by Ashley Clark
“What kind of help, ma’am?”
“Helping me, actually.” Millie swept a stray piece of white hair behind her ear. The woman radiated life like sunbeams. “I want to do some renovations to the honeymoon suite, but if you haven’t noticed, these old joints aren’t what they used to be. I need practical help getting things done around the place. Heck, I need practical help getting around the place.” Millie’s eyes danced with that.
Harper tugged at the hem of her denim jacket, completely overwhelmed by the offer. “I’m not sure what to say. I’m honored, but I don’t know the first thing about innkeeping.”
“Only seamstress work? Got to say, I’m flattered the sewing lessons I gave you all those years ago obviously stuck.” Millie raised her chin slightly.
Harper hesitated. “How’d you know I was still making dresses?”
“You’re wearing a vintage Dior, child. You are quite literally wearing your skills on your sleeve.”
Harper pressed the fabric of her dress. She felt unraveled by Millie’s accurate assessment. Beyond the front room where they stood, she saw a simple staircase leading up to more guest rooms. Millie walked past them all, and Harper followed.
“Where are we going?” Harper hauled her carpetbag and wished in that moment she’d opted for luggage with wheels rather than a true vintage piece. Millie was surprisingly tough to keep up with. The woman probably still walked a mile every morning even though she had to be in her nineties by now.
“We’re taking the long way to your room,” Millie said over her shoulder. She opened the back door, and a stunning garden came into view. Beyond it, a V of pelicans flew over Mobile Bay.
No thought or description seemed quite enough to capture the colors. Or the serenity.
From this angle, the edge of Millie’s pier seemed to touch the edge of that pier on Harper’s old property, and the familiarity of the place soothed a wound she didn’t know it could heal.
Daddy was right, as he usually was. She needed to return and remember where she’d come from. Maybe then she could figure out where she was going.
TWELVE
Fairhope, Modern Day
Several days passed, and while Harper’s sore heart hadn’t begun to heal, exactly, she did find herself piecing the seams together—and after all, wasn’t that the first step toward mending?
Harper’s phone rang. She shut the door to the inn’s library before accepting the call. Not that she expected her old roommate to say anything incriminating, but Millie . . . well, Millie, as it turned out, was nosy. If she was going to explain herself, Harper wanted to do it in peace.
“Hello?” Harper ran her fingers along the ornate edge of the writing desk.
“What were you thinking?” Lucy scolded. “Why did I come home to find two months’ rent?”
“Because that’s how much we have until the apartment lease—”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Lucy harrumphed. “I’m ripping it up, by the way. Your check.”
Harper stepped behind the desk and took a seat. The wooden chair was so old, she feared it might crack under the weight of modernity. “You will do no such thing.”
“I would say watch me, but you aren’t here to do that, are you?”
Harper swept the hair from her eyes. “I realize you’re upset—”
“You think?”
“And it was probably wrong of me to leave just a note and a check behind.” Harper ran her hand along the edge of her vintage red sweater and noticed a gap in the seam. No matter—she could fix that later. The piece was one of her favorite recent finds, and a little tear was not going to stop her from wearing it. “But Lucy, you can’t tell me that you wouldn’t have tried to talk me out of it.”
Lucy sighed. “You didn’t give me the chance, did you? Besides, since when do you up and leave when things get difficult? Harper, you’ve been working toward this thing for years. Long before I met you. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.”
Harper would rather not discuss this further, but it seemed she had no choice at the moment. She hesitated. “And I have learned, after all these years, that sometimes we fail.”
She imagined her roommate pacing back and forth through their kitchen as Lucy always did when confronted with a problem.
“So you’re quitting.”
“Not exactly.” Harper tugged at the loose thread near the hole she’d found. What if Lucy’s right? Am I quitting? “I’m stepping out into the harsh reality of the world, that’s all. I’m not giving up my interest in vintage clothes or sewing. I’m just . . . personalizing it.”
