The Wedding Dress (30 page)

“Agnostic.”

“Yes, that’s what he says he is. Imagine, believing in nothing. What hope is there in that?”

“Exactly. If you got good news, you best tell it.” Thomas laughed softly. “Don’t make no sense to be quiet.”

“He’s a gifted preacher,” Mary Grace said. “He led many a lost soul to the foot of the Cross. Why, there was the time we were preaching in a tent out in the middle of a Kansas prairie and—”

“Mary Grace, where’s my coffee?”

She picked it up from the table between them and handed it to him. “It was hotter than anything that summer and the flies were just thick as could be. Let me tell you, no wind was sweeping down the plain that night. But the folks came out to hear the preaching.”

“Most folks didn’t have TV in those days.” Thomas sipped his coffee and set it back down. “It was right after the war and the country was ready for some good news. A message of hope.”

“But the heat just melted folks right in their chairs. Hand fans were just a-going, then Thomas started preaching and fifty words into his message he suddenly stopped.” Mary Grace pressed her palms against the air, her eyes on her husband. “He stood right in the middle of the stage, spread his hands, tipped back his head, and closed his eyes.”

Mary Grace’s story stirred a bubbling sensation spreading in Charlotte’s chest. The Talbots spoke like young, energized believers. No sign of fading. Of dementia.

“There Tommy remained, center stage, arms spread, face toward heaven, and he said in the most even, calm, but oh-so-sure voice, ‘Lord of heaven, who calmed the seas and rebuked the storm, I ask for Your mercy on these humble folks who drove for miles and miles to hear Your Word. Please send us a cool, gentle rain.’”

“Some folks on the front row snickered.” Thomas shook his head.

“Yet he didn’t let it bother him or break his concentration,” Mary Grace said. “Time ticked on. Thomas didn’t move, and nothing happened.”

“The sweat under my shirt started soaking through. I’d just put my entire reputation and ministry on the line with that crazy request.”

“So, what’d he do? He requested it again.” Mary Grace popped the air with her lightly fisted hand. A don’t-you-just-know gesture.

“Just in case the folks in the back wanted to snicker too.” Thomas and Mary Grace told their story like a well-danced waltz.

“‘Lord,’ he said, ‘Master of the wind and the waves, Creator of all things, Lover of our souls—’”

“If you’re going to go down, go down praising His good name.” Thomas raised his hand, waving toward heaven.

“‘Send us a cool, gentle rain,’” Mary Grace finished.

“The chairs were creaking,” Thomas said. “Men were clearing their voices, tugging on their sweaty collars. Babies cried and mamas tried to cool themselves by waving fans.”

“It was the longest minute of our lives, waiting to see what Thomas, or God, would do. Then . . .” Mary Grace paused, eyes sparking. Charlotte leaned toward her, hand gripping her water cup. Hillary hovered close. “Then the tent shook a bit.”

“The air stirred.”

“And the sweetest cool breeze rushed right under the tent, around our chairs. Through people’s hair. You could see the ends flutter.”

“It smelled like new mown grass. Folks rose to their feet, started praising. Just when their voices hit a crescendo, the softest rain pitter-pattered on the top of the tent. It rained the rest of the night and all the next day.” Thomas sat back, a smile on his lined face, his coffee cup shimmering in his hand.

“I tell you,” Mary Grace said. “There were no atheists in the crowd that night. We had a ton of folk who gave their hearts to the Lord. Even had a couple of healings. Remember the boy with polio, Tommy?” Her dark eyes sparkled. “Threw down his crutches, snapped off his brace, and ran around the tent like a freed man. His daddy finally caught him and let a doctor in attendance examine him. He determined the boy had a whole new leg.”

“A boy was healed of polio?” Hillary set her coffee down with a snort. “Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I’ve been a nurse for almost forty years. I’ve never seen anyone healed of anything like polio.”

“I see. So your faith is based on your experience? What you’ve seen? Won’t get you very far.” Thomas was no longer an old man. He spoke with authority. “Without faith it’s impossible to please God.”

