by Rachel Hauck
“You’re trembling.” Phillip stopped turning about, his voice soft and a bit bewildered.
“Phillip, do you truly want to marry me?” She kept her right hand locked in his, her left arm looped about his neck. “Do we truly know each other?”
“Emily, oh, sweet Emily.” Phillip cupped the back of her head and kissed her forehead. “You’re something else, Emily Canton. Of course I want to marry you. But I must stand by my own conviction. I can’t have my fiancée going to a colored man’s hotel or working with a colored dressmaker. People talk. It’s bad for business.”
“I won’t change my mind. Miss Hayes—Taffy—is making my gown. Phillip, it’s beautiful. The one Mrs. Caruthers made is horrid.”
“Then if you don’t care about me or yourself, consider Miss Hayes and old man Gaston.” Phillip lowered his hands, letting Emily go. “People will think you’re breaking the law, maybe even stirring up the Negros against the whites.”
“That’s outlandish. Why would I do such a thing?”
“You went to a suffrage meeting, didn’t you?”
“Suffrage is not about stirring up riots.” Emily paced the room. “What is wrong with people?”
“Nothing. We simply like our boundaries and we have the community and the greater good to consider. Phillip and Emily Saltonstall can make great strides in Birmingham if we play the game right.”
“I’m sorry, Phillip. I didn’t realize how much it would upset you and your business.” Emily fit her head against his shoulder as he smoothed his hand down the length of her spine. “I’ll not go to the Gaston Hotel again.”
“That’s my good girl.” Phillip lifted her chin with the tip of his finger and lightly brushed his lips over hers. “I came in angry but, Emily, you make me forget myself.”
Emily shied away from his second kiss, pressing her cheek to his chest. Emily had experienced a bit of heaven on earth in the company of the seamstress and she’d not deviate from her course. If she couldn’t go to Taffy, she’d have Big Mike bring Taffy here. To Highland Avenue.
Chapter Twelve
Charlotte
Charlotte woke from a sound sleep. Kicking off the covers, she wandered to the kitchen for a glass of water. When she returned to her room, she crawled onto the bed, cupping her glass in her hands, and stared at the dress hanging in the corner.
She batted her eyes, clearing away her dreamless sleep, and squinted across her dark room. The glow of the city lights burned between the edges of the blinds, framing the bedroom window with gold.
But the dress appeared, in some odd way, to have its own luminous energy. Charlotte plumped her pillows behind her back and stared at the dress. She had to be imagining the gown’s light. Perhaps it was bouncing off of her mirror and onto the dress.
But the gown hung on the dress form in the corner, away from the window. Away from any mirror or any other light.
Charlotte sipped her water. Tim sure looked like a kid caught breaking the neighbor’s window with his bat and ball when Charlotte lifted the dress from the bag.
A wash of emotion hit her eyes. He really didn’t want to marry her. But now Charlotte had a purpose. Find out who belonged to this dress.
The next time the man in purple walked into her shop, if he walked into her shop, Charlotte planned to pounce.
“What’s your story, dress?” Charlotte whispered. “Where’d you come from and why’d you come looking for me? One orphaned girl seeking another?” She crawled off the bed and sat on the floor, running her fingers over the silky fabric, feeling like she’d met a new friend.
Old trunk, purple man, magic gold gown. Something was up. But what?
“Help me find your bride.”
Charlotte rested against the foot of her bed. Tim’s fragrance lingered in the room. She tipped her head back for a long inhale, but the thick floral spice wasn’t Tim’s. It wasn’t lingering in the room. It hovered right in front of her nose. Heavy. Oily. Unadulterated.
“Okay, God, what’s up?” Charlotte drew her knees to her chest and waited.
She’d first heard God was her heavenly Father at a church youth rally when she was sixteen, four years after Mama died. Having grown up without a daddy, she thought it impossible and improbable she’d ever have someone to call Father.
But the last night of the rally when the youth speaker referred to God as Father, something changed in Charlotte’s heart. And she smelled the same fragrance that now hovered in her room.
Only then, the scent was thicker, weightier, and nearly pressed her to the ground. She clung to the girl beside her to keep from crumbling. When she could think clearly, she understood God as her Father and believed. She couldn’t have dreamed up a cooler dad.