Yes, that was the best way to explain.
“Personalizing it? Give me a break, Harper. You’ve got a better eye for design than anyone I know. Surely you believe that.”
“It’s kind of you to say, but . . .” But she had already made herself look like a fool.
“So that’s it, then?” Lucy waited.
“Friend, I’m out of options. It’s time to start something new.”
Harper fiddled with the knobs of the office desk and absentmindedly opened the drawer. A framed photograph inside caught her eye. When she took it out of the drawer, her heart stopped.
The man in the photo was achingly handsome. He wore a seersucker jacket over a pinned, chocolate-brown tie, and his neatly trimmed hair had that perfect I’m not trying, I just woke up like this vibe that could only be achieved with really expensive hair products. His jaw was tight, his eyes were kind, and his trimmed five o’clock shadow spelled trouble for all sorts of reasons.
But none of that was the reason her pulse was racing. The picture looked like the man she’d met in Charleston—the one who had purchased the space that once held an old dress shop.
She flipped over the photo, and her suspicions were confirmed. In scripted letters, the words Peter—2012 were written.
Harper couldn’t believe her eyes. Why would Millie have a picture of Peter?
“Lucy, I’m sorry. Something’s come up,” Harper said.
Millie’s voice echoed down the hallway. Sounded like she was talking with a family who had just checked in.
Harper shoved the photo back inside the drawer and flew out of the office faster than a purple martin after a mosquito. She didn’t want to get caught snooping.
Even after all the time they’d spent together over the years—mixing biscuit dough and straightening quilts and welcoming guests on the long front porch—Millie had never mentioned anything about her personal life. So why did she have a framed picture of this guy in her drawer? And why was he dressed like his outfit belonged in a different lifetime?
Harper pocketed her phone as she stepped out into the hall, and Millie turned, gesturing to the folks beside her.
“Harper, dear. Great timing. These are the Dickens, visiting us from chilly Iowa.”
The young mother smiled, while her son waved. “Nice to meet you,” the husband said.
Harper waved back to the little boy, hoping this family didn’t sense her urgency to get rid of them and talk with Millie. “Pleasure is mine. Please let me know if there’s any way I can make your stay extra memorable.”
“Thank you.” The woman put both hands on the young boy’s shoulders. Millie’s gaze lingered on the maternal gesture.
Harper’s determination for answers skidded to a halt. Come to think of it, Millie always paid extra care to the littlest visitors at the inn—offering coloring sheets and opportunities to bake cookies and even an old DVD collection of animated movies that were about twenty years from still being relevant, but it was sweet.
What if there was more to Millie’s story? Did she have her own children? Grandchildren? Why would she have that picture of Peter?
“We’d better get to our room and freshen up.” The woman patted her son’s shoulders. “But it was nice meeting you, Harper.”
“You as well.” Harper offered the most welcoming smile she could manage, hoping the guests wouldn’t notice her distraction.
<
br /> Then they were gone, leaving Harper and Millie in the hallway together.
“Harper, are you okay?” Millie frowned. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Maybe I have.
Before she could respond, Millie started toward the door of Harper’s bedroom. “Now, don’t you get in a tizzy over it, but there’s something I want to ask you about.” Millie opened the door. The cottage decor of the room was true to the original style but also delightfully on trend.
The dress Harper had made for Senior Show was hanging from the closet handle, bold as a lighthouse in the middle of a storm. She opened her mouth, but words wouldn’t come.
“How did you . . . where did you . . .” Harper just kept staring at the dress.
Millie pointed to the piece as if it stood on trial. “You made this, didn’t you?”
Harper dropped her head and closed her eyes. She did not want to have this conversation right now. She sold that thing for a reason and didn’t need it out in broad daylight. The rejection was still too fresh in her heart. Slowly, she nodded.
Millie closed the space between them and set both hands on Harper’s shoulders. At the touch, Harper met her affirming gaze. “You’ve really got something special.”