“Thomas, please.” Mary Grace squeezed his fingers, gentling her way into his sentence. “It was a bona fide miracle, medically proven. Now, darlings, what was it you wanted to know from us?”

Yes, back to the dress. Charlotte cleared her throat and smoothed her hand over her Malone & Co. skirt.

“Mary Grace, Hillary found this picture in a box of her parents’ things.” Charlotte indicated Hillary should pass over the picture of the Talbots with her parents.

“On the back it has a date,” she said. “The day my parents bought the house from you.”

“Oh my.” Mary Grace pressed her small, spotted hand to her chest. “That was so many years ago.”

Thomas put on his glasses and leaned in to see the photograph. “Who’s the young, beautiful lady I’m standing next to?”

Mary Grace chortled. “I was in my late thirties and dreading turning forty, thinking it was so old.”

“Bet you’d trade now ifd tg forty, you could, wouldn’t you, love?” Thomas said.

“In a gnat’s breath.”

Maybe they’d want to trade with Charlotte or Hillary, but Charlotte wanted to trade with them. Even for a moment. To know what it felt like to love for seventy-two years. To tell a story in perfect harmony. To still hear she was the prettiest bride in Birmingham.

“You’re with my parents. Lindell and Arlene Saltonstall.” Hillary moved over to Thomas, who held the picture. “They bought the house from you in ’57. I was ten. I had an older brother. We called him Shoop.”

“Hillary, you were the young girl I left the dress for.” Mary Grace sat back, sighing, and closed her eyes. “Tell me, were you any relation to the Saltonstalls who owned the mines? My father worked their mines for thirty years.”

“My great grandfather was one of the brothers. But my grandfather, Paul Saltonstall, didn’t want anything to do with the family mines. He went in another direction. Wanted to be in engineering.”

As Hillary spoke, Mary Grace tipped her head back. Her eyes fluttered closed.

“Mrs. Talbot?” Charlotte started to get up. Was the woman all right? Thomas didn’t seem alarmed. Or very awake himself.

“Dear, call me Mary Grace.” She opened her eyes. “I was just remembering my father. So, Hillary, tell me, did you wear the gown?”

Hillary flowed with the stilted conversation. “Yes, yes, I did.”

Charlotte could hear Hillary’s heartbeat in her words.

“I married my first husband in that dress. Six months later he was killed in Viet Nam.”

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry.” Mary Grace worked her way forward, out of her chair. She reached for her cane, steadied herself, and moved to the small breakfront drawer. When she worked her way back to her chair, she held a photo.

Through the reflective light, Charlotte could see the smiling, newly married Talbots.

“This is Tommy and me on our wedding day.”

Charlotte held the picture, a touched-up black-and-white. An artist had brushed a pink hue on Mary Grace’s cheeks. Reddened both of their lips a bit. But there was no mistaking her beauty and his handsome youth. And she was wearing
the
dress.

“We met in elementary school. I fell in love with him on the playground.”

“Sh3">school. e was the preacher’s daughter and I wanted nothing to do with her.”

Thomas rocked in his chair and Mary Grace’s eyes had closed again. Charlotte glanced at Hillary. If they didn’t find out about the dress in the next few minutes, they might not find out at all. At least not today.

“Mary Grace.” Hillary moved to kneel by her chair, squeezing her hand. Charlotte guessed she was half checking to see if she was awake and half checking her pulse. “How did you get the dress? Was it made for you?”

The older woman sat forward a bit. Her shaking hand reached for her coffee. “I was given it by the woman who wore it first.”

Her statement, so profound and clear, opened the door to a bevy of questions. Charlotte’s nerves prickled and she scooted forward with a glance at Hillary, who was frowning.

“So why did you leave it at the house?”

Okay, good question, but not the one Charlotte would’ve asked.
Who
gave the dress to Mary Grace? Who was the first woman to wear it? But today seemed to be about Hillary’s journey. Charlotte sat back and sipped her water.

“We sold the house to your mama and daddy, and when we were all packed up, ready to go, the trunk with the gown was one of the last items to be loaded.”

