The Wedding Dress (42 page)

Did the dress fit her? Was she the next bride?

“Charlotte, what’s taking you so long?” Hillary banged on the door.

“Do you need help?” Dixie said.

“Hush up, give me a minute.”

She’d showered. Donned clean undergarments. Then approached the dress. Slowly. Carefully. The dress held the hearts of three other women. The history of a hundred years.

It wasn’t until Charlotte stepped into the skirt that she realized how much she wanted to be a part of their story, of the gown’s history.

Please fit
. Charlotte hesitated as she drew the skirt over her hips. “What if it doesn’t fit?”

“Oh, merciful me, it’ll fit, Charlotte.” Hillary. Without doubt. “You think all this happened just so you could give it to someone else? It’ll fit. Trust me.”

“If it doesn’t, you’ll find the perfect bride, Char. It’s what you do.”

“Shush, Dix, what kind of thing is that to say?
She
is the perfect bride.”

“Well, if she’s not, she’ll find one. Hillary, you’re freaking her out.”

Charlotte grinned at the banter on the other side of the door, slipping her arms gently into the sleeves, and settling the bodice on her shoulders. She loved Hillary like a sister, no, like a mother, already.

Gathering the dress in the back with her hands, Charlotte held her breath. Would it fit?

. Tidth="1em" align="justify">The waist of pearls pulled against her middle, hugging her ribs. Perfectly. It fit. The dress fit.
I won’t cry, I won’t cry
.

But her heart raced and when she tried to speak, tears weighted her words. “It fits, y’all. It fits. Come button me up.” The bedroom door crashed open.

“I can’t believe you doubted me.” Hillary went right to the back buttons.

“Oh, Char.” Dixie stood back, a wide smile on her face, a sheen in her eyes. “It’s gorgeous. You are gorgeous.”

“But how? Emily had to wear a corset. Mary Grace said she was thin. Oh, Hillary, the waist is going to be too tight.”

“Charlotte, stop fretting and start thinking of what you’re going to do when you see it does fit.” Hillary hooked the rest of the buttons in silence. Only the sound of the women breathing.

Charlotte watched in the mirror as the dress formed to her figure, the bodice accenting her curves. The scoop neck nestled just under her collarbone. The pearls at her waist rested in a neat row, not strained or taut. The bell shoulders tapered to fitted sleeves and dropped just below her elbow.

“Here, put on these shoes.” Dixie set down a pair of cream pumps from the shop. “The heel is about what Emily would’ve worn.”

“All buttoned.” Hillary angled around to see Charlotte’s face, gently gripping her shoulders. “Exhale,” she whispered.

When she did, her ribs rested against the sides of the dress and every fiber settled into place.

The mirror reflected more than a woman in a beautiful gown. It reflected Charlotte’s heart. And instantly she knew . . . she’d risk her heart again.

“I have to go.” Charlotte yanked her purse off the bedroom floor.

“Go where?”

“After love.” Out of the loft and down to her car, it was all so clear to her heart and mind. She didn’t belong to the dress. She belonged to Tim. That’s what the dress had been trying to tell her all along, since that day up on the ridge.

Carefully settling in behind the wheel, she fired up her car and fifteen minutes later plus one close call with a cement truck, she whipped into Tim’s driveway.

The garage door was open and he sat in the middle of an empty space, his hair flowing in long soft strands about his face, his bare feet sticking out from a pair of a creased jeans.

“Tim?” CharlTistickinotte tossed her keys into the driver’s seat as she stepped out, holding the gown’s hem off the ground.

“Charlotte.” He jumped up, making his way to her. “You’re wearing the dress?”

“Yes, it . . . it fit.” She passed him for the garage. “Tim, where are your bikes?”

“Sold them. Finally listened to that still small voice in my soul.” He fixed his gaze on her. “Why are you wearing your great-grandmother’s wedding dress?”

She could tell he liked saying that—great-grandmother. “Because . . . I . . .” She hadn’t fully worked out what she’d say once she saw him. She was driven by her need to see him.

