by Rachel Hauck
“Avril, where’s Billy?”
“Gone. Took all the money and nearly all our food. Everything I put up last summer.” She retrieved a note from her pocket and handed it to Cora. “He left this.”
Cora hesitated, her hand trembling, the buried sensation of when Daddy left rising to her skin. “I know how you feel, Avril, but he’ll be back.”
“I know you know. That’s one of the reasons I’m here.”
Cora glanced at Billy’s elongated, even handwriting, smooth, nothing like what she imagined for a farmer.
I can’t take it. I’m sorry, Avril. I’m sorry.
“He can’t take it. Well, what am I supposed to do? Tell me that, Billy boy?” Avril brushed her weathered hand against her wet cheeks, then reached for the note as Cora handed it back, her fingernails broken and dirty. “You’re sorry but you take all the money. Take precious jars of food, vegetables, and fruit that were supposed to feed our family. I got three kids at home, Cora, and no money. Who does he think is going to feed them?”
“Avril, what drove him away?” Cora kept busy with the shop but knew banks foreclosed on homes, businesses, and farms weekly.
“The bank took our land but said if Billy agreed to farm it, they’d pay him. Slave wages, I tell you. Pennies on the dollar for backbreaking work.” She steadied herself with a tight grip on Cora’s arm, her thin, pale fingers trembling. “I thought he’d come home . . . I thought he’d come home.”
“How long’s he been gone?”
“Spring. First of. I tried to go ahead with the planting, but even with the eight-year-old helping me, I can’t get it done. My dear Willie thinks he’s got to be the man now. You should see him, getting up before the rooster crows, hitching up the plow to old Brutus, doing the chores, then coming in and making coffee while I tend the littler ones. My eight-year-old son, doin’ a man’s work ’cause his daddy can’t take it.” Avril balled her hands into fists, shaking, shimmying, clenching her jaw. “It ain’t right, Cora. It ain’t right. He should be in school, learning, running round, playing baseball.”
“You’re right. He should. Hard times are no respecter of age.”
Avril tapped her thumb to her chest. “But I am. I know what it’s like to lose your childhood to work. My mama worked in a factory when she was ten years old, down in Birmingham.” Avril held up her hand, with the first two fingers bent. “Lost two fingers and they put her back on the line the next day. My daddy sent me to the factory when I was ten. Without my mama knowing.”
“Avril, really. I never heard this before.”
A smile of remembrance tugged on her lips. “She marched into that place, dragged me off the line, and gave the owner a string of words that’d peel paint from a wall. That night my folks had a blow out. Mama said if he ever sent me to the factory again, she’d kill him. Six months later he got a job at the feed plant up here and we moved to Heart’s Bend. Life was good after that. I got to be a normal girl. Met Billy. Got hitched. I never imagined I’d be faced with seeing my children go hungry, Cora. Never in all my born days.”
Cora slipped her arm around Avril’s shoulders but she remained stiff and unmoved. “Would you like to come in for some coffee? Mama will make you some eggs. Odelia brought in her cinnamon rolls.”
Avril shook her head. “Am I so hard up as to eat Odelia’s rolls?” A slight laugh gurgled in her chest. “Daddy broke his tooth on one during a potluck dinner a few years back. Dern things are like rocks.”
“Well, Mama makes a mean batch of scrambled eggs. We have toast and coffee too.”
Avril sobered. “I can’t eat eggs when the children had dry toast for breakfast.” She glanced back at her. “How long has your daddy been gone?”
Cora withdrew her hand, folding her arms about her waist and leaning forward, eyes fixed toward the Cumberland and the port where Rufus would return one day soon. “Seven months.”
“Does he write or call?”
“He used to write but it’s been awhile.”
“A bank president and a farmer . . . who’d have thought? Men who went to war yet neither one cut out for hard times.”
“Billy loves you, Avril. He’ll return. Daddy left twice before. Came back both times.”
