The Wedding Dress

by Rachel Hauck

  Dixie regarded Charlotte through a narrowed gaze. “It’s quite expensive, Kristin.”

  “Price is no problem.” Kristin jumped up, an eagerness in her tone. “My parents will buy whatever I want. I’d love to see this Bray-Lindsay.” She clasped her hands together. “A gown from Paris. Wonderful.”

  “All right then, let me get it ready for you. Charlotte, can you give me a hand?” Dixie hooked her hand around Charlotte’s elbow as she headed out the door, dragging her along. “Kristin, there’re refreshments on the bar. Please help yourself.”

  “Do I see steam coming out of your ears?” Charlotte asked, tripping along with Dixie as she thudded down the stairs to the reveal salon.

  Dixie’s auburn hair was slicked back into a perfect ponytail and her Malone & Co. suit clung to her curves in all the right places. Charlotte could hate her—raw, honest truth—if Dixie wasn’t so smart and sweet. And fun. Dixie Pryor was an amazing friend and an excellent bridal consultant.

  “Enough steam to curl your hair.” In the salon Dixie flung open the storage closet doors and took the Bray-Lindsay from the rack. “This was your dress, Char. We ordered it for you.”

  “You ordered it for me. I never said I wanted it. It’s perfect for Kristin. Think about it, Dix—the gown is too frilly for me.”

  “Too frilly? You said the Maggie Sottero was too plain. The Bray is the perfect blend of simple and intricate.” Dixie carefully prepped the dress to be draped over the dress form on the gleaming, dark-wood center platform. Sofas and lounge chairs circled the mini stage.

  “The blend is perfect for Kristin. Really, Dix, how can you doubt me after five years of watching from the shadow of my genius?” Charlotte laughed, easing down to the nearest sofa, watching Dixie work. The silky, luxurious fabric of the gown cascaded over the dress form. The skirt swished and swirled toward the stage floor, a pure milky river. The scene made Charlotte’s heart palpitate. But her joy faded when Dix didn’t even crack a smile.

  “Want to know what surprises me?”

  “If I say no, will you tell me anyway?”

  “What surprises me is that you’re getting married in two months, you haven’t selected a dress or tuxes, and you’re acting as if that’s normal.”

  “Oh, speaking of, Tim said he’d be by one day this week with Dave to pick out tuxes. How’s that for normal?”

  “One day this week? Really? That’s the third time he’s promised to be by ‘this week.’ It’s already Wednesday afternoon. He’d better hurry it up if he plans to make it this time.”

  Charlotte shifted her magic photo album from one arm to the next. “If you have something to say, go for it.”

  Dixie billowed the skirt as if to inflate her lungs with boldness. Then she stepped around to Charlotte. “You two just don’t act like a couple getting married.”

  “Is there a book, a guideline on how to act? I’d like to read it so I know.”

  Dixie cut Charlotte a sharp glance and moved to the riser steps. “Please dim the lights for me, will you?” she said, adjusting the gown’s bodice and sleeves.

  “Dixie, come on, you know ordering clothes doesn’t prove a couple’s devotion.” Charlotte stepped back to the lighting panel and maneuvered the middle switches. The perimeter lights dimmed as the tracks along the center of the ceiling lit up. A glittery light showered down on the gown and dripped off the thick hem, creating sparkling pools on the polished platform that spilled over onto the plush, burgundy carpet.

  The salon was a wedding gown fairyland.

  Charlotte had seen this room in a dream. For over a year she considered it an impossible dream until the anonymous check dropped into her account.

  Once she knew the gift was legit, she wasted not one moment getting the room designed and built.

  The reveal salon was the focus of the Southern Weddings article. But with such a magnificent salon, the rest of the shop needed an upgrade. Bye-bye to what remained of the hundred-thousand-dollar gift. Charlotte gutted and remodeled the upstairs, broke down walls, discovered river-rock fireplaces under 1920s plaster, and uncovered thirsty cherry hardwood beneath the worn, matted carpet.

  One unmerited gift and her whole world changed.

  “Forget I said anything.” Dixie stepped off the riser, angling back, taking in the lighted gown. “You’d better have Kristin call her mom and whoever else she wants with her when she tries this on.” Dixie billowed the train again so it fell like a snowy waterfall over the platform. “She won’t want to be alone when she discovers this is the one.”

