She paused at the reveal salon door. “Whatever you’re up to, I’m not doing it.”

Though Charlotte crawled out of bed early, turned on a low lamp, filled a tumbler with Diet Coke, and read John 15.

Apart from me, you can do nothing
.

She could do anything if she believed.

“You’re going to love this,” Dixie said. “You know how you introduced Kristin to her dress. Well, after five years of standing under your genius shadow, your fairy dust fell on me, and I’ve found
the
perfect gown for you.”

“No, Dix, really, I can’t.”

“You promised me. This week. And I put a call into that man of yours and left a message I’d be there at his office around three with a half-dozen tuxes for him and David to try. Ha! You have to get up pretty early to keep ole Dixie down. Hey, was that a song? Anyway, there’s more than one way to tux a groom and I found it.” Dixie backed through the salon door, shoving it open, pulling Charlotte with her. “Keep those baby blues closed, Charlotte.”

No, no, no. “Dixie, wait, listen to me—”

“Stop protesting. Hold on, let me get you into position.” Dixie shifted Charlotte a little to the right, squaring her shoulders. “Open your eyes.” Dixie swooped in front of her, arms high and wide. “Ta-da.”

On the reveal stage was a simple satin gown with an Italian-lace band at the waist, trimmed in pearls. The elbow-length sleeves touched the top of long white gloves. Tulle and crinoline held out the Cinderella skirt that swept into a shimmering cathe Kmmend atdral train.

“Oh, Dixie, it is beautiful.” Charlotte battled tears for a second, then gave up. The lights danced over the pristine satin and caught the incandescence of the pearls. If she were getting married, indeed Dixie had found Charlotte’s dress.

“I know June isn’t a month for gloves, but I thought they completed the look. Do you like it, really? Cap sleeves aren’t
in
style, per se, but this dress just speaks to me. Does it you? I tell you, I don’t know how you reach into a woman’s heart and pull out the perfect gown for her. But you do. I know you better than I know anyone other than Dr. Hotstuff, but I struggled to project your essence into this gown. Well?” Dixie exhaled, eyes wide.

“I told you, my gift is from God.” Charlotte’s voice broke, but she recovered as Dixie stepped toward her.

“Do you love it? I do. Come on, boss, tell me, how’d I do?”

“Excellent, you did excellent. It’s . . . perfect. But please put it back on the rack. I won’t be wearing it.” Charlotte turned to leave.

“What? Charlotte, come on, this dress has your name on it. See, right there in the pearly light . . .
Charlotte Malone
. Give me one good reason why you can’t get married in this dress.”

“Because, Dix, I’m not getting married.” She held up her bare ring hand. “Please, put it away.”

“Charlotte, good grief, what happened?” Dixie trailed Charlotte out of the room. “You’re not getting married? Did you break up with him?”

“No, actually, he broke up with me.” Charlotte rounded the shop’s flared staircase, heading for the kitchen and the comfort of her latte and coffee cake. “He said he wanted to postpone the wedding for a while. I said we get married or we break up.” She shrugged. “So, yeah, I guess I did. But he didn’t fight me . . .”

“Oh, dear friend, I’m . . . I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it. Did he say why he wanted to wait?” Dixie’s soft tone sympathized with Charlotte’s feelings. “This makes no sense, no sense at all. He just doesn’t feel ready? Everyone gets cold feet. I had icicles for toes before Hotstuff and I got married. So what? Tim fell head over heels in love and kept falling until he tumbled right on out? I don’t get it.” Dixie waved off the pastry Charlotte offered.

Spoken in those terms, it didn’t make sense. But, in the deep dark of her heart, something felt right about this. And that, in and of itself, felt wrong. Charlotte sat at the kitchenette and took a small bite of her coffee cake, weary from her boomerang emotions. The pastry looked so good when she was in Starbucks. But at the moment, the sweet bread tasted like cardboard.

“Are you okay, Charlotte?” Dixie pressed Charlotte’s arm and pulled a chair up beside her. “I’m s Kr. onto sorry this is happening.”

