The Dress Shop on King Street

by Ashley Clark

  Millie shook her head. “No, you misunderstand. He doesn’t know . . .” Her voice trailed off. “He doesn’t know about the half of my heart that I had to leave behind.”

  Harper’s heart ached at the tears forming in Millie’s eyes. “Why don’t you tell him, then?”

  “I couldn’t just show up on his doorstep and admit who I am.” Millie’s voice warbled, and she looked down into her open hands. “Not after all this time.” She shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t be the proper way to do things.”

  What Millie meant was I’m terrified, and they both knew it.

  Harper moved closer and took Millie’s hands in her own. “Believe it or not, I considered renting space in an old building from him to use as a dress shop.”

  Millie seemed lost in another world. “A dress shop, did you say?”

  Harper took her time with her reply. “I could drive you there and tell him I’d like to see the space once more. That would give us a reason to meet up. Then, after a nice dinner and maybe some tea, you can ease him into the news that his grandmother can probably beat him at chess, movie trivia, and gardening.”

  “Harper, sweetheart, one does not ‘beat’ another person at gardening.” She hesitated. The beginnings of a smile—whether sad or happy, Harper wasn’t sure yet—pulled at the corners of Millie’s painted lips, deepening the well-formed wrinkles like parentheses around her grin.

  “Do you think Peter will believe it? That we’re starting a store?” Harper asked.

  “Of course he will.” Millie turned a ring ’round and ’round her finger. “He knows I’m a trained seamstress, after all.”

  “Perkins Salvage. How may I help you?” Peter leaned back in his office chair and propped his feet on the desk in front of him. A stack of papers fluttered down. Note to self—it was way past time to clean his desk.

  “Hi! This is Harper. We met several weeks ago. I’m calling about the space you have for rent.”

  His heart shot up in his chest. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. He’d all but given up it was coming. “Harper, yeah. Of course.” Play it cool. Peter kicked his feet back down on the ground. “The apartment or the store?”

  Harper hesitated. “Both. The loft is a short-term rental, right?”

  Peter didn’t know what made him more excited, the prospect of renting the space or of seeing Harper again. “Sure is. I was able to keep some really cool details from the original architecture. Windows and bookshelves and that kind of thing. It’ll also be furnished. You’ll be the first tenant.” Did that sound desperate?

  “Actually, we’ll be the first tenants.” Harper hesitated. “I’m traveling with an elderly friend of mine, so the two of us will be renting it together.”

  “Is she any trouble?” Peter joked.

  “Only if you hate watching old movies. I’ve personally seen Sabrina fifteen times.”

  A pencil began to roll from the desk, and Peter caught it with his free hand. “Well, considering the tenant in one of my other properties spends his free time making audition videos for reality TV shows, I think I can handle it.”

  Harper laughed. The sound was more melodic than he’d remembered.

  So Harper—beautiful Harper—was coming here at last. He tapped the pencil against his desk. “As long as we’re talking the Bogie version.”

  “Of course we’re talking Bogie. Is there anything else?”

  Peter grinned. “As you know, the space downstairs needs some sprucing. Cosmetic, mostly. But it was abandoned a while and pretty badly neglected. I’ve been working hard on it, and it’s storefront-ready, but you will want to do some polishing of your own.” Peter swiveled in his chair. “Are you still interested?”

  “I’m always up for a challenge,” Harper said. “Though there is one more thing I should mention.”

  So long as it had nothing to do with his tie the night they met.

  “Oh yeah?” he asked.

  “Turns out, I’m practically a friend of your family.”

  Please tell me she’s not a second cousin I never knew about.

  “You don’t say?” Outside the window, a couple hurried across King Street.

  “I’m originally from Fairhope, Alabama,” Harper added. She seemed to be waiting for him to connect the dots.

  “But Fairhope is where Millie’s from. Tell me you’re not talking about Aunt Millie!”

  Just when he thought Harper’s arrival couldn’t get any better, she was bringing along his favorite aunt? Well, honorary aunt, at least.

