The Wedding Shop (33 page)

C
OLE

H
e dropped his keys on the table just inside the door and reached down to unlace his boots. Passing the fireplace, he paused, deciding, then stooped before the grate, tossing in a few logs and lighting a flame.

The fragrance of phosphorous and the crackling of burning logs drifted through the house as Cole made his way to the kitchen, trying not to look at the holes on the wall above the dining table.

He'd patch them tomorrow and cover them with paint, but somehow the whole house felt vacant without that guitar. As if he'd given away the last of his childhood.

But he'd put the money to good use. A sound investment. He was almost grateful for Linus's evil manipulation.

He yanked open the fridge, his stomach rumbling, his limbs quivering from lack of sustenance and the ebb of his adrenaline.

He was tired, putting in twelve-hour days to get the shop done for Haley. But being around her every day was worth it.

Spying a plate covered with tin foil, Cole found dinner. Leftover pizza. What else? He set it on a paper plate and tossed it into the microwave.

Waiting for the pizza to warm, he faced the wall where the Stratocaster once hung. When he'd called Dad to tell him the news, he broke down, and it was all Cole could do to get off the phone
before his own heart collapsed with emotion. Worse than your mom crying was hearing the sobs of your father.

“Thank you, son, thank you. This means the world to me.”

Cole grinned, remembering Dad's “that-a-boy” when he told him what Linus paid for the guitar.

“Good going, son.”

Son. He was his father's son. If God could overlook his sins, why couldn't Cole overlook his father's? Dad's brokenness humbled Cole, and in recent days he found it a bit easier to let go of the past.

He gave Dad half the money. Deposited his half in the bank, grateful to have a backup for himself, for the wedding shop, and maybe someday soon, a nice engagement ring.

The microwave beeped. Cole retrieved his plate and a bottle of water and walked to his chair. Should be a good basketball game on tonight.

He was surfing channels when a booming knock rattled his door.

“Cole! Open up. Cole!”

“Haley?” He opened the door, stepping aside to let her in. “What's going on?”

She breezed in, her bold fragrance matched by her bold countenance. “Better yet, what's
not
going on?” Her smile owned the room.
You're no match, flickering fire.

Cole's fingers ached to touch her, pull her to him, smooth her hair away from her face and—

“I have the key to the storage room.” Haley marched into the kitchen, a force of energy, whipping a key out of her pocket. “My mother had the key.” She slapped it on the kitchen island, then glanced at the wall, frowning. “Hey, where's your guitar? The one in the case?”

“I sold it.” He set his pizza and water down, stretching for the key. “Your mom had this? Where'd she get it?”

“You sold your guitar? Why? You loved that thing.”

He waved her off. “Haley, how did your mom get the key?”

She angled his way. “Ready for your blue eyes to be blown out of your head? Miss Cora was Mom's sister.”

“Look.” He pointed to the floor. “My blue eyes, on the floor. How is your mom Cora's sister?”

“According to Mom's Facebook post version—she's very brief with her news reports—her father, my grandfather, married a war widow in 1946 and a year later my mom comes along. Cora was from his first marriage, and she was the same age as my grandma. Can you imagine?” She made a face. “Anyway, Grandpa was in his sixties when Mom was born. Cora was like forty-seven years older. Old enough to be her grandmother.”

Cole shook his head, leading her into the kitchen, dropping a slice of pizza onto a paper plate for her. “You read about stuff like this, but wow . . . Were they close? Is that why your mom was against the shop?”

“She won't tell me the rest of the story, but, Cole, she gave me the key and a check for ten grand. Said she wanted to support me. Not the shop so much, but me.”

He roped his arm about her shoulders. She tucked nicely under his side. “We almost have the money we need to finish up. By the way, I got the electrician and plumber bills. They didn't charge us labor. Just for materials.”

“You're kidding.”

“Never say God is not a God of miracles.”

“I never said that.”

“I didn't say you did.”

“You just said, ‘Never say God is not a God of miracles.' ”

“It's a figure of speech.” Cole kissed the top of her head. Their eyes met and she stepped away from him. But he reached for her hand. “Haley—”

“Cole, what are you doing?”

“I-I . . .” The microwave beeped, calling a time-out as he
struggled to speak his heart. His blood moved through his veins like the spring river.

Haley moved to the other side of the island, pointing. “The microwave—”

“I heard.”

Retrieving her pizza and setting it in front of her, Cole scanned her face with a quick gaze and reached for a napkin from the holder on the lazy Susan. “It's two-day-old pizza.”

That's his great line? The age of his pizza? Behind his ribs his heart pounded out his desire. His lips buzzed, eager to taste hers.

“G-good pizza,” Haley said, swallowing a hot bite, dabbing her lips with the napkin.

Silence. Not the good kind that came from sweet, easy company but the kind that came from his awkward, clumsy stupidity.