Tim pointed at her, skidding sideways toward the door to the house. “Don’t move. I’ll be . . . just . . .” He opened the door. “Wait.” And disappeared inside. His footsteps thundered through the house and back again.

He burst through the door, his eyes sparkling, dancing, as he beelined for Charlotte. Without a word or hesitation, he bent to one knee and reached for her hand.

“Marry me, Charlotte. Please, marry me.” He slid his grandmother’s ring onto her finger.

“This is why I’m here, Tim. Wearing my great grandmother’s wedding dress.”

When Tim picked her up and whirled her around, Charlotte let out a laughing shout, tipping back her head and letting joy echo in the garage.

Tim buried his face against her neck, and for a moment, their heartbeats felt intertwined.

“The ring fits, the dress fits.” He lowered her feet to the garage floor. “We fit, babe. We fit.” He kissed her, his hands around her back, holding her to him. “Man, Charlotte, you smell good. You feel good.”

“Hey, friend Tim?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell fiancé Tim I’m happy to have him back.”

“Charlotte.” He jerked his head up, holding her face in his hands. “What time is it?”

“Six thirty.”

His breath on her face created tingles on her toes. “Marry me. Now. Tonight. You have a dress. A beautiful dress. I own a tux. Our license is still good.”

“Tim, seriously? Now? Tonight?” Charlotte peered toward the August evening. The day still had a lot of light left. “Whot lfon will do the ceremony?”

She loved the glint in his eyes. “Leave it to me. What do you say?”

“Yes. Yes!” Her lips covered his, light and trembling at first, then with growing confidence and passion as he drew her into himself and poured his love into her.

It was the breeze that made her look up, a change in the texture of the unseen, a change in the texture of her heart.

She was ready. Charlotte moved with firm footing around a stand of beech trees and onto a moonbeam path. A pearly, full moon glowed over Red Mountain, burning back the curtains of night.

A midnight wedding.

Charlotte gripped her bouquet as a quintet began to play the “Hallelujah Chorus.” Another round of joy swelled in her middle. Excitement tingled down her arms and legs. Her heart trembled with love. Her mind rested in peace.

“All right, Charlotte, are you ready?” Cleo popped out of the shadows, the pearls around her neck rivaling the moon’s essence.

“Yes . . . I’m ready.” Her escorts came from behind Cleo. Her sisters-of-the-dress, Hillary and Mary Grace.

The song on the strings intensified. The breeze ushered past and for a slight moment carried the fragrance of jasmine and cedarwood. Mama’s scent. Charlotte closed her eyes and inhaled.

“I must say, Daniel, Emily and Colby would be proud.” Cleo’s typical bold voice wavered with emotion. “As am I.”

“My mama would be proud too.” Charlotte inhaled one last time, holding on to the fading scent.

“She sure would.” On her left, Hillary slipped her arm through Charlotte’s. “I know I am.” She kept her gaze forward, her back straight. Charlotte pressed her cheek to Hillary’s shoulder, seeing the slight tremble on the woman’s lower lip.

“This might be the second-best day of my life,” Mary Grace said. She stood on Charlotte’s right and linked her arm tightly around the bride’s.

“Mine too.” Hillary straightened Charlotte’s veil—
Emily’s
veil—and kissed her cheek, waving Cleo aside. “Let’s get this girl married.”

The music mounted. In the array of white string lights and candles, Charlotte saw Tim and David rise from the chairs and stand in front of the kneeling altar along with a proud, smiling Thomas.

Tim peered down the aisle at her. In the muted light, Charlotte could see the sheen in his eyes. On the waves of flickering flames, she felt his radiating heart.

He’d done this. All of it. Called Cleo. Rallied his family and friends. Within hours, a wedding and reception had been planned and executed.

When Tim called Hillary, she jumped into action, drove up to Kirkwood, and stirred Mary Grace and Thomas to attend. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” they’d said.

A midnight wedding.

Brother David contacted a Rose Firm client who played in the Birmingham Symphony. He in turn gathered a string quintet—two violinists, a violist, and two cellists—who were wholly inspired by a spontaneous, midnight nuptial.

