by Ashley Clark
Millie started down the hallway, but the woman called out. “Just a minute, honey.”
She pivoted to find Mrs. Stevens pointing toward the back door. “Your room is actually detached from the rest of the house. Though modest in size, the little porch shows a mighty nice view of the sunset over Mobile Bay.” She dropped the key into Franklin’s hand. “The honeymoon suite,” she added with a smile.
The what?
The next four months brought a new sort of rhythm. And though Millie was no closer to owning her dress shop, she was a lot closer to something else she had always wanted—having a best friend. And she’d found that from the first day she’d spent with the train jumper.
Franklin, as it turned out, was a class act. He had been a gentleman about the sleeping arrangements, going so far as to sleep on the floor while Millie took the bed to herself, night after night. Last month he was sick, and when she insisted he sleep in the bed beside her, he set two well-placed pillows between them. She suspected this was his way of honoring what little virtue she had left after continuing on with this marriage charade. Not that she had lied . . . per se. No one had asked about their marriage outright, after all. And say Mrs. Stevens questioned them—then of course Millie would admit the truth.
But Mrs. Stevens hadn’t. No one had. And so the guise continued. Because, as Franklin was always saying, “These are hard times.” First the economic depression and then the war. What other boardinghouse would waive the nightly payment in exchange for help? One dared not look a gift horse in the mouth, after all.
And so here they were. The boardinghouse was unusually busy on account of the holidays. Millie watched Franklin hang garland from the fireplace. The two of them had been buzzing this way and that in preparation for the Christmas party tonight, sweeping the front porch and pulling cinnamon tarts from the oven.
Families and singles alike were staying for the holiday. Millie found most of them pleasant enough, keeping to themselves, except for the incorrigible Mr. Danes. She had been eagerly awaiting his checkout date. The man hadn’t so much as nodded to acknowledge her presence. But Millie hadn’t the energy to worry over it. He’d be gone soon enough.
Mrs. Stevens had given Millie an early Christmas gift—some money with which to buy fabric for a party outfit. Day and night for two whole weeks, Millie had dreamed up what to sew. Finally, she decided on a red and green floral fabric that she ruched at the bust, with a full skirt and a trail of buttons along the neckline.
And of course, her favorite cloche. She never went anywhere without it.
She’d used the last of her money on the fancy buttons, so she had to wear her scuffed-up black Mary Janes. But the goal, of course, was that the guests might be so enraptured by her dress they wouldn’t notice her shoes.
And by guests, of course she meant Franklin.
Two hours later, everyone had eaten their fill, and Mrs. Stevens played her new Benny Goodman record for anyone who wanted to dance.
Franklin wore suspenders, the new hat Mrs. Stevens had given him, and a grin that warmed Millie more thoroughly than the crackling fire beside them. He held out his hand. “Want to dance?”
He knew he needn’t ask. Millie had been less than subtle in expressing how perfect the skirt of her dress might be for dancing. A girl only got the opportunity to dress as a princess once in a blue moon, and Millie had every intention of enjoying her moon before it passed.
The vibrant beat of “Sing, Sing, Sing” began, and Franklin rock-stepped so fast, he’d do his Charleston family proud. If only his mama could see him now. Of course, it could be years before he saw the woman again. At least the letter last week said she was doing okay, thanks in no small part to the checks he’d been sending.
Their plan to work at the boardinghouse for a few weeks had turned into more weeks, with no end date in sight. And Millie wasn’t complaining a bit. She had a feeling she was going to be okay. That they were all were, eventually.
Franklin spun Millie around so fast, she was glad she could trust the soles of her Mary Janes over a slick pair of evening heels. He held tight to her hands and moved her arm over her head, nearly knocking her hat clear off. The next thing Millie knew, they were side by side, the waist of her skirt touching the seam of his white button-down.
She had never been so close to him, not in four months, and she didn’t entirely dislike it. He smelled of the same soap she used, and the wood he had chopped for the fire, and a little bit like coffee, and she was entranced by the kick-kick-kick, rock-step pattern of his feet as he led her around.
She didn’t know where he had learned to dance like that, but for a few moments, Millie found herself suspended between the past and the future, skipping her way through the dance. Her skirt spun, his eyes twinkled by the firelight, and she laughed in freedom, unafraid of what might come. Laughed as a woman having her blue moon moment.
The music ended as abruptly as the enchanting dance had begun, and Franklin dipped her low to the ground. Millie’s arms sprawled toward her hat, trying to reach it before gravity did its work on her hat pins. She scarcely caught it in time. Her heart continued spinning though the music had ended, and she longed for another dance.
But when Franklin righted her feet back on the sturdy floor, his form was not the first to come into her vision.
Instead, Everett Danes stood steadfast, a little too close for comfort. He extended his hand toward Millie, but it was Franklin to whom he directed his words.
“Mind if I cut in?”
As if Franklin were the one to mind.
Millie stifled her inner hmmph, for she was always remembering her mama’s words: “We don’t want nobody asking questions.” The phrase had become a mantra Millie used regularly to subdue her own behavior, responses to men like Everett Danes, who seemed to think that the women of the world hadn’t brains by which they might be capable of any sort of decision making.