Cole walked around into the living room for his cold, waiting slice of pizza. He took a big bite but his appetite had waned.

From her end of the island, Haley worked on her pizza, gazing up at him. “If you kiss me, it could get complicated.” She dropped her focus back to her plate. “I'm still not looking for a relationship.”

Cole shoved his pizza plate forward and propped against the counter. “Kiss you? What? Is that what you think I was going to—”

She laughed, pressing her fist to her lips and a mouthful of pizza. He reached for the fridge, getting her a bottle of water.

“Okay, yes, I was going to kiss you.”

After a long swig, Haley smiled and patted her hand on top of his, sobering. “You . . . you were the cutest boy in class since I could remember. Smart. Sweet. Grew up to be a man's man, you know, despite all that happened with your dad.” Her blue eyes met his. “But you were Tammy's. Always Tammy's.”

Cole captured her hand and drew her to him, touching his forehead to hers. “Tammy's not here.”

“I know, but—” Haley tapped her heart. “She's here. Besides, I'm not ready . . .”

“Haley, I'm not Dax.”

She pulled away. “I know, and if anyone has a chance, it's you, Cole. I just need time . . . to adjust. To heal. Forgive myself. For being fooled. I just want to make sure my head is on straight and my heart is really rooted in what God thinks of me, not some man.”

He nodded, liking the feel of her subtle yield. “Fair enough, fair enough.” Spying his pizza, he went for another bite. “When Tammy and I broke up, I wondered the same thing for a while. How could I have let it get this far? Mom could tell something was bothering me about the wedding, and she said if I was getting cold feet, then I should remember I was committed, and commitment could go the distance when love failed. And love went the distance when the commitment was tested. Add God to the mix and there's the cord of three that can't be broken. Even if we'd married, I think we would've made it. It would've been work, but we'd have done okay.”

“Doesn't sound very romantic, does it?”

He laughed low, to himself. “You sound like Tammy in the end. ‘You didn't even really propose,' she said.”

“So how is what you feel for me, if you feel anything, different than with Tammy? That's my struggle, Cole. Can I trust you? Myself? How do I know what I feel for you, that is, if I feel anything for you, is not the same blind love I felt for Dax? I don't want to ever be controlled and manipulated by a human being again.”

“You're not Tammy. I'm not Dax. That's a huge start. Please don't lump me in with that muscle-bound womanizer.”

She tried to smile but her eyes filled with sorrow. “Haley . . .” He reached for her, drawing her around the island to him. “You make my heart beat faster. You crowd my thoughts. When I'm not with you, I
want
to be with you. When you walk into the shop, my whole body smiles. Every day is a good day when you're in it. I want to talk to you, listen to you, hear what's going on in your life. I pray for you. I want the shop to work because it would make
you
happy.”

“What you just said”—tears dripped from the corner of her eyes—“is by definition love. D-do you
love
me?”

He stood back with an exhale. “Kind of awkward to confess it like this, but yeah, I think I do.”

C
ORA

October 1950

T
hank you all for coming, Grace, Ray.” Cora walked Grace Kirby to the wedding shop's front door, through the thin white light dropping through the window.

Birch stood on the front steps with Grace's husband, Ray. Cora joined Birch, slipping her arm through his, leaning against his still farmer-lean frame.

She'd lost him for a few years during the second war. Orie Westbrook and his son Jimmy kept the farm going along with one of Birch's cousins. When he came home, she wept in his arms. “Never leave me again.”

“I'm home now, darling. I'm home.”

She thought perhaps their reunion would produce a child. Even at forty-six, she ached for a baby. But it was not to be. Instead, Mama began a long battle with cancer.

“We're just so sorry about your mama.” Grace drew Cora into a bouncy bosom embrace. “We are going to miss her. She was the light of our lives, wasn't she?”

“She was a light for sure.”

This morning Cora and Birch laid Mama to rest in Heart's Bend Memorial Gardens. And in her honor, temporarily turned the wedding shop into a place of grieving, where folks from all over
came to remember Esmé Scott and all she'd done for the community. For the brides of the wedding shop.

“I was a nervous bride.” Grace paused on the stoop, smiling. “Remember that, Ray? What with my mama dying so young. But Esmé took me aside and told me everything was going to be all right. Cora, you helped me put together the most perfect trousseau.” She glanced at the shop. “I have such fond memories of being here those few times. I still think of Odelia's sweet rolls.” She nudged Cora. “More like sweet
rocks
.”

“Grace, it's getting late.” Ray started down the shop's walk. “Leave them be.”

“Good-bye, Cora. You're in our prayers.” Grace kissed Cora's cheek, then Birch's. She was a bride from Aunt Jane's era, but even so, after a while, time ran together and Grace was just plain
family
. All the brides, sooner or later, formed one beautiful image in Cora's heart, representing all the women who came through the shop.

