by Rachel Hauck
“Emily,” Hershel said after a moment, “I hope I didn’t offend you earlier. I think your position is admirable.”
“You didn’t offend me, Herschel.” She strained to see where Phillip had gone, wrestling with guilt for suspecting him. Blast that Daniel Ludlow for sowing seeds of doubt in her heart. “I only hope I didn’t offend you.”
Herschel laughed. “It’d take more than pushing out of my arms to offend me.”
She sipped the last of her punch, and as she set her cup on the table, Herschel offered her his hand. “Shall we?”
Emily hesitated, then slowly gave him her hand. “We must find Phillip soon.”
“Perhaps it is upon him to find us.” Herschel swept Emily around in the dance, the sheen of his blond hair catching the sparkle of the chandelier, his magnificent smile attempting to work his charms.
“You think highly of yourself, don’t you, Herschel?”
“No more than any other man thinks of himself.”
Emily laughed, moving with him among the other guests. “Perhaps Phillip is right, you’re not a bad sort after all.”
“You pay me a high compliment.”
“We shall have to have you to dinner once we are married.”
“At your earliest convenience, please do.”
“I’ll speak to Phillip at the end of this dance.” It was then Emily caught sight of her fiancé’s broad back disappearing into the dark, secret shadows of the terrace, dancing with Emmeline Graves in his arms.
Chapter Ten
Charlotte
Charlotte carried the Herrera gown up to the sewing salon, walking under a waterfall of sunlight spilling into the shop from the skylights. The cherry hardwood gleamed beneath her feet.
Her heart still lacked light, but she felt better today, nearly a week after seeing Tim at Homewood Gourmet with his ex-fiancée. She’d slept well the last two nights, after pleading with God for some kind of peace.
Slipping the dress over the dress form, Charlotte smoothed her hand over the ivory satin bodice with handcrafted embroidery set above a full tulle skirt, one of her favorite designs.
A new client had chosen the Herrera—which was perfect for her—and had scheduled her first fitting for Saturday. Malone & Co.’s seamstress, Bethany, always inspected the gown before working with the bride.
Heading back downstairs, Charlotte pictured the bride’s face when she slipped on the Herrera, then phoned her fiancé in tears. I found my dress, baby.
Why hadn’t she ever found a nickname for Tim? A term of endearment? He was just Tim. To her recollection, he’d never called her anything but Charlotte or Char. Not babe or baby. No sweetie or honey.
And if she was honest with herself, which she had the courage to be now, Charlotte held back from him, not really willing to give up her identity as orphan girl made good.
She, Charlotte Malone, could soar high and wide all on her own. She didn’t need a man, a family, or her own Cinderella wedding to validate her. She’d proven she could make it on her own and created a good, safe, dependable life she loved.
At the bottom of the stairs, Charlotte paused when the front door opened and the bells chimed. The fragrance of roses swept into the shop. “Welcome to Malone & Co. May I help you?”
The man wandered toward her through the display of Heidi Elnora and Bray-Lindsay gowns. She tried to estimate if he was the father of a bride. Perhaps of a groom? “Are you here about a wedding?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.” He paused in front of her. She’d noticed his purple shirt immediately, and his blue eyes pinged Charlotte with something familiar, creating a fiery, stirring feeling in her belly. She stepped back with a gasp. Where had she seen him before?
“Did you open the trunk?” he said.
“Excuse me?” Charlotte slipped behind the sales desk and into a silky cool stream of air that hit her in the chest and swirled down to her feet.
“The trunk. From the auction. Did you open it?”
“You’re the one who sold me the trunk?” She laughed low, pressing her hand over her middle. How could she forget such an odd little man? “No, no, I, um . . .” She shrugged. “It’s welded shut.”
“Yes, but it’s good to work at redeeming a treasure.”
“Treasure? That trunk is hardly treasure.” Charlotte brushed her hands over the chill building on her arms. When he said “redeeming” she felt it. “Can I ask your interest in the trunk? Was it yours? Someone in your family?”
