by Ashley Clark
Toward the end of the song, he added for good measure, Help me care for her well.
He couldn’t believe a woman like Millie would marry a hobo from Carolina, and he’d spend the rest of his life distracting her from the obvious.
Next thing Franklin knew, the preacher was sayin’ something fierce about vows and commitment and divorce and all. His heart thudded, thinking of how they’d deceived Mrs. Stevens and how she’d been nothing but nice to them.
Franklin reached into his pocket for the ring he’d bought Millie yesterday morning. It wasn’t real gold, of course, but he wanted her to have some token from the wedding. And he certainly didn’t want any other men noticing her bare left hand. So he’d sold his cap and his one pair of suspenders in exchange for it.
Franklin left the ring in his pocket and took Millie’s hand in his own. Her skin was as soft as petals, and Lord help him, all he could think of was the kiss that was coming.
He watched her, searching her eyes for what she might be thinking. He couldn’t fault her if she wanted to run. Yet all he could see in her gaze was the same steady determination he’d first noticed on the train somewhere near Georgia.
She shifted her weight back and forth, and the bottom of her dress seemed to float with the movement. It was a very pretty dress. He’d never seen another one like it.
But then again, Millie was a very pretty woman.
“Repeat after me,” the preacher said. “I, Franklin, take thee, Millie.”
Franklin cleared his throat. “I, Franklin, take thee, Millie.” He swallowed, his heart now thundering. Millie looked up at him, eyes wide and waiting. “To be my wedded wife.”
One of Millie’s curls fell loosely on her forehead as they repeated the rest of the vows from the minister, and Franklin reached up to brush it back.
He bit down on his bottom lip. Her gaze held him, steadied him. Millie had no idea how he meant this last part, after only a month of friendship. How he admired her. Longed for her. How he meant to commit himself. “To love and to cherish, till death do us part.”
Millie turned ever so slightly to take the ring from the minister, and Franklin’s focus trailed to the little butterfly buttons at the neckline of her dress. He recognized them as the buttons Millie’s mother had given her the day she left Charleston. The day they first met.
Millie had seen fit to put her beloved buttons on that dress. Her wedding dress.
That had to bode well for him.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
Franklin reached for her. It might be the only time he ever kissed her, and he intended to make it a good one.
Millie’s eyes fluttered to a close as his lips found her own.
He told himself they were pretending, only pretending, and yet it felt so very real. He reached behind her waist, gently yet firmly drawing her closer to himself. He wanted to take the pins out from her curls and kiss the nape of her neck and tell her to let her hair down.
He was at once fully alive and keenly aware of the moment’s passing, as the rest of the world blurred around them.
Against his better judgment, he inched his lips back and ended the kiss, trying to pretend his heart wasn’t racing and his breath wasn’t stolen as he looked into the innocent eyes of Mrs. Millie Pinckney.
Millie and Franklin spent the better part of their wedding night on the pier overlooking Mobile Bay, the planks still wet from an afternoon storm and the air still thick with humidity.
Starlight twinkled little lights around the old oak trees, and Millie leaned back onto the pier beside Franklin to watch. She still wore her wedding gown, for this was her one chance to enjoy it, and she knew it was the most beautiful dress she would ever sew.
She shifted her weight onto her elbows and reached out to loosen his tie. “You look awfully uncomfortable.”
“That’s ’cause I am.” Franklin smiled his usual half grin, and his eyes caught glimmers from the light of the stars. “But anything for you, my bride.”
Millie chuckled, then pulled off the bow tie. “How much mileage can I get out of this bride business?”
“Until dawn comes, you’re practically Cinderella.”
Millie tilted her head back at that and laughed, really laughed, wild and free for the first time in such a long time. She had done it—she had made a new life for herself and found a friendship that would last. Mama would be proud.
Maybe it was supremely practical, and maybe it wasn’t romantic, but Millie had all the romance she needed in her dress shop dream and in the glittering details of this night, from the silk of her gown to the dimples of his grin, to the low-swinging sliver of the moonlight. She watched the waves gently lap against the pier and delighted in the smell of her own fancy rosewater perfume.
She might never tell Franklin her secret history, but that was all right. Some secrets were better kept quiet, just as Mama once warned.
“What’ll it be, Red?” Franklin unbuttoned his collar.
Millie looked up into the sky, searching for a shooting star. She’d wish to remember this moment, this magic, for the rest of her life.
The way Franklin had searched her eyes when he’d said the words my wedded wife, it should’ve scared her senseless. But for some reason, it didn’t.
The breeze over the water cooled her arms, and for a moment, Millie caught a chill. Franklin inched closer, slid off his suit jacket, then draped it over her shoulders.
“Honestly?”
Franklin nodded.
“I can’t think of a single thing I want that I don’t already have.”
Franklin watched her. His jaw tightened. And the glimmer of the bay just beyond them played tricks with the pier so it looked as if he were suspended there—they were suspended there—floating in a space above the water where the moonlight and the stars scattered diamonds down on the tide.