“Oh, Cora, what times do we live in? Men abandoning their families with not two nickels to rub together. Banks closing. Crops failing. Drought.” A fresh wash of tears struck her cheek. “I been holding in my tears ’cause there ain’t nothing worse than a crying mama. Can’t even cry into my pillow at night because I’m afraid they might hear me.”
“Avril, let me give you some of our stores. Mama has a decent garden out at the Good farm.”
Her soft smile was small. “I can still taste her blueberry pie at the county fair. She always did have a lovely garden, your mama.”
“Then you must take home some of her preserves.”
“I didn’t come here looking for a handout, Cora. Or seeking pity.”
“Then why did you come? How can I help you?”
“I just . . .” Her lower lip quivered, erasing her words. She breathed in, then out, batting away her tears. “I just wanted to remember the happiest time of my life, save for my kids being born. Wanted to go to a place where all my dreams were possible. When I was young and beautiful, and so in love with Billy. Your shop, Cora, your wedding shop was about the happiest I’ve ever been.” Avril leaned forward, wiping her nose on the edge of her apron. “The war was over, our boys were home, and finally, Billy and I could start our life. I loved every moment I spent in this shop. Every moment planning my wedding. There was so much joy. I laughed and laughed.” Her voice faded to melancholy as she added, “I can’t remember the last time I laughed.”
From the street, a motor rumbled pulling up to the shop. The driver cut the engine and a lithe young woman with shining hair falling about her face in Greta Garbo waves stepped out. She was followed by two equally lithe and well-dressed women—perhaps the mother and grandmother—and two young women.
“I ’spect I need to be heading out.” Avril pushed up from the stoop. “I left the kids playing in the yard.” Her blank gaze rested on the blue horizon. “Do you think it will rain today? We could sure use some rain.”
“Hello.” The woman, who looked like the mother, called, waving. “We’re the Kirkpatricks. My daughter just became engaged. We heard this is the wedding shop from which to buy her trousseau.”
“You heard right.” Avril stood, punctuating her hearty endorsement. “This is the best wedding shop, bar none, in these parts and beyond.”
“Nice to meet you. Do come in.” Cora introduced herself with one hand clapped on Avril’s arm. “Let me say good-bye to my friend and I’ll be right with you. There’s a lovely divan to your right.” She turned to Avril. “Wait here.”
Scurrying around the side of the shop, Cora ducked into the mudroom, tapped her heel against a loose board, lifted it free, and knelt down, fishing for the can tucked under the floor against the wall.
Got it. Prying away the lid, she counted out twenty dollars. Her reserves were dwindling, but she could not send Avril home empty-handed.
Five hundred dollars was all she had left in this can. But she had two more hidden. She took out another forty, folding them into her palm, and headed around the outside of the shop to find Avril across the way, heading through Gardenia Park.
“Avril!” Cora paused for a slow-moving Lincoln, then darted across the street. “Wait.”
When the women met on the edge of the thin and brown grass, Cora pressed the money into her hand.
“I knew you were going to do something like this.” Avril pressed the money back. “I can’t take your money. I can’t be beholden. When would I pay you back?”
“It’s a gift. You don’t need to pay me back.”
“I can’t.”
“Avril Kreyling, if you let your children go hungry on account of your pride, I’ll never forgive you. You’ll never forgive yourself. Take it or I’ll go shopping
and show up with groceries. At least this way, you have the dignity of doing your own marketing.”
“Then let me earn it. I can’t just take it. Can I clean the shop? Take in your laundry?”
Cora exhaled. With mail orders down this spring, Odelia and only four other women handled the sewing. Mama did the laundry but hated it. She missed Liberty to no end.
“You can take in our washing.”
Avril’s smile put a light in her rising tears. “Thank you . . . thank you.”
“Come around Friday to pick it up. If we like the arrangement, we can keep it up for as long as you need. But this”—Cora pressed the money into her hand—“is a gift.”