  “I love you for being so honest with me, Dix.” Charlotte smiled and started for the door. “And that you agree this is the dress for Kristin.”

  “It just burns me to no end that you’re always right. How do you know?” Dixie huffed, hands on her hips.

  “It’s in my gut, my spirit, I guess. I just know.” Charlotte paused in the doorway. “I think God speaks to me when I’m working, helping the brides.” The confession reverberated in her chest, then sank through her, awakening a sublime peace.

  “Then ask Him to speak to you about your own dress,” Dixie said, walking around the mini stage, an assessing expression on her angular face.

  “Dix, I’ll know it when I find my dress. I will.”

  “Are you even looking? You have two months . . .”

  “I promise, I’ll look this month. Every day, okay? Now, play Michael Bublé’s ‘Stardust.’ Kristin seems like a ‘Stardust’ kind of girl.”

  “Already had it queued in my mind.” Dixie walked to the back of the salon for the stereo remote. “Great minds and all that, you know?”

  “You’re a good friend, Dixie.”

  “I want you to be happy, Char.” The strains of “Stardust” drifted down from the mounted speakers. The track lights were programmed to dance and twinkle with the music’s rhythm. The Swarovski crystals on the gown’s intricate lace bodice caught and fanned out the dripping light. “If any girl in the world deserves happiness and love, it’s you.”

  The melody of Dixie’s heart in her confession drew emotion from Charlotte. “I know you do and I have a lot of things that make me happy, a lot of things I love. But right now, I want to sell that Bray-Lindsay to Kristin and make her happy. That will be the joy of my day.”

  It was after seven when Charlotte let herself into her loft, flipping on the entry light, balancing her bring-home work and the mail as her black satchel slipped off her shoulder.

  Junk mail fluttered from her fingers to the floor. Crossing the living room through the coming night shadows, Charlotte banged into the antique trunk she’d left sitting in the middle of the room. She moaned and caught the sour word forming on the edge of her tongue.

  “Stupid thing.” She kicked at it before stooping to pick up the dropped mail. What was she going to do with it? The lock was still welded shut and the pale, parched wood needed a long drink of polish. Both required an effort she wasn’t willing to expend at the moment.

  But never mind the trunk. She’d had a great day. Kristin Gillaspy walked out of the shop with a Bray-Lindsay of Paris purchase and an appointment next week for her first fitting and to talk about bridesmaids’ dresses.

  Dixie had popped Charlotte a low five as their latest satisfied client exited the shop. “I never tire of watching you work.”

  “Mama always told me to use my powers for good.”

  Laughter went well at the end of a sale. However, not so much after cracking her toe against a junky ole trunk. Charlotte dropped her bag on the dining table along with her pile of catalogs and printouts from the shop to review, then bent to rub her toe. Kicking sharp wooden corners smarted.

  She’d left the trunk in the living room for Tim to see. Maybe he could do something with it. After all, he loved restoring the downtown buildings and old neighborhoods of Birmingham. The trunk seemed like a small, simple project in comparison. Maybe the dry leather and thirsty wood would tug at Tim’s heartstrings. They certainly didn’t tug at Char
lotte’s.

  Pulling her phone from her purse, she checked to see if her man had responded to her two voice messages and three texts.

  But her screen was blank. Tim’s office assistant said he’d left midmorning and not returned. Said he was “out.”

  Charlotte stared out her fourth-floor window toward the amber hue rising over the city and the stream of white, bright, after-work headlights. In the quiet, she could hear her heartbeat, hear her own questions about Tim and their wedding.

  Something about his afternoon silence fed her doubts. Or maybe her uneasiness was just Dixie’s probing and poking about why she hadn’t picked her own gown yet. It just didn’t seem as fun as fitting brides-to-be like Kristin.

  Okay, tell the truth. Was she dragging her feet? Why didn’t she gush with excitement like her clients? Why didn’t she have her own unique set of wedding dreams?

  Charlotte’s heart ached with the collision of her thoughts and feelings. Maybe Tim wasn’t truly the one? She loved him, more than she had loved anyone besides Mama—but did she gush and blush like Kristin Gillaspy did when she spoke of her Oliver?