It was the sort of moment he might have kissed her had circumstances been different, and she might have kissed him back.
It was the sort of moment he might’ve said he loved her, and she might have promised herself to him for the rest of her life.
But he didn’t kiss her again that night. Instead, they sat together, two travelers become one, as the water pulsed toward the shore and the moonlight dipped into the dawn.
TWENTY
Charleston, Modern Day
Must have been the rosy glow of twilight. Either that, or the British audiobook Harper and Millie had enjoyed on the drive over. Perhaps a dangerous cocktail of the two. Because the light of morning proved Peter was not her own personal hero from Cornwall.
Peter, as it turned out, was a nerd. Just as she had initially suspected upon meeting him weeks ago.
Harper would be entirely unsurprised if he owned a NASA shirt.
All for the best, really. When Peter found out her dreams had come to a fiery halt, he wouldn’t be interested anyway. What could she offer to a relationship right now when she wasn’t even sure what she wanted in life? This morning, she’d even doubted her Starbucks order.
Still, she would be kind and pretend to be interested in this walking tour for Millie’s sake, despite the fact Millie had conveniently found an excuse to get out of it.
Harper planted her ballet flats against the cobblestone street while the white bow at the back of her blouse flapped in the breeze. Flowers in pinks and purples caught on the breeze and floated over wrought-iron cemetery walls.
She tapped her foot against the ground and checked her watch.
Why was she the only one at the meeting spot? The tour was supposed to leave two and a half minutes ago.
Harper tensed all over again as a new realization dawned—she might be the only person taking the tour today. The tour had seemed like a fine idea when she thought she could blend into a group, but now she had to make conversation. And if things got awkward, they were still stuck with each other. Painfully so.
Millie had insisted on resting after the long travel day, prior to seeing the storefront.
Harper tapped her other foot.
A man rounded the corner, a satchel slung over his shoulder and a grin on his face as if he’d intentionally taken his sweet time getting here.
Peter.
He wore a cardigan that was at once stylish and reminiscent of Mr. Rogers. Harper couldn’t decide exactly which descriptor fit the man more.
As he came closer, the breeze ruffled his wild almost-curls, and she caught a glimpse of his green-blue eyes. Eyes that seemed to hold far more nuance than they had in her kitchen this morning, when he’d brought over cheap muffins and coffee. For the briefest moment, she felt a leap of sheer attraction to him—the same tumbling sensation in her middle as last night, when twilight painted the Holy City pink.
Then the moment passed. And she returned to sanity.
“I had a last-minute cancelation from the other family scheduled for today’s tour, so it looks like it’s just you and me.” Peter gestured toward the cemetery behind the wrought-iron fence and to the ornate church just beyond. “I always like to start the tour at this Unitarian church cemetery. Though some other graveyards have many more famous headstones to boast about, this particular space draws up some very distinctly Charlestonian folklore. Have you ever heard the legend of Annabel Ravenel?”
Harper shook her head.
Peter seemed magnetized by the history. His passion quieted her unease. “Annabel was only fourteen when her father arranged for her marriage shortly before the Civil War. But much to her father’s dismay, Annabel fell in love with a soldier named Edgar Perry who was stationed at Fort Moultrie. The story goes that the two began meeting secretly at the Unitarian cemetery, away from the eyes of her watchful father. But they were caught. In retribution, he locked Annabel in her room for months, and Edgar was transferred back to Virginia. Soon, she succumbed to illness, most likely yellow fever. But when Edgar tried to visit the gravesite, he couldn’t find it. Her spiteful father left it unmarked to keep Edgar from paying his respects.”
“Well, that’s terribly sad.”
Peter raised his eyebrows. “That’s not the whole story.”
Peter paused. Harper caught herself holding her breath, waiting for the rest.
“The soldier’s real name was Edgar Allan Poe. He wrote a poem about the young woman, calling it—”
“‘Annabel Lee!’” Harper covered her mouth as soon as she blurted out the words.
“Yes.” Peter grinned. His eyes trailed to Harper’s tote bag—emblazoned with a pattern of tiny Poe faces.
“You made that up because you saw my purse!” She started laughing. “Now I feel completely ridiculous.”
“Actually, I didn’t make it up.” One mischievous corner of Peter’s lips tugged upward as his grin widened. He had a certain confidence about him. “No doubt some of the story is embellished, but Poe was stationed on Sullivan’s Island. There’s much speculation he visited the city during that time. Who wouldn’t have? It’s possible that Annabel Ravenel, at least as folklore presents her, is fictional. She does not have a marked grave here. But it’s also possible that the story passed down from generation to generation . . . is true.”
Harper took one more glance into the old cemetery where ivy and natural flora had been allowed to overrun. A swarm of bees buzzed past her ears and into the flowers, and she looked back at Peter. The more she listened to his passion, the more she felt the stir of her own dream. She’d tried to tell herself that dream was dead, but the stubborn thing was resurrecting.
With her cup of tea tonight, she would sketch a gown fit for one of those upscale bridal magazines, something that might appeal to a bride in this classy city. The gown wouldn’t see the light of day, but her heart did quicken at the thought of the sketching. That was something.