“I was about to carry it out to the moving truck,” Thomas said from his reclining position, eyelids at half-mast, “when Gracie told me, ‘Tommy, leave it. For that young girl.’”

“So you really left the trunk just for
me
?” Hillary’s voice trembled. Her countenance wavered.

“I felt I was to leave it for you.”

“She loved that dress too. But when the Lord gives Gracie a nudge, she responds.”

Hillary stood. “God told you to leave
that
trunk in the basement for me?” Incredulous. Doubt. Awe.

“I think He did. I believe He did. And you found it. And you wore it.”

“Yes, yes, I did. On the happiest day of my life. Which led to the worst. I wore it for a groom who was killed six months later.” Hillary was up and out the door before anyone could say another word. No excuse me, no thank-you, or good-bye.

“Hillary.” Charlotte stepped out the door into the hall. But her new friend was gone. “Mary Grace, Thomas, I’m so sorry.” Charlotte gathered her purse and Hillary’s. “She’s just working through old memories. Thank you for your time. May I come again?”

fongh “Please, come and see us. Don’t worry about Hillary. She’ll fare all right. She’ll fare all right.”

From Mary Grace’s lips to God’s ears. Charlotte caught Hillary just as she got to the car.

“Hey, you run fast for an old lady.” Charlotte worked up a laugh, aiming her remote entry key at her car. Hillary stood by the passenger door with a stone expression. Charlotte slid in behind the wheel, dumping their purses in the backseat. “What’s going on?”

“Just drive.” An ashen-faced Hillary rolled down her window and hung her head out. Her left hand crossed her body and white-knuckled the door handle. “So God set me up in 1957 to be a widow? To marry a man six months before his end-of-life number was called?” She smashed the door with her right fist. “I am never going to step inside a church again.”

“You think God only hangs out in church? He was in that room with us five minutes ago. He’s everywhere.” She’d learned of His every presence that summer at youth camp. And dozens of times since. Charlotte backed out of the parking spot but stopped the car in the middle of the lane. “Are you okay?”

“He knew, He knew Joel was going to die.” Tears slithered down Hillary’s high, pink cheeks. She gulped the fresh air out her window. “And He let me marry him.”

Charlotte sighed.
God, help me. What do I say?
“Hillary, maybe God—”

“Is there a reason we’re stopped here in the middle of the parking lot?”

“Hillary.” Charlotte gazed out her window. The wind raced through the trees. Her thoughts raced through her mind. “What if marrying Joel wasn’t about you? What if marrying Joel was about him?”

“Getting married was about both of us.”

“But only one of you, using your theory, was slated to end his life in six months. What if marrying Joel was about sending a young man off to war, loved, happy, comforted by the idea of warm fires and a beautiful wife waiting for him at home? What if thinking of you, remembering your wedding, making love, your friendship and laughter”—Charlotte’s thoughts formed words faster than she could speak them—“were the only things that kept Joel going on those nights he was scared and lonely, cold and hungry, miserable as I’m sure only a man at war can be?

“What if your letters were the only grounding to sanity he had in the midst of battle? What if marrying Joel wasn’t about you, Hillary. What if it was all about Joel? Only for Joel? What if God loved him so much he gave him a bride before he died? Would that be okay with you? Would it?” Charlotte shifted into gear and off the clutch. The car surged forward, the road ahead blurry.

Hillary tucked forward and muffled her weeping with her face in her hands, her shoulders shimmerilde be okay ng with rolling sobs.

Charlotte braked at the residence entrance and smoothed her hand over Hillary’s back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” She waited, whispering, “Jesus, Jesus,” every now and then.

The breeze through the trees whistled comfort through the car. After a long while, Hillary sat up, wiped her face with the back of her hand, and gazed out the window.

Charlotte shifted into gear and eased on the gas. As she turned onto the road, Hillary reached over and squeezed her hand.

Chapter Nineteen

 
Emily

 
E
mily sat alone in the downtown holding cell, waiting for Father or Phillip,
someone
, to rescue her. The block room with a barred door was cold and dark, chilling Emily to the bone. And to the heart.