The Wedding Dress (21 page)

“It’ll be like finding a needle in a haystack, but if anyone can find that wedding frock a bride, it’s you.” Dixie squeezed Charlotte’s shoulder, then twisted open her water bottle. “In the meantime, what can we find out about the dog tags?”

“Back to Google,” Charlotte said.

The search engine provided a quick answer. The tags were definitely not World War I. Nor from the Second World War—those tags were notched.

“The last notched dog tags were issued in 1964. Joel Miller’s don’t have the notch so they might be from the last years of Nam?”

Charlotte typed “Joel Miller” in the search bar. It was a start. A list of names splashed to the screen. Charlotte scrolled past a New York lawyer, a politician, an actor. But who or what was she looking for, expecting to find?

The front bells chimed and Dixie moved toward the door. “Keep looking,” she said. “I’ll take care of the customer.”

Charlotte detailed her search. “Joel Miller+Birmingham.” A list of names returned. After scrolling through a few pages, she refined her query just a little bit more.

Joel Miller+USMC+Viet Nam+Birmingham

The discovery of the dog tags generated a lot of questions. How did the tags get stuffed into a bridal sachet? Did Joel dump his bride before the wedding? Charlotte envisioned an angry, wounded bride taking a blowtorch to the trunk lock.

If so, then was the dress ever worn? And how had the dog tags been sealed inside?

Google’s first hit brought up The Wall, a memorial site dedicated to Viet Nam veterans.
Oh, Joel Miller, are you in here?

Charlotte entered the site, her fingers stumbling over the keyboard as she typed in Joel’s name and serial number and state. An icy sensation swirled around her heart and down to her belly.

Holding her breath, fingers pressed lightly to her lips, she waited for the search to return. When it did, her eyes misted.

Joel C. Miller, Marine Corps, 1LT, 02, age 22, born September 4, 1946, in Birmingham, AL. Casualty date April 14, 1969.

Oh, Joel Miller
.

And he was . . .

Married.

The words on the screen blurred together. Charlotte’s heart kicked into high gear as she clicked on his info tab. His tour began on September 11, 1968. On April 14, 1969, in Quang Tri, South Viet Nam, he died from hostile fire . . . ground casualty, body not recovered.

Not recovered. Not. Recovered. What did that mean? Was he lost, left to die alone? Blown to pieces, so it was impossible to—

Mercy, mercy, Lord have mercy.

Another button took her to a bevy of postings to Joel C. Miller from friends and family and fellow marines.

“I was there the day you died. I’ll always remember you, JC. Semper Fi.”

“Thinking of you, Miller. Remember how we took the baseball championship our senior year at NC State just before we took off for the marines?”

Dixie returned and propped on the desk next to Charlotte’s screen and leaned to see. Her ponytail swung down over her shoulder.

“Find anything?”

“He was killed.” Charlotte looked up at Dix. “And he was married.”

Dixie straightened, her eyes shining. “She put the dress in the trunk and sealed it shut.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. Listen to his bio, Dix. Joel was military honor society at the University of North Carolina, the Semper Fidelis Society, and the Scabbard and Blade. A recruited baseball player.”

“Is there a picture?”

“No, no picture.” But Charlotte started missing a man she’d never met, envisioning a clean-cut, rawboned, steely eyed marine.

Scrolling through the pages of messages, eyes filled with tears, she searched for a hint of the woman who might have loved him. The one who tucked his dog tags into a silk sachet before sealing them away forever.

There were only three postings on the last page and one caught her eye. It was posted three weeks ago, April 14, the anniversary of the day Joel Miller died.

“It’s been over forty years, but I still think of you. You’re not forgotten. I miss you, Joel C. I’m not sure my heart has ever healed. With love, Your Wife.”

“Oh my gosh. She posted a note.” Dixie stepped back with a sigh. “Wow, can you imagine?” She dropped a tissue over Charlotte’s shoulder. “War stinks.”

“Death in general stinks.” Charlotte blotted the tears from under her eyes and stared at the screen, a cold, weighty realization sinking through her. “Dix, April 14 is the day I went up to the ridge to think and wound up at the Ludlow auction.”

“The day you bought the trunk.”

Charlotte shoved out of her chair, her thoughts rattling into place. “So, this grieving widow of forty-some years posts on Joel’s wall the same day I buy the trunk with a wedding dress, her wedding dress maybe, and his dog tags shut up inside it.”

“I just got chills.” Dixie shivered, rubbing her hands over her arms.

“Did she leave an e-mail address?” Back at the computer, Charlotte scanned the woman’s post. Yes, she’d left an e-mail address.

Charlotte clicked on the link and typed in the subject line:
Did you weld shut a trunk forty years ago with Joel’s dog tags inside?

“Charlotte, stop, you can’t do that.” Dixie pulled Charlotte’s hand off the keyboard. “She might not want to hear from you. Or bring up memories of Joel. She put those tags in the trunk and torched it shut for a reason.”

“Then why did she just post on his wall? She’s obviously not afraid to think of him or read about him.” Charlotte scrolled up to the last post before “Y {t bst our Wife” posted. “It’s been over a year since anyone else visited here.
She
posted three weeks ago.” Charlotte went back to her e-mail. “I think she wants to touch him in some way. She’s missing him. The dress was probably her mother’s or grandmother’s, and she wore it for their wedding.”

“Yes, then he died and she stored all their memories in the trunk. Charlotte, just because she posted doesn’t mean she wants you to unearth her past. What looks like a painful one too.”

Charlotte sighed and sat back, gazing up at Dixie. “I hate when you make sense.” She combed her finger through her hair and stared at the screen. “I have to send it, Dix.”

“I know you do.”