  Charlotte gazed down at Tim’s grandmother’s ring. A piece of vast Rose family history gripped her finger. Her next breath shallowed as if she’d been running for miles.

  The girl with no branches on her family tree was marrying into the deep-rooted Rose clan. Charlotte’s family tree consisted of Mama as the trunk and Charlotte as the one and only sprig. No father, no siblings. No grandparents. No aunts and uncles.

  “Okay, you’re depressing yourself, Charlotte.” She roused herself, unbuttoning her suit jacket and heading back to her bedroom to change into comfy jeans, her ’Bama t-shirt, and thick socks.

  As she rounded the corner, she spotted her wedding invitations under the coffee table. Ah, there they were. She’d had Tim put them there to get them out of the hallway.

  But tonight, Tim was coming over to address the invitations to their guests.

  The ancient beams of the old-warehouse-turned-loft creaked as Charlotte moved the box out from under the table, as she changed her clothes, washed her face, and gathered her hair into a ponytail. The sounds of the loft comforted her, blanketing her heart.

  Pizza sounded good for dinner. She pulled a DiGiorno’s from the freezer. Then texted Tim.

  Pizza for dinner. You want salad?

  Waiting for his response, Charlotte picked up the Blu-ray player remote and surfed to the Pandora station labeled “Oldies.”

  She took her iPad from her satchel, swung by the fridge for a Diet Coke, and curled up on the sofa to go through e-mail. A new designer had contacted her, requesting a meeting. But her designs were vintage and Charlotte knew without looking they wouldn’t fit the Malone & Co. contemporary brand.

  As the aroma of baking pizza filled the loft, her stomach rumbled, reminding her she’d skipped lunch. Reminding her Tim had yet to contact her.

  Eight o’clock. Anytime now, Tim. She peeked at her phone sitting on the sofa next to her. Sometimes the signal didn’t reach the loft and she missed a call or text. But Tim’s silence was not from a cyberspace hiccup. She knew it.

  In the four months she’d known him, Charlotte had learned that Tim’s afternoons took on a life of their own—client calls, city planning meetings, and consultation opportunities filled the cracks in his schedule. But he always managed a quick text or fast e-mail.

  Running late.

  Pandora played John Waite’s “Missing You.” Charlotte eyed the screen. A shiver crept over her scalp. I ain’t missing . . .

  The oven timer buzzed and Charlotte shot off the couch, breaking away from the split moment of rising fear. She snatched up her phone on the way to the kitchen.

  T, where are you? I’m eating pizza. Don’t promise to save you a piece. She hit Send. Tim loved pizza. The boy lit up at the very word. He’d say the word over and over, teasing and buzzing Charlotte’s ear with a snaky “z” hiss.

  She took the pizza from the oven, listening for Tim’s instant, protesting reply.

  But two hours later Charlotte had eaten her pizza, put the leftovers in the fridge, cleaned the kitchen, stacked the wedding invitations on the dining table, scribbled her own guest list on a magnet pad—forty names—put the invitations back in the box, and slipped it under the table.

  Where was he and what was he doing? She considered getting angry, but if he was hurt then she’d feel guilty. So she’d just wait and see what he said when he called.

  But being delinquent wasn’t Tim. He planned and calculated just like Katherine had said. He scheduled his day in fifteen-minute increments. Even the spontaneous meetings that filled his schedule were organized.

  At five ’til ten Charlotte surfed her contact list to David and Katherine’s number. She took a deep breath before hitting Call and rehearsed what to say. Hey, I was wondering if Tim was—

  “Charlotte?” The front door eased open.

  Thank goodness. Charlotte exhaled and tossed her phone to the table. “Where have you been? I was just about to call David and Katherine. I made pizza—”

  From the kitchen, she gazed down the short hall toward the door. Standing just inside the loft, Tim looked sheepish in his mud-covered racing gear. Giving Charlotte a conciliatory glance, he bent to remove his boots.

  “Paul and Artie came over last night after my meeting and—”

  “Last night? When I called you said you were tired, wanted to go to bed.”