“Where to next?” she asked him, surprised by how easily his zeal had sparked her own.
“How about the theater? I’ve got a great story to tell you about John Wilkes Booth.”
Two hours later, Harper had a new appreciation for the city of Charleston. And tour guides—one in particular.
“Thanks for taking the time to show me the city. The history is far more interesting than I would’ve expected.” She leaned up against the iron railing of the cemetery where they’d begun.
“I appreciate the compliment, but really, it’s my passion, so you’re probably the one doing me a favor by listening.” Peter checked his watch. “I’m actually on my way to an estate sale now. Want to join me? We still have some time before we’re supposed to meet back with Millie.”
After the morning they’d just shared, Harper was convinced he could make a pencil sound interesting. She was intrigued by Peter’s estate sales, to say the least. “I don’t see why not.”
Peter nodded toward the corner of the street. “Just a couple blocks’ walk.” He held out his hands as he started down the sidewalk. “Such pleasant weather today.”
Harper hurried to keep up with him. With each step she took, the bow of her blouse skipped along.
In no time, they reached the house. A handmade sign advertising Estate Sale! Lots of Treasures! was staked in the grass.
The cottage had been freshly painted in shades of grey and sage green. Its charm was the stuff of those home improvement TV shows. Harper imagined closets and basketfuls of dresses, linens, and buttons on the other side of the door. She followed Peter down the walkway.
He reached for the door handle. “Ready?”
Harper nodded.
As Peter opened the door for her to go first, she snuck a quick peek—anxious to see all that was inside. But to her surprise, there were no basketfuls of dresses, linens, and buttons.
The house smelled musty. The “treasures,” as it turned out, were stained encyclopedias and half-broken stools.
Peter closed the door behind them. Harper turned to him and whispered. “Not quite as enchanting as I expected.”
He shrugged. “It happens.”
They passed through the hallway and then the bedrooms but soon discovered the encyclopedias were actually the highlight.
“Can I help you?” a woman asked from behind a stack of chairs.
Harper wanted to say, Even if you could, I don’t know how you’d get to us over all that furniture. But instead, she ducked down a bit to see the woman through the curve of the chairs, then smiled. “I think we’re okay, thanks.”
“Let me know.” The woman tapped a pencil against the desk where she sat. How in the world did she expect to sell anything with this kind of setup? Is this what Peter’s estate sales always entailed? Harper could appreciate a good rags-to-riches story, but she couldn’t imagine anyone who would consider these wobbly chairs riches. Except maybe an insurance company.
An old framed photo on the wall caught her eye. “Actually”—Harper spoke toward the heap of furniture as though she could see the woman clearly—“I am curious.” She pointed to the wall. “Are those people the original homeowners? Along with the two kids pictured?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not sure.” The woman shook her head. “I’m part of a company that liquidates items for these sales. I don’t know anything about the history of the pieces. Wish I did, though. They sure make a nice-looking family.”
“That’s terribly sad. So their story is just lost? Forgotten?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Harper turned to Peter. Chills ran down her arms.
Forgotten. The word sounded in her mind like an echo, the reality of the whole thing so strong. And she wasn’t sure why she cared so much. These people were strangers to her. But maybe the point was more so that this same thing could happen to anyone. Including Millie. Including herself.
Peter gently took her elbow as they made their way out of the furniture maze and toward the front door. He opened it, and the two of them stepped
outside. Harper willed herself to take in the fresh air and sunshine.
She rubbed her arms. “Are these sales always so sad?”
“Sometimes. You never know what you’re going to find.” Peter fiddled with a button on his cardigan.
Harper glanced down at the red geraniums growing in a row along the walkway. Such care in preserving the land, but such a mysterious history. The gravity of lost stories tugged her.
“How do you do it?” She caught Peter’s gaze. “How do you go into a place and know the laughter and the tears and the stories may have all been silenced by the passing of time?”
Peter looked at her a long time. “Let me show you something.”
“Okay.”
The two of them walked several blocks to a neighborhood Peter called Radcliffeborough until they reached an old house with a little garden. Shutters hung lopper-jawed from the home, and one was missing altogether. The yard was overdue for a mow, and it was a wonder Harper’s allergies didn’t send her into a sneezing fit.
She looked over at Peter, who was watching her and beaming.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Harper raised her eyebrows and turned back to face the house. “Looks like it’s seen better days.”
Peter’s grin widened. “This is my house.”
“Your . . . house?”
She couldn’t be sure, but Harper thought she saw a rat dart across the threshold. She faced Peter, telling herself it was just a baby squirrel she’d seen. She blinked, trying to keep up and forget about the . . . erm, baby squirrel.
“It’s an old family home.” He waved one hand. “Forgive the disarray of the shutters. I’ve been trying to find someone who can repair the originals instead of buying new ones. So I guess, to answer your question, this is how I go into house after house and salvage what I can of their history. Because you never know when you may find a history that’s just now being told. Or in this case, restored.”