“I didn’t sleep well.” Charlotte tossed her breakfast to the napkin on the table. “I woke up and read my Bible, but Jesus doesn’t say much on how to tell if a guy is the right one. I wanted Tim to be the one, Dix. Maybe for all the wrong reasons.” Since it was Dixie, Charlotte let her tears fall. “He’s gorgeous, at least to me. He’s fun and smart, he makes me laugh. From the moment I met him, I forgot myself and I’d talk without censoring every word, then later wonder if I made a fool of myself. When he called the first time to ask me to dinner, I believed there was something divine about the whole thing because I’m not that pretty and I’m definitely not that good of a flirt.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re stunning. And charming. Who needs to flirt when they’re as smart as you? Tim’s darn lucky you gave him the time of day.” Dixie sat back. “Snob. That’s what he is, a snob.”

“I was the lucky one. He’s not a snob, Dixie. He’s honest. Would you have wanted Jared to marry you if he had any reservations?”

“No, I guess not.” Dixie sighed, sitting back, sleeking her hand down the length of her ponytail. “This makes me sad.”

“Yeah, but maybe Tim’s right.” Charlotte’s weak smile trembled. “We moved too fast.”

“Well, he can blame himself for that, Charlotte. Don’t you take that on. Do you think that’s why you never picked a dress? You knew, somehow?”

“Who knows.” Charlotte rested her head against the wall, swallowing the swell of emotion in her throat, wanting this day to be years behind her. The harsh overhead light of the kitchen made her feel cold and exposed. “It’s just that when it was my turn to be the bride, I didn’t know how to make myself ready. In the back of my mind, I thought the dress, the day, the pieces of the wedding would just fall into place. That I’d
know
it was right.”

“But you didn’t know, did you?”

“I used to have this recurring dream about my wedding. It started right after high school and my ‘one true love’”—Charlotte air-quoted the phrase—“broke up with me. In the dream, I’m walking down the aisle toward my groom. I’m alone because I don’t have anyone to walk me down the aisle. No father, brother, uncles.”

“The Roses are nothing but men.”

“Yeah, I know.” Charlotte sat forward, rubbing her fingers over her eyes. She’d not bothered with makeup today. Just a swipe of concealer and a brush of powder. “When Tim told me he had four brothers, I literally laid awake that night begging God, ‘Teach me about men.’” She laughed low. “I was so afraid I’d regard them like caged lions at the zoo. But I wanted to do the guy’s-girl thing and play kickball—”

alo K">Football.”

“Whatever.”

“Back to the dream. What happened as you walked down the aisle?”

“I’d spin around and run out of the church.” Charlotte gazed at the wall, picturing Tim and his brothers. A man’s man each and every one, but men who accepted her like a sister. “Usually somewhere between the sanctuary doors and the altar, I’d run out, yelling, ‘Nooooo!’” Charlotte tore at the edge of her napkin. “I woke up from that dream two or three times a year. Until—”

“Maybe it’s a sign you’re not supposed to marry Tim.”

“—I met Tim.” Charlotte sighed, her gaze on the latte, then on Dixie.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘Oh.’” Charlotte stood, wrapping up the coffee cake. “Now what? How will I know Mr. Right?”

Dixie dropped to her knees and drew Charlotte into her embrace. “Faith, girl, faith. At the end of the day, that’s all we have.”

Charlotte rested her cheek against her friend’s firm shoulder, releasing the last of her morning tears. Then she sat back, reached for a napkin, and wiped her face. “Let’s get to work, Dixie.” Charlotte stood, straightening her suit, brushing her hair away from her face. “Today is the first day of the rest of my life.”

Chapter Seven

 
Emily

 
I
n all of Birmingham, Mrs. Caruthers was the most renowned dressmaker. Mother made an appointment with her the morning after Phillip proposed. And now, eight days later, Emily walked into her rich quarters in the Loveman’s of Alabama downtown department store.

A green gilded wallpaper covered the fitting-room walls and a Persian rug brightened the dull, scarred hardwood. A midmorning light fell over the shiny horsehair settee and sounds from the street below bounced off the closed windowpanes.

A clanging trolley drew Emily to the window. Down on 19th Street, downtown Birmingham hustled and bustled past the broad stone department store. Emily loved the city and came down from Highland whenever she could. Once, she suggested taking a position at Father’s exchange, but he promptly rebuked her.

“You’re a lady of society,” Mother had chimed in. “You employ others. You, yourself, are not employed.”

“Then why send me to college only to have me squander my tim No K">height="1ee at home? I’m not too much of a lady to kneel in the dirt and plant a garden.” She’d shot an eyeful at Mother, who insisted Emily learn to garden.

“You garden for your family,” Father had said with a soft smack of his palm against the table. “You will not go to the city and punch a time clock, working for wages beneath your training and station.”