Franklin reached for both of her hands to fill them before Everett could. “My apologies,” he said. “But I’m afraid this beautiful woman has promised the next dance to my two left feet.”
Relief came over Millie, and she hoped Franklin could sense it in their touch.
But Everett didn’t budge. “You mean to say she’s your wife, then?” He straightened his bow tie as a teasing grin slipped up his otherwise handsome mouth. “Funny how the little lady doesn’t have a ring.”
Millie stilled.
Why had she thought their pretend marriage was safely hidden away at the boardinghouse? And why did it have to shatter on this magical evening, of all evenings?
Mrs. Stevens watched from a couple of steps away. A solemn expression washed her warm features, and she stepped forward when she saw the look of panic on Franklin’s face.
“Mr. Danes,” she said, calm and yet stern, a combination to which she held unique mastery. “Miss Sarah is looking mighty lonesome over by the piano. I trust a dance with you would provide the remedy, yes?”
Everett turned his attention from Franklin toward Mrs. Stevens. He hesitated a long moment, and Millie held her breath as he did.
“Yes, ma’am.” In a snap, he was gone. Millie could breathe once more.
But the subject was not over.
“Follow me.” Mrs. Stevens took Millie by the hand, but the command was clearly meant for Franklin too. She ushered them both into the dining room.
Mrs. Stevens wrung her hands, then pressed them against the shimmering fabric of her dress. When she finally did speak, her voice was hushed. “I don’t mean to be a busybody, but . . . well, it’s true, isn’t it? You two aren’t married. I’ve long wondered about the rings but just assumed you didn’t have the money for somethin’ like that.”
Millie’s stomach turned with emotion—anxiety and panic and even a little relief the secret was out. So much emotion, she felt sick.
“Obviously y’all love each other. Some couples have been married twenty years and don’t look at each other the way you two do.” The woman shook her head, deep lin
es now etched upon her forehead. Millie tried to read the space between words, the space between her frown and furrowed brows. She didn’t like what she saw. “But if you’re not married, I can’t allow the two of you to continue sharing a room.”
In desperation, Millie looked to Franklin. The roar of the ocean tide splashed from his silent eyes. He was sad. Just as sad as her. And he didn’t know what to do, either. She could tell from the way he blinked as his eyes searched her own. She had never seen such a quiet plea. Both of them looking for answers from the other but finding none. Yet he centered her with the strength of his gaze, and he became the current she wanted to follow.
And she realized in that moment, she had to come up with something because she couldn’t live without Franklin, plain and simple.
“Now, understand—I’ve come to love you both dearly these last few months, and it’d break my heart to think about you on the street. So here’s my proposal.” Mrs. Stevens’s gaze was gentle yet stern as she looked back and forth between them. “I’ll see the two of you married. I’ll help with the arrangements. We’ll have a nice little ceremony out back, overlooking the bay. Make an honest couple out of you.”
Okay, Millie was definitely going to be sick now.
“What do you say about your boarding here?”
Millie looked over at Franklin, who slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers and gave her that same half grin she was getting used to now, but what was more, she was even beginning to like a little.
Maybe a lot.
How could he be smiling at her as if he were actually considering the idea!
Not that a marriage of convenience was an entirely new convention. It happened all around the world, for more histories and cultures than not. And Franklin was pleasant enough. Handsome enough. Kind enough.
What’s more, he would support her in her dream to open the dress shop.
And he wouldn’t ask any questions about her past. She could tell that much about him. She wouldn’t have to risk the deception of falling in love with any ordinary white man, or falling in love with any ordinary Black one, for that matter.
Of course she wanted to find someone she could share all her secrets with, her pride of her mother’s heritage and her father’s heritage as well. But Mama had made it very clear that could never happen.
If she married Franklin, Millie wouldn’t have to risk falling in love at all. And perhaps . . . yes, perhaps this was an opportunity she’d not yet considered. A partner who would also be her friend.
This way would be safest for everyone.
Their chances of finding another sympathetic innkeeper or even grocer were next to none, especially given the measly amount of change in her carpetbag. She could probably buy a dinner roll with that much.
They were out of options. She was out of options. She could try to get back to Charleston, but with what money, and to what end besides a reunion with Mama?
Millie imagined the arrangement would benefit Franklin and his own mother for the same reasons.
It was radical, yes, but also practical.
“You’re shivering,” Franklin said. He rubbed her arms with his hands. “It’ll be all right, Red. Let’s think this through. It could be an option for us.”
Millie inched closer to Franklin and whispered. “You mean it?”
He touched the tip of his thumb to her chin and lifted her face closer to his own until their eyes met. “This arrangement could help us both. I could send money back to my mother, and support you—your sewing and all.” If it were possible, he looked even deeper into her eyes. His lips moved in a quiet whisper, inches away from her own. “Let’s be clear, Red. I don’t have any expectation beyond that.”
Millie caught another whiff of his coffee smell mixed with dirt from the rose garden. She blinked, and the kitchen candles glimmered down, and for some inexplicable reason, it was magic.
“Take the adventure with me? Say you’ll consider it, at least. Sleep on it.” He swept his thumb from her chin to her shoulders.