“Hold yer horses, Ray.” Grace faced Cora. “You and your mama were pillars during the Depression, then during the war. I know my Mary Jane will never forget your kindness to her when she was getting married and Ray lost his job.”

“We were honored to serve.”

“Grace, I'm starting the car and if you're not in it by the time I shift into Drive, I'm leaving without you.” Ray stepped down off the curb.

Birch's low chuckle rumbled in his chest.

Grace made a face, flipping her hand at Cora. “He don't scare me. If I weren't there to butter his toast the big oaf would starve.” She winked. “Got him right where I want him.” Nevertheless, Grace hurried down the walk as Ray gunned the big engine of his Oldsmobile. “Call if you need anything, Cora, anything at all.”

“Thank you, Grace. Will do.”

Back inside, Cora exhaled, collapsing on the grand salon sofa
as Birch shut the shop door, then joined her, pulling her into his arms. And so the day was over.

“How are you?” He kissed her forehead. In the eighteen years they'd been married, he'd proven to be everything he said he'd be and more.

He was what Cora dreamed for in a husband. Kind. Patient. Faithful. Devoted and loyal. And to her wondrous surprise, passionate. He was a farmer by day and Romeo by night.

Cutesy or romantic would never be used to describe Birch Good. Cora could count on one hand how many times he'd given her flowers. But he was attentive and caring, in tune with her heart.

“I've been thinking.” He slipped his hand into hers. “Why don't we go on vacation? We've been talking about it since we got married. California or Florida.”

Cora sat up. “Really, Birch? Do you think we could?”

“Why not?” He kissed her with a grin on his lips and a spark in his eye. “Orie can watch the farm for me. Not much to do in January.”

“I could just close the shop.”

The battle with Mama's cancer had been so intense that Birch and Cora had merely existed the last year and a half. Cora spent more nights up with Mama than in her bed with her husband.

His hand drifted slowly down her check to the base of her neck. “You're more beautiful today than when I married you.”

“Stop. I'm a fright. Exhausted and, mercy, I haven't seen the inside of the beauty parlor since Mama's last bout.”

Birch raised her chin, lowering his lips to hers. “You don't have regrets, do you? Marrying me?”

Cora reared back. “Birch Good, how could you ever?” She brushed the back of her hand along the high lines of his cheek bones. “Don't you know by now I couldn't breathe without you? Why do you ask?”

“'Cause . . . walking your mama through dying and not having any children of our own makes me wonder if—”

“Shh, no doubts. I'd be alone now it if wasn't for you.”

“Some man would've come along. Trust me.”

“I don't want some man. I want you.”

“You have me, Cora. I'm yours.”

She collapsed against his chest, her heart brimming. That was the most they'd declared to one another in a good long while. Perhaps since their wedding night. Cora slipped her hand over his firm chest. He was fifty-four now, but as youthful as the day they married.

Four years ago, Cora went through a few changes, actually put on some weight and added curves to her stick figure. She was thrilled, but Mama started right away with the warnings.

“It'll get ahold of you, Cora,”
she'd said, urging Cora toward coffee and cigarettes to keep her trim.

But the doc suspected it was the cigarettes that tore up Mama's lungs. Besides, Birch liked her soft curves, and he was the only one she wanted to please.

“Did you hear from your father?” Birch smoothed his hand over Cora's hair, pulling it away from her face.

“I didn't write him. I don't know where he is.”

She stood, glancing about the room. “I'd best clean up before I'm too tired. I have to open the shop tomorrow.”

“Cora, why not leave it? Take a few days to grieve.”

She smiled at her husband. “Working will help me grieve. But you . . .” She bent to poke him in the chest. “I want to hear all about this vacation.”

Cora gathered empty cups and glasses on a serving tray. The food table in the small salon had been picked clean, but there was enough ham and potato salad to last them for days.

“I'll call a travel agent this week.” Birch began folding chairs and stacking them against the wall. “It was good to see the Millers back for the funeral.”

“I can't believe they drove all the way from Texas. And did you see Clark and Darcy Hath? I'd not seen them since high school.”

“He did well in oil. Makes me wish—”

“Nothing, Birch. You wish nothing.” With the tray in hand, Cora headed for the pantry, but paused by her husband. “I'd have no other life.”

In the pantry she set the dishes by the sink. Birch fixed a sink in the counter a few years back, along with electricity, so Mama could percolate coffee and tea for the customers without running up two flights of stairs.

Cora glanced out the window, the color of fall skirting across the thinning green lawn.
Oh, Mama . . .
Sorrow mixed with relief swirled through her.
What'll I do without you?

She was as spunky as she ever was right to the end. Wearing blonde wigs and red lipstick. But so weak. Clinging to Cora's hand as she read her the newspaper. Hattie Lerner was still writing the About Town column.