  “Sure am. She said she’s always dreamed of owning a dress store and wants to do this with me. She also said she thinks it’ll be—and I quote—a ‘real hoot’ to see you. Apparently, you haven’t visited her as much as she’d like.”

  Peter chuckled. If it were up to Millie, he’d be living in Fairhope rather than South Carolina. “Please tell her I can’t wait to see her and that she’d better be prepared to make me a batch of her biscuits. Can’t find any like hers in the entire city of Charleston.” He reached for a small notepad. “Tell you what—since it’s Millie, I’ll give y’all the first three weeks on the loft for free while you set up the storefront.”

  “Wow.” Harper hesitated. “Are you sure? That’s very generous.”

  “Absolutely. That woman is like family to me.” Peter pinned his phone between his ear and shoulder while he scribbled down the specifics Harper gave about their arrival. “In fact, why don’t you both plan to stay in the loft for a few days regardless of what you decide about the store? That way I can catch up with Millie.”

  “Sounds wonderful. So I guess I’ll talk with you next week,” she said.

  “If not before.” Peter grimaced and hit the palm of his hand to his forehead. Why did he have to say that? How was he going to spend all this time around the woman without acting a fool? Maybe she would be less enchanting than he remembered. But he doubted it. He would have to do his best to keep things professional. If he didn’t, and Millie caught wind, he’d never hear the end of it.

  Peter hung up the phone and caught himself humming “As Time Goes By” from Casablanca. He leaned toward his computer, ready to do some market research on the antique tiles he’d pulled up yesterday, and noticed a pristine envelope lying on the stack of papers that had fallen. Somehow, he must’ve missed this envelope when he got the mail earlier.

  He shimmied his index finger under the flap and pulled out the letter.

  Then the envelope fell from his hands.

  Code enforcement?!

  His eyes flew over the words, only able to process bits and pieces.

  Thirty days to correct. Major electrical violations. Discovered in the wall adjacent to the neighboring building. Mechanical and plumbing violations also discovered.

  Well, wasn’t that great?

  He’d just come into some money on one of his rental properties, but enough to rewire his side of the building? In a way that was up to code on the oh-so-regulated side of King Street? Hardly.

  He just had to go and buy this property to save it from demolition, didn’t he?

  Peter groaned and ran his hand through his hair. What was he going to do now?

  SEVENTEEN

  Fairhope, 1946

  The next morning, Millie was in the garden pulling weeds when Franklin returned from town. In place of the formal gown she showed off last night, she wore her faded day dress, which pulled a little at the seams.

  Yet the air between them still jumped with the beat of “Sing, Sing, Sing,” and it was everything Millie could do to pretend her growing feelings toward him were nothing.

  Franklin carried several heaping sacks of flour over his shoulders. All the bags featured the same floral percale Millie wanted. She grinned up at him as he set the sacks down.

  “I’ll have you know, I had to lug whole stacks of these things around to get all the prints matching. The salesman gave me a time. Said he’s thrilled packaging is changing to paper sacks ’cause he won’t have to help
customers match flowers much longer.”

  Millie laughed, imagining Franklin’s relentless pursuit for the print she’d requested. “Your hard work will pay off when I wash ’em and make a new day dress out of the fabric. Just think what I’d look like wearing four different prints at once.”

  “I think you’d still be pretty as a peach.” Franklin winked. He was such a troublemaker sometimes. “Red, might as well tell you now. I’ve been saving up to take you out to that theater they’ve got in town.”

  Millie’s heart skipped. The prospect of a true-to-life date with Franklin stirred her nerves even more than the thought of a marriage to him.

  She knew the reason why. But she could not admit it.

  “Theater?” she mumbled.

  “Magnet Theater, it’s called. I met a real nice guy a couple weeks ago who works at Clay City Tile and built the construction materials for the place. He says it’s something.”

  Something, all right.

  “I have always wanted to go to the theater . . .” Millie looked down at her day dress. “Of course, I’ll need to change.”