Harper ran her tongue over her teeth to bite back her words. She had plenty of examples ready that would assure her own insufficiency. Her last days in college would attest to that.
She couldn’t even manage to pass her capstone class. How did she ever dream she might manage an entire store?
But Millie would hush her if she admitted any of that, so she kept her explanation brief. “I appreciate the thought, Millie. Truly. But I tried that path, and it didn’t work out.”
Millie dropped her hands from Harper’s shoulders and crossed her arms. “So you quit. Is that why you came here?”
Not waiting for a reply, Millie reached for the hanger and set the dress down on the bed. “Have you ever thought about shortening the sleeves?”
Harper tilted her head, studying the dress. “Actually, no, I hadn’t . . .”
“Maybe raise the hem a little too. After all, this isn’t Victorian England, is it?”
Harper’s laugh was soft. “I suppose it’s not.”
“No matter. We all need adjustments, sweetheart.”
Harper wasn’t sure if “we” was supposed to mean the dresses or people generally, but she supposed the sentiment worked well either way.
Speaking of adjustments . . .
She started to ask Millie about the photograph, but her courage dwindled as Millie stepped closer to the bed and leaned over the gown. What if she’d stumbled upon something personal? Now was not the time to ask.
Millie picked up the dress to inspect it more closely. “Just as I thought. You’ve got a small tear here.” She waved her free hand. “No matter. I can fix this up in no time.”
Harper smiled and moved to stand beside the older woman. Side by side, they both studied the rip in the fabric and pieced the seam back. “I actually like your idea of shortening the sleeves. Maybe we could do that together.”
Millie took her time handing back the dress. “Oh, don’t look at me as if I’m going to keel over any minute and you’ve got to make a play for my fine china.”
“Let’s just get started on the sleeves, shall we? And besides, we both know your dishes came from Target.” Harper started laughing. “Really though—how did you even know about this dress?”
Millie hesitated, her hands clutching the fabric, then looked toward Harper. “How would you feel about another houseguest?”
THIRTEEN
Mobile, Alabama, 1946
Steam puffed up from the engine as the train sputtered to a stop. The conductor announced their arrival in Alabama, and Franklin hopped from the passenger car. He set down Millie’s carpetbag, then held out his hand to help Millie jump from the last step.
She hoped he didn’t see her blush, for she wasn’t accustomed to riding locomotives or taking a gentleman’s hand—even if he was a freight hopper and just helping her for a moment. The whole thing felt like a dream rather than real life.
The dust and scrape of the tires against the rails stirred in Millie’s nose, and she covered her sneeze with her free hand. For a moment, she wondered what Mama was doing right about now . . . but she stopped herself. Mama made her promise not to think thoughts like that. Wouldn’t do nobody no good. So Millie looked up and scanned the small gathering of folks waiting to meet passengers. Then she put one hand to her hat to keep it from blowing off and glanced over at Franklin.
Hours ago, she had feared him. My, how things had turned around. Now, the planned part of her journey was over, and she had no idea where she was going next, save toward Fairhope. She’d been frettin’ so much over the details of the train that she hadn’t paid much mind to the obvious—what she would do after.
Millie was silent as she searched Franklin’s expression. For what, she did not know. Strength, perhaps.
His voice softened with concern. “Don’t worry, Red,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.” And with that, he picked up her carpetbag once more. “The town you mentioned is a good place to start . . . for both of us.”
Millie drew in a deep breath that pushed against the fitted waistline of her dress. “Seems as good a plan as any, I suppose.” She tried not to let on how relieved she was that he’d be accompanying her. They had settled into an easy rhythm with one another, like friends rather than the strangers they actually were.
Franklin waved his hand. He walked over to the front of the station, to where the cars were parked. “Fairhope is a good ways from Mobile, so we’ll have to drive.”