Charlotte pressed Send. Now all she had to do was wait. And pray she didn’t open a sealed tomb that awakened the memories of a broken heart.

Chapter Thirteen

   
T
he aroma of garlic and basil lingered in the loft long after Charlotte and Dix sat at the table with empty bowls of spaghetti and salad. Dixie had left for a movie with Jared’s sister.

“Sure you don’t want to come?”

“No thanks. The last time I went with you and Sally somewhere, your razor-sharp bantering sliced me to shreds.”

Charlotte cleaned the kitchen, then made a cup of tea and wandered to her living room. She’d brought the dress form out of the bedroom and put it by the sofa. Sitting next to it, she aimed the remote and turned on the TV.

“This is a TV, dress. Have you ever seen TV before? Bunch of junk on nowadays.”

Charlotte surfed a few channels, blowing past movies that starred geeky men winning the affections of gorgeous women who sported unrealistically perfect bosoms.

Every so often, her gaze jerked toward the dress. She could swear the thing was moving. Even glowing. Shutting off the TV, Charlotte faced the gown, sitting cross-legged on the couch.

“What? Tell me the story in your threads.”

Her email to Joel Miller’s wife was returned by MAILER-DAEMON. Which Charlotte found odd, because the address was just posted three weeks ago.

Did “Your Wife” delete her account so soon after posting? Charlotte sipped her tea, compiling options, figuring ways to find out just who loved and missed Lt. Joel Miller.

As if trying to get a visu ~t bst0em" widthal of the puzzle, Charlotte had draped the dog tags around the neck of the dress form. They rested in the swag of silk draped across the neckline.

Sliding off the sofa, she stood by the dress form, shoulder to shoulder, wiggling her toes under the hem. The skirt length fell to the top of her toes.

Maybe if she tried it on, it would fit. Maybe. But she didn’t dare. Her heart didn’t need the hope of a wedding or an amazing, storied gown. Charlotte moved away from the dress. It had to be a second or third generation, handed down from mother to daughter. The timeless style and the enduring fabric were incredible.

What she needed was another clue. But Charlotte was horrible at mysteries. She hated games. Mama had loved them because Mama had always won.

She could go through all the Millers in the Birmingham phone book. Might take her months to call all the names. There had to be over a thousand Millers crowded together across four pages. She’d looked for the obvious, Joel Miller or Joel C. Miller. Maybe there was a senior or a junior. But in all of Jefferson County, there was no Joel Miller.

Oooh, could there be something else in the trunk?
Charlotte dashed back to her room and knelt to the floor. One by one, she removed the pieces of tissue paper, smoothing, folding, and stacking them. She felt around the bottom like Tim had done, knocking on the sides of the smooth and fragrant cedar.

When she found nothing, she called Bethany. “Was there anything else in the sachet?”

No, nothing else. Charlotte looked in the linen bag where she found the gown. Nothing. She shook the piece as if the threads were purposefully keeping her from answers. Then, on an impulse, she reached deep and turned the bag inside out.

A rectangular business-sized card floated free and landed by her foot. It was faded pink, with embossed magnolia petals in the corners and raised lettering across the middle.
Mrs. Lewis’s Famous Pie Co. 2nd Avenue North. Downtown Birmingham
.

Mrs. Lewis’s. Charlotte ran her finger over the letters. She knew this place. Tim did a fabulous remodel of the corner building that had once been the pie company.

He had turned it into an office space with upstairs lofts. Charlotte almost bought in there before she found her place in Homewood.

She auto-dialed Tim without considering the cost or implications. She needed answers. To sound this out.

“You know that building you remodeled on 2nd Avenue? You showed it to me when we walked downtown on New Year’s.” That had been a fun night, their sixth date but their first kiss. Standing under a string of red, blue, green, and orange lights.

“I remember.” He cleared his throat.

“Didn’t it used to be a bakery?”

“Yeah. Mrs. Lewis’s Famous—”

“Pie Company. Right. Gert used to talk about them.”

“My grandma worked there when she graduated high school. The Lewises also had the Lewis Bakery. So, what’s this sudden interest in Mrs. Lewis?”

“I found her card in the trunk. In the linen sack.” Charlotte waved it in the air as if Tim could see it.

“The plot thickens.” Now he sounded relaxed, fun.

“Tim, oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask if you were busy. Are you busy?” Charlotte dropped down to her bed. Broken or not, talking to him always felt like home.

“I’d have told you if I was. So, you think Mrs. Lewis owned this dress?”

“Good question. Her daughter or granddaughter. And oh, I have dog tags.”

“Dog tags?”

“I know, crazy. I found them in the sachet.” Charlotte gave Tim the brief history, to which he whistled and said, “Man, that’s incredible. When I searched the sachet I found nothing. Weird.”

“Tim, do you think you can find out who owned the pie company building last? Or who might have worked there? Is there anything in the city records?”

“Yeah, there’s plenty of buying and selling info in the records. Let me see what I can do.”

“You’re my hero. Let me know.” Even in jest, the words “you’re my hero” carried a weight she’d not intended. She coughed, slid her foot over her polished hardwood, and figured to end the conversation quick. “Thanks. Call me if you find out anything. Or e-mail. No rush. I know you’re busy.”

“I’ll check tomorrow.”

Hanging up, Charlotte wandered back into the living room and tucked the pie company card in the empire waist’s sash. She dropped to the sofa and pointed her phone at the dress. “I’m going to help you find your way home. You just wait and see.”

Emily

In the upstairs sewing room of the Canton home, Emily stood on a stool in her bloomers and corset while Taffy Hayes slipped the unfinished gown over her head. Mother stood Mo>vanguard, arms crossed, lips pursed.

The western windows were ablaze with the glory of the setting sun, which warmed the chilly October air in the room.