“In a manner of speaking.” The man walked the perimeter of the shop, hands locked behind his back, inspecting the gowns along the wall. “Very unique gowns. Lovely.”
“Do you have a daughter getting married?” Charlotte crossed over to him with her business card. He glanced at it politely, then moved on without taking it. Charlotte tapped the card’s edge against her fingertips.
“I have a daughter getting married.” He peered over his shoulder at her. “It’s the season of the bride.”
“Season of the bride?” Charlotte laughed low. Such an unusual expression. “I certainly hope so. I could use the business. Tell your daughter I’d be happy to . . . what’s your name again?”
“My daughter knows about your shop. She’s quite familiar with it.”
Chills crept down her legs when he spoke. It was as if she knew him. As if he knew her. But it was impossible. “What’s your daughter’s name? Perhaps I have her on file?”
“Charlotte.” He walked toward her, hand extended. “I was just inquiring about the trunk. It was good to see you.”
His grip fit into hers as if they’d clasped hands a hundred times. The chills multiplied over Charlotte’s body while a warm splash hit her spirit. She felt . . .
Encountered.
The back door slammed and Dixie’s honey-I’m-home footsteps resonated against the hardwood. She stopped near Charlotte, who faced the windows, watching the man leave.
“Wow, can you say blinding purple?” Dixie rapped on the window. “Dude, the ’70s disco era is over.” She turned back to the shop, rustling up a flutter of sunbeams. “Who was that?”
“I’m not sure, except he was the man who sold me the trunk at the auction. But, Dix . . .” Charlotte pressed her hand over her quivering middle. “I think I may have just met my father.”
In her room, in the glow of lamplight, with music playing, Charlotte aligned her tools. The hammer and screwdriver from Dix. A saw, because Dixie insisted she might need it, and a drill.
“Dix, I don’t know how to use a drill.”
“What’s to know? You aim this rod-thingy at the welded metal and vwip, vwip, you got a hole.” Dixie mimed her instruction in a see, simple as pie manner.
“But a hole gets me nothing. I still have welded metal.” Charlotte picked up the drill and leaned to inspect the trunk’s lock.
“Well, you might have to drill a hole to get it open.”
“Jared.” Charlotte looked to the doctor sitting on the edge of her bed. “Do I need a drill?” She held up the tool to Dixie’s Dr. Hotstuff, still wearing his blue scrubs, looking like he was ready for a long winter nap.
“Char is right, Dix, she doesn’t need a drill. Sorry I can’t be more help, but I need to get back to the hospital in a few hours, and I was hoping my Dixie-babe would fix some grub while I snatch some z’s.”
Charlotte looked around at Jared. Dixie-babe. See, lovers had names of affection. She and Tim did not.
“Sure, darling.” Dixie got up off the floor. “Did I tell you Charlotte thought her father came into the shop?”
“Really?”
“I don’t know, Jared.” Charlotte rearranged the tools, large to small, small to large. “I’ve never met my father. But this old guy, the same one who sold me the trunk, came into the shop and asked if I’d opened it yet. He said he had a daughter getting married. I asked her name, and he said my name at the exact same time, so it sounded like his daughter’s name was Charlotte. But he was just saying goodbye to me. I thi
nk.” She eyed her doctor friend. What do you think?
“Wouldn’t he tell you if he was your father?”
“Would you, if you’d been out of her life for thirty years?”
“No, I guess I not. Do you think there’s a clue in the trunk?”
“I don’t know, but he piqued my curiosity. I might as well open it and find out.”
After Dixie and Jared left, Charlotte sat on the floor in front of the trunk, picturing the man in the purple shirt and the white Nikes. Was he her father? Did she even want a father?
To what end? To what benefit? Her life functioned fine, just fine, without him. Drama-free and simple. She didn’t need him now. When Mama died, she’d needed him. Where was he then?
Charlotte exhaled and took up the hammer, tapping the welded metal lightly with the blunt end.
The answer she’d invented as a girl explaining her father’s absence was the same answer she clung to as a woman.