  “Wait—” Franklin caught her by the elbow. “You mean to tell me you’ve never been to the movies before?”

  She froze, even as a little orange butterfly fluttered about the flowers.

  Would he suspect her reason? How her upbringing and her mama’s skin color factored into the equation?

  Franklin released her arm and grinned. Millie’s breath instantly eased. He’d been teasing. Of course he was teasing.

  Still, she’d been wondering lately if she should tell him. Mama would hate it, of course. But Mama hadn’t met Franklin.

  Millie could trust him. She was nearly sure of it.

  And it sure would certainly make things easier. The thought of getting hitched without him knowing the truth . . .

  “Really haven’t seen a movie on the big screen, have you?” Franklin watched her. “That’s okay, Red. Nothin’ to be embarrassed by. Times have been hard for everybody.” He slipped his hands into his pockets, and he rose slightly from the heels of his loafers. “Nevertheless, I’d be honored to take you.” His grin softened the promise, and she caught her heart before it grew wings and floated away like the butterfly.

  Two hours later, Franklin parked Mrs. Stevens’s car on Church Street and straightened his suspenders as Millie traipsed under the strong arms of a sprawling oak tree. She caught herself wondering what that tree might look like in a century.

  “We’re here.” Franklin gently touched the back of Millie’s freshly pressed floral dress, and she startled.

  “Little jumpy, aren’t we?” He grinned from ear to ear. “I promise you, Red, you’ll love this place.”

  If he only knew the truth. That Millie was terrified someone might look too closely and see the brown rim between the whites of her green eyes.

  “What’s the movie called?” She hadn’t thought to ask before. It hadn’t mattered.

  “Notorious.” Franklin walked up to a vendor selling popcorn and pressed a coin into the young man’s palm, then took the heaping bag into his own hands. The smell of butter and fresh popcorn drifted toward Millie as she and Franklin entered the theater and found two seats together.

  “Why are there so many people here?” she asked.

  Franklin took a handful of popcorn from the bag. “Because we’re talkin’ about Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman directed by Alfred Hitchcock. What else could you ask for?”

  Millie began to chuckle. She had a lot to learn.

  Franklin settled back in his chair. “She was great in Casablanca.” He caught Millie’s gaze and pointed to emphasize his statement. “Mark my words. Someday, folks are gonna look back and say she was one of the greatest actresses that ever lived.”

  “Oh, are they?” Millie shifted in her seat to face him, crossing her legs at the ankles. “And you know this because . . .” Millie’s cloche tipped catty-corner from where it sat on her head.

  Franklin reached out to gently right it. “I recognize a gem when I see one.”

  Millie’s heart beat so fast that she hoped Franklin didn’t notice the pace of her breathing. She blinked repeatedly, wishing her eyes would adjust to the dimming lights of the theater so she could see him more clearly.

  It was then that she knew.

  She was going to marry this man.

  And there was a great likelihood they would actually be wildly happy.

  “None of my family married for love.” He reached for another small handful of popcorn, then turned toward her. “What about yours?”

  “Just my mama, and that didn’t end well for her.” Well, as “married” as they could be, considering it was against the law. They did find a preacher, though, who helped ’em say vows. Millie shook her head, hoping he wouldn’t ask for details.

  “It’s not such a crazy idea, you know.”

  “What’s that?” But she knew. She knew as her pulse sent her blood pushing through her veins.

  “Marrying for reasons other than love.” He watched her as if this were the most diplomatic, natural discussion in the world.

  The projector flickered on. God bless that dear projector. Millie willed herself to breathe, willed herself to look straight ahead at the movie while she tried to think of something to say in response. Franklin, for all intents and purposes, had just proposed. Again. Only this time, without Mrs. Stevens hovering over and the threat of incorrigible inn guests, it felt real. Very real.

  And Lord help her—she was going to say yes.

  But he needed to know the truth.

  Franklin reached over to squeeze Millie’s hand once. She glanced toward him, and he smiled gently as if to say, “Take all the time you need.”