Avril broke, dropping her forehead to Cora’s chest, gripping her arms, sobbing. “I knew this old shop was the place to come. I did. You’ve saved me, Cora Scott. Saved me.”
Chapter Fifteen
BIRCH
He pulled his wagon along Blossom Lane, hopped down, and gave Uncle Sam a smooth pat on the rump. “Be right back, boy.”
He jumped the curb and made his way under the oak tree to the back of the wedding shop. “Cora!”
He waited with one eye on the back door. He was right proud of Cora and Esmé, but it didn’t look like Ernest Scott was coming home any time soon. The man had plum lost his mind skipping out like he did just before Christmas. Did he know his women were living on the third floor of the shop? In that tiny space? In this heat?
Couldn’t be a hotter summer. He was worried for his crops. Every morning he woke asking the good Father for rain. “I can do the plowing and planting, Lord, but only You can make my fields grow.”
“Cora!” He stopped at the back door, rapping his knuckles against the screen. “It’s eight o’clock, woman. You best be up.”
Sadly, he’d not seen much of Cora this summer. Passed her in church, but she kept to herself. Any ill he had toward her over that riverboat captain, he set aside. Love hoped in all things.
He saw Esmé every day when she came out to the farm to tend her garden. She had his tomatoes and cucumbers beat by a country mile.
He used stored rainwater to keep the garden growing, but his cornfields needed the clouds to cry.
If the drought continued, how would the Scott women eat this winter? He’d decided already to give them a side of beef from the cow he’d butcher this fall. And have mercy if Esmé didn’t have enough chickens to frustrate the roosters and keep them busy.
In fact, he was just a might jealous. He’d like to have a hen to chase after. Well, he was working on her. If she’d just stop clucking for the captain and look at him.
“Cora Scott!” He knocked harder this time.
The back door flew open. “Birch Good, land sakes, what in the world are you doing out here yelling like an uncouth for everyone to hear?” She appeared rushed, mussed, and beautiful with her chestnut hair flying about her face, her eyes snapping.
“What are you worried about?” Birch yanked off his hat and beat it against his overalls, scooping his hands through his mass of curls, twisting and knotting every which way. “All the shops are closed until nine, at least.”
“The Everlys live right next to us. Above their shop. And they have a new baby. Now, what do you want?”
“Come on, I want to show you something.” He set his cap back on his head and snatched her hand, dragging her off the narrow back stoop.
“Let go of me. I can’t be dragged out in public like this. I’m barefoot, my hair is a mess, and I’ve no lipstick. Do you want to get me banned from the Women’s League?”
“Ain’t no one gonna ban you. Besides, don’t pretend to me you like the Women’s League. Bunch of snooty old hags.” They arrived at the wagon and Birch slapped the side. “What do you think?”
Cora peered over the tailgate. “Lumber. You drag me from my back door to get excited about a bunch of sawed trees?” She faced him, hand on her lean hip. “Times are hard, Birch, but not that hard.”
“I’m building you a porch. Off the back of the shop.” He held up his hands toward the house, making a box by touching his thumbs together. “You and your mama can have dinner out there all summer, into the fall. Give you a break from the hot third floor. I know you’re roasting up there. I can run some electric wires, too, so you can have a lamp for some cozy reading.”
Birch glanced back at her, dropping his gaze and clearing his throat when he saw her misty golden eyes. It made his heart burn to see a gal cry. Made his arms itch to hold her.
“Thank you.” She wrapped him in a hug.
He slowly brought his arms around her. “I thought you’d like a bit of space for yourselves. Make this shop more of a home. Your mama loved her porch back at the homestead.”
Cora laughed through her tears, stepping out of his embrace, brushing her cheek dry. “We did go at each other last night.” She reached over the wagon’s gate and patted the smooth golden boards. “You beautiful, beautiful lumber.”
“You okay for me to get started?”
“Please. The sooner, the better. Did you have breakfast?”
“Just a cup of coffee.”