And before she could consider the why or the how or even the possibilities, the simple word—yes—was all she could think.
Still, she needed time to mull it over.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would give Franklin an answer.
SIXTEEN
Fairhope, Modern Day
One Month Later
Having just finished tidying all the guest rooms, Harper slid the lemon cake into the oven and made herself a cup of tea. She took the warm mug to the back porch, where a strong breeze at the right angle carried the scent of magnolia blooms.
Millie would give her a lecture if she caught Harper looking at her phone instead of breathing in the view, but Millie was taking an afternoon nap, and, after all, there was only so much breathing a person could do.
She tapped an app to see if she had any notifications and discovered a new message from Lucy, who had gone back to Savannah three weeks ago.
The message contained a screenshot from Peter’s social media account. Harper held the phone closer. His hair curled at the edges just above his ears, and his eyes—
She blinked. She had no business staring into his eyes.
He looked different in this picture than in the one she’d found inside Millie’s drawer, less classically handsome but in a way, more attractive. Almost as if he had traded the rules of how he was supposed to dress for simply being himself. She wondered about the story behind the transformation.
Lucy’s message read, “This guy is right up your alley. Look what he said about his mother.”
Harper mumbled as she read the text from the screenshots. “Made some progress today in the search. I became a historian because after my mother died, I had some gaps in my own family history, which gave me a desire to find the gaps in other histories as well. After years of searching, I finally found something.
“These heirlooms. An embroidered satchel signed M.M. and a wedding dress my mother wore when she married my father. The dress is old, and I have to wonder if it once belonged to my grandmother. Maybe my grandmother’s still alive. If she is, I want to find her. Find her story. And discover the story behind the satchel as well. In the meantime, here’s to all the other untold stories.”
Harper hesitated.
A wedding dress? Something about that detail grabbed her, shook her, and wouldn’t let go. She thought of the photograph that she never did have the courage to ask Millie about. She’d been too worried she’d stumbled across something that might make Millie uncomfortable, especially given the way Millie had avoided any and all conversations about the past.
But what if the letters M.M. stood for . . .
Harper’s blood ran cold, despite the warmth of her tea and the summer air.
It was a shot in the dark, but the possibility of the connection screamed to be known—above the calm coo of the birds and the swoop of the pelican above the bay.
What if his grandmother was her Millie? The quirky old woman with a smile like the sun and a penchant for changing the subject any time Harper asked about her family. That woman had a secret. A photo of Peter.
Harper set down her teacup. She needed to wake Millie up.
Harper was careful to rap gently against the bedroom door. She didn’t want to startle Millie. After a moment’s hesitation, Millie appeared, wearing fuzzy slippers and a silk robe over her nightgown.
Millie glared at her. “Why did you interrupt my nap?”
Harper whipped her phone from her back pocket.
Millie frowned, narrowing her eyes. “You know I hate those contraptions.”
“You might change your mind.” Harper took Millie’s arm and led her to the antique settee positioned by the bay window of Millie’s bedroom. Millie called the place the honeymoon suite.
“Why are you guiding me by the elbow as if I am a child?” Millie swatted Harper’s arm and sat down on her own accord.
“Because you need to sit for this.” Harper brushed the velvet of the sofa and took
a seat herself. She opened Lucy’s message so Peter’s smile filled the screen.
Then she watched Millie’s expression shift from indifference to something else entirely. Recognition, perhaps? Longing? The expression was so strong, Harper could almost feel it in her own heart.
“I know your feelings about the Internet, and I know I was snooping, but several weeks ago, I found a photo of Peter in your drawer. I never had the gumption to bring it up, but now I feel like I have to.” Harper inched closer. “Millie, is Peter related to you?” The question hung in the air. “Is he your grandson?”
Millie gripped the fabric of her seat. Her wrinkled hands moved to cover her mouth. Slowly, Millie nodded. “Yes.”
Harper couldn’t believe this. Her stomach leapt for Peter’s sake, knowing how happy this news could make him. She couldn’t believe she’d been right about the connection between them.
But as Harper reached out to brush Millie’s shoulder, she noticed the far-off look in Millie’s eyes. Was stirring all this up a good idea? She hadn’t meant to traumatize Millie. But Peter was searching far and wide for answers and wanted to know her. Surely she’d done right by showing Millie. Surely Millie would want to know what he was doing.
“He still lives in Charleston?”
“He does.” Harper clasped the strand of pearls at her neck. A ginger candle—such a fire hazard to use at naptime—flickered from across the room on Millie’s nightstand. She kept watching it ebb and wane and spark, casting shadows against the wall until finally, she broke the silence. “May I ask you something? If the two of you know one another, why do you think it hasn’t occurred to him the initials on the satchel are yours?”
Millie’s eyes met Harper’s above her trembling hands. “Because he believes I’m a white friend of his mother’s, and no doubt imagines the woman who did the embroidery on the satchel to have a darker skin tone.”
“Millie.” Harper couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Surely you don’t think your heritage is something to hide? Because from the little I know of Peter, he strikes me as the kind of person who’d want to know about all aspects of your story.”