Her daddy was a great adventurer with a wanderlust that spurred him to sail roaring seas and traverse sun-soaked terrains. His call in life demanded he break the boundaries of Birmingham, go beyond the doldrums of everyday life like marriage and raising kids.
Even his deep affection for his daughter—her, Charlotte—couldn’t contain his destiny. He must yield to the passions of his heart.
Yes, that was her father. One incredible wandering man. A regular Indiana Jones.
Charlotte lowered the hammer. Why did she care about opening this dented and dinged, scarred and rutted trunk? What exactly was she redeeming?
“This trunk belongs to you,” the auctioneer, the purple man, had declared.
Charlotte ran her palm over the lid, the wood and leather smoother than she expected. She picked up the screwdriver and tried to find a soft spot in the melted metal that had once been a lock.
She hammered against the head of the screwdriver, trying to create a wedge where there wasn’t one. The weld refused to give, and Charlotte was relieved. Like she told Dix before, if she could break a weld with a hammer and screwdriver, then what was she doing driving over a bridge?
She picked up the saw. Ridiculous. How was she going to saw metal? But she aimed, settling the saw teeth beneath the lock. After a couple of times back and forth, Charlotte gave up. At least she’d tried.
Whoever wanted this trunk sealed forever was serious about it. Charlotte rocked back, arms around her raised knees. Maybe this trunk shouldn’t be opened. Maybe Purple Man didn’t know what he was talking about. Maybe she should haul this thing out to the Dumpster before whatever lived inside came alive and crawled into her bed one night.
Or worse, her heart.
Charlotte jumped to her feet. Craziness. The trunk was probably empty. What she needed was to get the thing open and prove to herself all was well. No evidence of her father. No evidence of anything to be redeemed.
What cut through metal? Charlotte glanced around the room. Some kind of power tool. None of which she had in her room or in her loft.
But Charlotte knew who did have the right tools. She dove onto the bed, reaching for her phone on the nightstand, and dialed Tim.
Then hung up, sat forward on her bed, legs crossed. After the exchange in the parking lot last Thursday, she couldn’t very well call him for help. Could she?
Friend Tim? Yes. Not fiancé Tim. But she’d told him there was no separation between friend and fiancée. Okay, well, maybe she changed her mind.
Charlotte dialed Tim again, bracing to hear his voice, her heart drumming. As soon as he answered, Charlotte began talking, avoiding conversation and weighty seconds of silence.
“Friend Tim? This is friend Charlotte. I want to open the trunk but I need some kind of power tool. This man came into the shop today and well, it’s a long, weird story, but he sparked my curiosity. I thought I’d end up just chucking it, you know, but sometimes old ugly things get to you and you can’t bear to get rid of them. Like a security blanket. If you’re busy or have a date—do you have a date? I’m sorry. Is Kim there? Don’t worry, we can, you know”—Charlotte picked at her quilt, losing her breath and nerve—“do this another time or I can wait for Jared to come home. But he only has a hammer, screwdriver, and a fork in his toolbox. And a drill, but that’s only good for making holes. I’d bring the trunk to you, but it won’t fit in my car, small convertible and all—”
“Charlotte. Breathe.”
She exhaled. “Thank you.”
“I’m in the truck. I’ll be there in ten.”
“So, the man who sold you the trunk showed up at the shop?” Tim snapped a saw blade into place and studied the hasp, pressing on the metal, finding a place to start.
“Yeah, it was creepy, but cool at the same time.” Charlotte sat on the floor next to him. “He’d say certain things and chills would run over me. When he left, I got this odd sense he might have been my father.”
Tim stopped working. “What do you mean? Like your dad came into the shop? After mysteriously selling you this trunk at the Ludlow auction?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds completely weird. There was just this odd moment . . . So, do you think you can get this open?”
“I can, but, Charlotte, what made you think he might have been your dad?”
“I don’t know.” She told him about their conversation clash—when he answered her question with her name. “It just made me wonder. Crazy? Yeah, crazy. He was only saying good-bye.”
“Charlotte.” Tim set the tool down, facing her. “If your father walked up to you right now, are you saying you wouldn’t recognize him?”