Millie’s eyes widened. “You’re not planning to steal one of them?”
Franklin put one hand on his hip and leaned against a rusted white truck. “Now, do I look like that kind of man?” He washed her heart with relief, however short-lived, with his confident half grin. “For the record”—he lowered his voice—“I could hot-wire this thing in a pinch, but I’m no thief, Red. I answer to the Lord.” His grin widened. “Besides, my mama would have a conniption if she ever caught wind.”
“Young man, wha’dya think you’re doin’ leaning on this here truck?” a man said.
Franklin jumped, clearly startled. But when he got a hold of himself, he held out his hand toward the stranger. Millie was beginning to realize Franklin always had a plan. So what was he up to now?
“Fine truck you’ve got here, sir.”
The burly man wore coveralls and puffed hand-rolled tobacco. “Worked mighty hard for it.”
“Sure shows. What model is this thing?”
What followed in the next five minutes was more detail about vehicles, makes, and models than Millie ever wanted to know. She nodded and smiled like a woman in these situations ought to, but inwardly breathed her relief when the conversation dwindled.
“Where y’all headed?” the man asked.
Millie put the dots together then. Oh no. This could not be Franklin’s plan.
Please, God, do not let hitchhiking with this man be Franklin’s—
“Fairhope.” Franklin didn’t miss a beat.
“You got yourself a ride?”
“No, sir,” Franklin said. Millie fussed with her hat.
“I’m headin’ east of Fairhope. Be glad to take y’all that way.” And then, before they had a chance to so much as respond, he opened the bed of his truck for them to climb aboard.
Bless it! Millie wanted to say. She’d have to hitch up the skirt of her dress to even get in this thing. What was she, a head of cattle? She wasn’t difficult to please, but goodness me. He couldn’t have picked an actual car?
Franklin helped her into the back of the truck, settled in beside her, and set her bag down. Then he reached his arm over her shoulder and braced himself against the frame of the truck—a move she quickly realized would insulate her from being jarred around.
Two potholes and one sharp turn later, he s
eemed to read her thoughts. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” His charming grin made a reappearance. “I said I’d help you, Red. Didn’t promise how. But I can promise you one thing. With me, you’ll always have plenty enough adventure to go around.”
You could say that again.
Millie had moxie. Franklin had seen enough of life to recognize it. A woman traveling by herself across the States? He had to respect her. But she was running from something. He’d noticed that too. She didn’t keep a close enough watch on her bag and was too free with details about where she was going. Somebody could up and follow.
He’d learned these things the hard way, growin’ up on the train with his mother. Who, in her own way, was maybe growin’ up too.
But Millie watched him start that fire in Savannah while everybody else watched the ruckus.
And he couldn’t get that out of his mind. Nobody had ever watched him before.
It’s how he became so good at train jumping. Franklin was an expert when it came to being invisible. He looked over at Millie as the truck lurched down the bumpy road, then offered a smile. She was making the best of it. He had to hand it to her.
Franklin told himself he was helping her get settled safe and sound—it’s what his mother would want him to do. But maybe it was the other way around, if he were being truthful. He suspected Millie might be helping him, seeing him, in a way he was not yet ready to admit.
She was also as beautiful as the dawn over the water.
Slowly, Millie shook her head. “You must think I’m foolish,” she muttered under her breath. “Starting out on a new adventure with such a fragile plan and barely two pennies to rub together.”
The road dipped, and he tightened his grip on her shoulder to keep her from falling into the cab of the truck.
“Not at all.”
“Truly?” Her eyes widened.
“On the contrary, I was just thinking how brave you are. Traveling all this way alone.”
She fidgeted with something in her pocket and studied him.
“What are you fiddlin’ with?” he asked.
Millie pulled both hands out and opened her right fist to show a couple of buttons. She was quick to snap her fingers shut when the truck hit another pothole. Then she slipped her hands back into her pockets, the perfect covering for her treasure.