“Am I ready to see Jesus, Cora?”

“Do you believe, Mama? Have you forgiven Daddy?”

“Yes, yes, I believe. I do forgive your daddy.”

Cora reached around for a chair, facing the window, her thoughts tripping back to when she was young, when Mama was cooking up good smells in the kitchen, when Daddy came traipsing in to breakfast with his strong cologne and slicked hair. To when Cora ran through the fall leaves, laughing, with EJ.

Not even fifty and she'd lost them all. So she let the tears come.

Birch's hands smoothed over her shoulders. “Why don't we lock up and head home? I'll swing by Ella's Diner for takeout? Hmmm?”

Cora wiped her cheeks. “We have tons of leftovers.”

“They can keep. How about one of those newfangled pizza pies? We can see what's on the television tonight.”

“We don't get any channels at the farmhouse.”

Birch chuckled. “Well, one, but the picture is all fuzzy. We'll turn on the radio.” He gently helped her to her feet. “I'll come in with you in the morning to help clean up.”

“Just let me put the leftovers in the ice box.”

As they cleaned up the last, Cora took one last sweep around the shop. Tomorrow it needed to look like a unique bridal boutique, not a funeral parlor.

A dark shadow hit the floor from the front doorway.

“Cora?” An older gentleman stepped inside, a beautiful little girl about three years old, in a lacy dress, white socks, and very shiny black Mary Janes, clinging to his hand. Her dark hair had been pin curled, then brushed out, curving around her pretty, heart-shaped face. Her blue eyes peered intensely at Cora, taking in everything around her.

“Can I help you?”

“Is that how you greet your ole daddy?”

She drew a deep inhale and regarded him for a mere moment, seeing through his thinning gray hair and lined features. “Daddy?”

“Yes, it's Daddy.” He nodded, stepping forward like he might hug her, then stepped back. Slick tears glistened in his tired eyes. “I'm so sorry about your mother.”

Cora gripped her hands together, holding on to decorum. Otherwise she was a leaf in a summer storm. “What are you doing here?” She'd given up on being mad at him. His annual Christmas cards signed, “Love, Dad,” let her know he was alive and well. But nothing more.

He was, perhaps as Mama intended, dead to them.

“I heard about Esmé. I wanted to pay my respects.”

“Then go to Memorial Gardens. She's buried next to EJ.”

“Thank you. I-I will. Cora . . .” He cleared his throat. “I suppose it's too late to say I'm sorry.”

“For Mama it is, yes.” Cora folded her arms, resenting his intrusion on her grieving, in her life. He was nothing more than a robber.

“And you?”

“Daddy, I've made my peace with you. Let's not stir stuff up.”

“Cora, you 'bout ready?” Birch entered, his steps slowing as he came alongside Cora. “Ernie.”

“Birch.” A slow grin lit Daddy's face and he jutted forward to shake his hand, dragging the little girl along with him. “Well, I'll be. You finally roped her.”

“Actually, Daddy, I roped him.”

“H-how long y'all been married? Kids?”

“Eighteen years,” Cora said.

“No children.” Birch slipped his arms about her waist. “We enjoy each other's company.”

Daddy nodded, then took a slow look at the girl by his side. “This is . . . well . . .” Daddy knelt next to her, drawing her close, stirring a pang of longing in Cora. “Someone really special. Cora, I was hoping you might watch her for me while I go visit the grave. She's a bit young to go. And I've some things to say to your mama.”

“You know she's not really there. If you want to say them to the air, take a walk across the park.”

He lowered his head at her sharp intonation. But she didn't wish it back.

“Will you watch her for me? Her mother is at the inn. She didn't want to come.”

“Then take her back to the inn. Who is her mother, anyway, and why do you have her daughter?”

“I-I . . .” Daddy rose up, clearing his voice, looking around the shop, looking everywhere but at Cora. “I remarried.”

Birch's fingers dug into Cora's waist, holding her steady and upright. “You remarried?”

Cora glanced between the little girl, who still watched her with baby doll blue eyes, and Daddy.

“I did. Lydia was a war widow. We met in Nashville. At the USO. I was playing banjo with a bluegrass group. Well, anyway, we're . . . we're coming back here to live, Cora. We want to raise Joann here in Heart's Bend. Small town, you see.”

Cora's mouth was arid, and any words she longed to say evaporated. She fell into Birch, shaking her head. “No, no . . .”

Most of the war widows Cora knew were half her age, in their twenties. A few women in their thirties. Even fewer in their forties. Widowed by officers caught in battle.

What war widow wanted her worn-out, coward of a father? Since their friends and Mama's side of the family thought Daddy was dead, no one talked about him. No one asked, “What's Ernie up to these days?” No one speculated or announced, “I heard from Ernie. He remarried, you know.”