“No, I wouldn’t. I’ve never met him, Tim.”
“Not even a picture?”
Even on the verge of marriage, Charlotte had never had this conversation with Tim. More proof she held back from him.
“Not one.” She picked at a piece of pile rising from the area rug. “Mom met him when she was at FSU, fell in love, got pregnant with me, and when she told him, he bolted. I don’t even know his name.” Charlotte pressed her fingers to her eyes, then raked them through her hair. “Hey, I didn’t drag you all the way over here to talk about my daddy or lack thereof. Fire up that saw, Tim.” Charlotte patted the top of the trunk. “Open this baby.”
“Not even his name?” Tim insisted on sawing open her closed emotions instead of the closed trunk.
“Well, a few slang names not fit for Christian company. I asked Mama about him once, when I was ten. But she said if he didn’t want to give me his name or love, she wasn’t going to tell me about him. On my birth certificate, ‘father’s name’ is a big fat ba-lank.”
Charlotte swiped the air with her hand.
“I feel sorry for him.” Tim swiveled around to the trunk, picking up the power saw. “He gave up something pretty incredible.”
“Maybe he felt like a treed coon.”
Tim revved the saw without another word, without a sideways glance at her, but their conversation reverberated in her heart.
“Excuse me.” Charlotte disappeared into the bathroom and closing the door, she sat on the lowered toilet seat, unrolling toilet tissue until she could bury her face in a white cloud and cry. Beyond the door, the saw zipped and buzzed.
Emotions surfaced. Longings stirred. The walls around her heart trembled. Tim, her friend, was here, talking to her about her daddy, about the trunk.
But she wanted to talk to Tim, her friend, about Tim, her fiancé. How it hurt. How she missed him. How she didn’t blame him for not being ready for marriage when she held back big pieces of herself from him.
When her tears ebbed, Charlotte blew her nose, washed her face, and combed her hair. By the time she opened the bathroom door, the saw had done its job.
Tim held the hasp in his hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I upset myself.” Charlotte knelt before the trunk. “Let’s see what’s inside.”
Tim gathered his tools. “I’ll be out of here in a second.”
C
harlotte hooked her hand over his arm. “Please, stay. Someone has to witness this grand opening with me.”
“Are you sure? I mean, yeah, if you’re . . .”
Charlotte looked at him eye to eye for a moment. “I like having friend Tim here.”
He nodded, a warm smile on his lips. “Friend Tim likes being here.”
“It’s just that my friend Tim looks an awful lot like my fiancé Tim.”
“Maybe friend Tim will have a little chat with him.” He set the drill and bits back into the case.
“Yeah, and what’s he going to say?”
“You’re a darn fool.”
Charlotte grinned. “Okay, friend Tim, but take it easy on fiancé Tim.”
“We’ll see.” He tapped the trunk’s lid. “Come on, open this up.”
Charlotte raised the lid with a ping of expectation. The fragrance of cedar escaped and surrounded them. Peering inside, she started digging through layers of tissue paper. “I think it’s empty. Why would Purple Man want me to open an empty trunk?”
Tim shoved his arm inside and pushed the paper around. “There’s got to be something in here.”
“Like what, lost treasure?” Charlotte ran her hand along the bottom of the trunk. “Gold? Rubies?”
“Sure, why not? Whoa, Nellie, I think I found something.” Tim raised a soft linen bag from the tissue paper. The top was pinched closed with a drawstring.
“What? Let me see.” Charlotte moved with Tim as he carried the large bag to the bed.
“Here, you open it. It’s your treasure.” Tim passed Charlotte the off-white linen sack as if he were handling a newborn.
Gently Charlotte untied the strings and slid a satin bundle free. It appeared to be a gown, a perfectly preserved gown. Stepping back, she held it up, and a lovely A-line skirt with a chapel train fell to the floor.
“Is that what I think it is?” Tim said.
Charlotte swallowed with a quick glance at him. “Yeah, it is.”
A wedding dress.
Tim stood, squinting at the gown. “This is really weird, Charlotte. You bought a trunk with a wedding dress in it? Right before we broke up?”