Rosined bows drew “hallelujah, hallelujah” from the strings. Charlotte started down the aisle toward the circle of white chairs, toward Tim. Toward love.

The dress swished about her legs. The empire waist hugged her heart. Tears gathered in her eyes. Beside her, Hillary sniffed and cleared her throat while Mary Grace let her tears flow freely without shame.

“I never thought . . . oh, my dear, sweet Jesus, I never thought . . . at ninety-four years old, my, my . . .” she whispered.

“Me neither, Mary Grace,” Hillary said, low and watery. “Me neither.”

As for Charlotte, she never imagined feeling this happy, this satisfied with life. She’d settled for okay, getting by. But tonight she realized how much more God had ordained for her.

She strolled past Dad and Mom Rose, past Katherine and the kids. Past Tim’s brothers. Past Hillary’s husband, Greg. She nodded at Noelia, and Tawny, who came with her fiancé.

When she arrived at the end of the aisle, Dixie appeared from the end of the first row and took her place as Matron of Honor. Her face glistened with her own joy.

Tim watched Charlotte with a tender intensity, the misty sheen in his eyes evident now. Around them, the quintet’s hovering notes dissipated, bonding with the moonlight.

Thomas raised his Bible, leaning on his cane. “Dearly beloved,” his voice resonated clear and strong, “we’re gathered here because of a destiny. Because of a wedding dress and the mighty power of love. A wedding is what Jesus Himself is waiting for. The Good Book tells us in Matthew 25 there will be a shout at midnight.” Thomas punctured the air with his clear, youthful voice. “‘The Bridegroom comes.’ This wedding here is a foreshadow of that great day. It’s no mistake we’re gathered here with Charlotte and Tim at midnight. But they didn’t haul me out of bed to preach.” Thomas winked at Charlotte. “Let’s get these two married. Mercy, what a great thiat gn="jng God has done. I’m just glad to be alive to see it.”

Thomas asked Tim to take his bride’s hand. Hillary and Mary Grace let go of her with sniffling kisses to Charlotte’s cheeks and took seats on the first row.

Thomas talked about Jesus’s first miracle being at a wedding. He told the story of a hundred-year-old gown and four special brides.

“Funny thing”—he sounded so clear and young—“the dress fit each gal like it was supposed to. It never was changed, not one stitch. It never wore out. Never faded. And if I do say so myself, looks as good and in style on Charlotte here as it did on my Mary Grace seventy-four years ago. It’s just like the good news of the gospel of Jesus. Always fits. It don’t need no changing. The good news is always good. It never wears out and by gum, it’s always in style. Don’t we need Him now more than ever.” The old preacher chuckled. “There I go again. Preaching. Let’s get on with this wedding.”

Charlotte faced Tim, handsome, strong with his hair swishing about his fine smile and framing the light in his eyes. He was tall and regal in his tailored black tux.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered when Thomas told him to take Charlotte’s hand.

“Hey, handsome, you ready for this?”

“Beyond ready.”

“Tim, do you take this woman . . .”

At half past midnight on a cool, August morn, Charlotte Malone said “I do” to love and to the rest of her life, becoming what she was always meant to be.

Redeemed. And a Rose.

Reading Group Guide

  1. Who was the man in purple? What does he signify to you? Is there a “man in purple” in your life? Charlotte is so close to her own situation, she can’t see what’s in front of her: the wedding dress. Are you aware of those thin-veil God moments where the supernatural impacts the natural? How can you be more aware of Jesus interacting with you?

2. Emily struggles with the rules of her society. She wants to be vocal; she wants to pursue her own desires. What might Emily have done to speak out against the convict leasing injustice? What can you do to speak against true injustice?

3. Charlotte and Tim had a whirlwind courtship. For a moment, it seemed like they wouldn’t make it. But love triumphed. Is there a similar time in your life when love triumphed sorrow or injustice?

4. Hillary faced the most devastating heartbreak: losing her husband to war. What did you think of the way she responded? What would you have done different / the same? Do you know anyone who is struggling with this reality? How can you support her?