  “I was in bed when they showed up with Chase and Rudy.” Tim’s youngest two brothers were bigger daredevils and fun-lovers than Tim. “Next thing I knew we’d talked Dave into playing hooky and planned a racing road trip.”

  “Why didn’t you call?” Something about his tone, his demeanor, formed a cold rock in her belly.

  “I meant to, Char. But it was midnight by the time they left my house. I went into the office at six to get some work done. We left around eleven to drive over to Albertville.” He pulled off his racing jersey. Dried mud rained on Charlotte’s clean floor. His white t-shirt strained across his chest and his cut, sculpted arms stretched the hem of his sleeves. He motioned to his dirt. “I’ll clean it up.”

  “Shop Vac is in the closet.” She motioned to the door beside the fridge. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t call or text.”

  Tim motored the hand-vacuum over his mess. “I kept thinking I’d call you, but I never did. You said you had appointments all afternoon so I figured you’d be busy.” He shut off the vacuum and returned it to the closet, then stood against the wall, peering mostly at his stocking feet. “I thought we’d be back before dinner.”

  “It’s ten o’clock, Tim. And you do know if I’m busy you can still text me or leave a message.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He angled to see the stove through the dim kitchen light. “Any pizza left?” Tim smiled—slow, shy. Handsome. Winning.

  “In the fridge. There’s salad in the blue bowl.” Charlotte backed away, letting him fend for himself, her own pizza dinner churning in her stomach. It was his way. To win her over so simply. So easily. But not tonight. He had yet to explain himself. “Did you bring the guest list? Maybe we can address some of the invitations. We have an hour or so. Unless you’re too tired and need to go to bed.” There, got in one barb. Did he know how he hurt her with his silence? Charlotte retreated to her seat at the dining table and stared absently at her iPad.

  “No, I’m not too tired.” Tim dropped the leftover cold pizza on the plate he took from the cupboard. He took a bite without heating the slices first. “I don’t have the list. I’m sorry, Char. I didn’t get by Mom’s this week.”

  “Okay, but we have five hundred invitations to address in the next few weeks.”

  “Can I ask why we’re not paying someone to do it?” Tim opened the fridge for a Diet Coke.

  “I can’t afford it.”

  “You spent a thousand on a beat-up old trunk, but you can’t afford someone to do our invitations? Ever thin
k maybe I can afford it? Or we can afford it?”

  “I’d rather use the money to upgrade the reception food or buy those platinum chains I wanted for the bridesmaids.” Since their engagement, Tim spoke in the plural. Us. We. They could afford whatever kind of wedding they wanted.

  But Charlotte struggled, fighting the idea that Tim and the Roses would pay for all of the wedding. Her family must pay what they could. Right? Even if her family was . . . Charlotte alone.

  Now the conversation stalled. Tim walked to the dining table, sitting with a glance at the invitations, then toward the living room.

  “Is that it? Your thousand-dollar trunk?”

  “That’s it.” Charlotte reached for his Diet Coke and took a sip. “Think you can do something with it?”

  “Maybe.” Tim stared at his uneaten pizza. Sitting back with a sigh, he ran his hands through his matted but thick hair. “Charlotte, I forgot about tonight.”

  “Just . . . forgot? Forgot the invitations? Forgot me? What did you forget, Tim?”

  “I didn’t forget you.” He got up and tore away a paper towel to use as a napkin. “I forgot we wanted to go over the guest list and address the invitations.”

  “And plan the reception. Figure out the rehearsal dinner, the flowers, the cake, the tuxes. You were planning to do that this week too. Pick out your tuxes. But tomorrow’s Thursday already.”

  “Yeah, I had tuxes on my calendar, but it kept getting pushed to the next day.”

  In that moment Charlotte knew. The ping of revelation resonated and swelled in her chest, drawing her mind and soul to its light. “Tim, what’s going on?”

  The sound of her own doubt sprang tears from the bottle that Charlotte kept stored in her soul.

  “I don’t know.” He shoved his pizza plate away from him, and Charlotte realized that since he came into the loft, he’d barely looked at her face. Reaching down, he took out one of the invitations from the box. “These are pretty, Char.”

  “But they’re not going anywhere, are they?” When did she really know? Saturday up on the ridge, when the shift in the wind made her look up and stirred her heart with questions?