“Eggs and toast coming up.” Cora hurried toward the house, her skirt swinging over her slender calves and bare feet. Dang if Birch’s heart didn’t burst into flames. Drawing in a deep breath, he lowered the wagon’s gate, trying to clear his head of that image, but his stubborn soul refused. He loved every image he’d stored of Cora Scott. He’d be blazes if this one wasn’t one to savor.
Just as he reached in for the first set of boards, her fragrance filled his senses as she hooked her arms about his shoulders and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you again, Birch.”
He righted himself, turning to her, gathering her into his arms, stepping into her, weakened by her long, narrow form leaning against him. “You know I’d do anything for you. I love you.” He touched the heart-shaped pendant at the base of her neck. “Why do you wear that thing? He’s only buying your affection.”
“Birch . . .”
He let her go, though her presence increased his desire to make her his. It didn’t matter his love was unrequited. It only mattered that he loved her.
When she ridded herself of that dastardly riverboat captain, he’d be there for her. She’d see Birch was made for her. Look how easily their bodies fitted together.
“I’d better see to your eggs.” She backed toward the shop. “Thank you again. Mama will be thrilled.”
“Wade Fry is coming to help. We’ll be done by end of the day.”
“Really? How wonderful. Rufus comes next month and we can dine on my porch.”
Birch stepped back, the colors of the day fading from brilliant to gray. “Rufus, you say?”
“Yes, finally he has a spare moment to spend with me. He’s been on every river but the Cumberland this spring and summer.”
“Not sure I like building you a porch to spend time with another man.” Unable to glance her way, the sting of the moment quelled his excitement.
“I’ve always been honest with you.”
“True, you have . . .”
“Shall I make eggs? Or are you changing your mind? Because if you’re building this porch with strings attached . . .”
“Ain’t no strings or conditions.” He was no reneger.
Birch raised the first set of boards to his shoulder.
Over time he’d come to suspect her riverboat captain was a philanderer. From the rumors and whispers, he guessed half the town knew it too. So hows come Cora didn’t?
Where was Rufus when Cora and Esmé had no place to live? Where was Rufus when Esmé needed a plot of land for her garden? Where was he when they wanted wood for the apartment fireplace last winter?
Cora disappeared inside and he could hear the echo of her voice. “Mama, eggs and toast for Birch. He’s building us a porch.”
He sighed, fighting the heaviness in his heart as he walked back to the wagon. One of these days he’d talk himself into forgetting her and
moving on.
He hoisted another load to his shoulder and carted it to the back of the shop, dropping it to the ground with a clatter. Pausing, he raised his gaze to the blue sky peeking through the shading elm.
Yep, one of these days he was going to move on from Cora. However, today was not that day.
HALEY
Heart’s Bend allowed for interior demolition if requests for renovation permits were on file, so Monday Cole and his team got things going. Light flooded into the shop the moment they busted down the added walls.
The hardwood under the nasty carpet was dull and thirsty but in great shape. “That’s a win,” Cole said.
Over the weekend Haley worked on her business plan, grateful she could consign gowns from designers. Now to get one or two that she liked to go into business with her. She had no credit or history in this business, so . . .
What she needed was a mentor. Someone to show her the ropes. She Googled around and discovered a shop in Birmingham called Malone & Co. Apparently the owner, Charlotte Rose, found her wedding dress in a trunk and it’d been worn by three other women throughout history. Intrigued, Haley searched until she came across an article in the Birmingham newspaper.
The dress, made and first worn in 1912, found its way to two other brides before Charlotte in 2012. One in 1939 and another in 1968.
The gown fit all four women without needing to be altered or changed. Like some sort of magic dress. The sisterhood of the traveling wedding gown.
Haley’s pulse raced as she read the account. She had to meet Charlotte Rose.
Standing over Cole, she announced her plans. “I put a call into a wedding shop owner in Birmingham. I’m going to see if she’ll meet with me.”
Cole looked around from where he was pulling carpet nails from the small salon floor. “Birmingham? Don’t they have wedding shops in Nashville?”