  One hour later, Millie gripped the armrest of her seat as Ingrid Bergman’s character slipped the key to the wine cellar beneath the sole of her shoe. Such a bold move for a woman to be a spy, unable to tell the man she loved the truth.

  And Millie wondered—didn’t Ingrid want to tell him everything? And if she had, surely Cary would have come for her sooner. They could’ve avoided the whole poison-by-tea, climbing-a-sprawling-staircase portion of the movie. If only they’d put the pieces together about the bottle sooner. If only they’d worked together.

  Millie turned to face Franklin. She rubbed her palms against the skirt of her dress, took a deep breath, and willed herself toward honesty.

  “Franklin—”

  “Hmm?” He leaned his ear closer to her, never taking his eyes off the screen.

  My father was murdered for loving my mother. My grandmother was a slave, and she was sold as a child. I own the satchel her mother sent along with provision for her journey, not knowing where her child—her own child!—would sleep. They never saw each other again, and this—this—is the blood you don’t see in me. You need to know it if you want to live with me. But mostly, you need to know it if you ever suspect yourself in love with me. Because I am proud of my heritage, no matter what the law and society think. I am proud of my mother and my mother’s mother and all the rest who came before me. Without them, I wouldn’t carry these dreams.

  But the world doesn’t see them as heroes. Not yet, at least.

  Looking at his sharp silhouette, all the courage bound up in her heart whooshed away from her lips, and she moistened them as if that would make a difference, her hands now trembling.

  “Nothing.”

  “Sure?” He turned his attention to her then. “For a moment there, I thought you might have an answer.” He cleared his throat, and even in the dark, she could see him shifting in his seat.

  “About the marriage, you mean?”

  Franklin’s gaze swept her eyes, down the tip of her nose, to her lips and back again. He seemed to be waiting for something. Waiting, perhaps, until she was ready.

  “Yes,” she blurted, quite confident she wouldn’t change her mind. “Yes, Franklin. I will marry you.” She was a traitor to her own values, to her resolution of telling him abo
ut her heritage. But how would he respond if she did? Why, it wouldn’t even be legal. She didn’t want to lose him. Didn’t want to lose all they already shared.

  “It’s settled, then.” He inched closer and placed his hand over her own. She pretended to play coy, as if this gesture hadn’t prompted the tickle in her toes. “We’ll marry as soon as possible, obviously.”

  Millie’s heart spun like the newlyweds she once watched dancing down King Street on Christmas Eve. Back at home. Back when she was a girl.

  “One day, this movie is going to be a classic.” Franklin removed his hand from hers and reached for another bite of popcorn.

  “We’ll see,” said Millie.

  He smiled back, and her very breath shook with the ring of his offer, with the ring of the woman she had promised to be.

  When Mrs. Stevens said she’d bring some fabric by the honeymoon suite that afternoon, Millie never expected what the woman had in mind. Mrs. Stevens, hair perfectly pinned, stood in the doorway with a pile of clothing stacked higher than her hairstyle.

  Millie hurried to help, taking several garments from the woman’s arms, then spreading them on the bed quilt made from scraps of old dresses and flour sacks.

  “This is too much.” Millie’s heart swelled with each glimpse of lace and silk.

  “Hardly, Millie.” Mrs. Stevens set the rest of the stack down. “None of it fits me anymore. Don’t know why I kept it, but for fancy’s sake. I’m sentimental to a fault, always remembering when I wore this or that.”

  Millie smiled and stilled. “I do the same.” Her gaze traveled to the top of the stack as Mrs. Stevens continued.

  “I’m just sorry I can’t afford to help you buy a proper gown.”

  Why are you being so nice to me? she wanted to ask. But she knew the answer. Mrs. Stevens was just the sort of person to always be kind, and she reminded Millie of all the Bible stories Mama used to tell about Jesus.

  In utter awe, Millie reached for the peach silk dressing gown.

  “That one was a gift from my mother. I thought you might use it as a lining.”