But then, the next youth speaker hit the stage and said the only way to get to the Father was by believing in Jesus and the Cross. No man comes to the Father but by Me.
That option didn’t thrill Charlotte at all. Jesus? Cross? Blood and dying? Sacrifice? Not for her.
A blast of cold air from the AC vent jolted Charlotte back into the present. She flipped on the bedside light and set her water on the nightstand. She hadn’t thought of that youth rally evening in a long time. But it was a worthy memory.
By the time the youth pastor, Tony, finished his “Love of Jesus” message and asked if anyone wanted to know Him, Charlotte bolted down the aisle. Just closed her eyes, shut off her mind, and ran, listening to nothing but her heartbeat.
She had no idea what saved meant. She didn’t care. All she knew was the thundering passion in her chest, the wild tremble in her legs, and that God was her Father. Hello, Jesus, show me the way.
That salvation summer she drank up, devoured, lived the reality of God’s love and desire for her. She had a Father.
And the Cross she’d once disdained was exhibit A of Jesus’s fierce love for her.
“Hey, dress, do you know God?” She laughed softly, stretching her legs over the edge of the bed so the tips of her toes touched the silky sheen of the dress. “No, I reckon you don’t.”
But the gown felt alive to her. She loved it already, even though she didn’t understand why the gown had fallen into her hands. Or why the purple man handed her a bill of sale stamped REDEEMED.
Wednesday the shop fell quiet after a noontime rush and an appointment with a new bride-to-be and her maid of honor on lunch break. Charlotte ate half a sandwich at her desk, paying bills online and checking e-mail.
The kitchen door slammed. Charlotte looked up, listening. “It’s just me.” The soft lilt of Bethany. “Bringing back dresses.” The seamstress angled around Charlotte’s office door. “Tawny’s dress is done, plus two of her bridesmaids’.”
“You’re the best, Beth.” Charlotte smiled. “Say, what are the odds of a dress fitting without being altered?”
“It’s possible. But in the bridal world, something will change. The bodice, the hem, adding padding. You know the score. Why do you ask?”
“What about a dress remaining in perfect condition for something like a hundred years? Does that ever happen?”
Bethany leaned against the door frame and laughed. “What are you up to, Char? A hundred years?” She arched her brow. “For real? Depends on how it was stored, but even if it was stored well, there’s a good chance something would be tattered or yellowed.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Charlotte rolled her desk chair over to her purse sticking out from the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. “Can you duplicate this?” She held up the silk sachet Tim found in the trunk. “I’d like to sell these.”
Bethany adjusted the load of dresses in her arms and reached for the small white pouch. “Don’t see these anymore. Very old style. Where’d you get it?”
“It was in the old trunk. Along with a wedding dress in perfect condition. Never altered. Not that I can tell, anyway.”
“Never altered? Probably never worn then. You said it’s in perfect condition?”
“Like it was made yesterday.�
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Bethany grinned, but Charlotte saw the invisible “impossible” on her lips. “Then it probably was made yesterday. But these I can make, sure. How many do you want?”
“Let’s start out with ten. Mix up the colors. Maybe modify the design for brides and bridesmaids, mother of the bride, mother of the groom. I’ll pitch them with the gowns. How about doing some monogramming to show what we can do with them.”
“I’m on it.” Bethany lifted the sachet to the light. “Pretty nice work. In fact, excellent stitching. Where’d you get this again?”
“The old trunk.” She left out the Tim part. Charlotte didn’t feel like hashing it out. She’d have to do a lot of explaining when she told Dixie.
“There’s something in here.” Bethany’s fingers moved over the bottom of the sachet.
“Really? We, um, I looked but didn’t find anything.” Charlotte took the bag when Bethany offered it and pulled open the top drawstring.
Thrusting her hand into the bag, Charlotte landed on a cool metal plate. When she pulled it free, a set of dog tags swung from her fingers.
“Didn’t expect those.” Bethany stretched to see the tags. “My father was in Viet Nam. I’ve seen his tags a dozen times, and these look exactly like his.”
“What are dog tags doing in the sachet?” Charlotte moved closer to the light on her desk to examine the engraved name.
“Got me.” Bethany retrieved the sachet and backed out of the office. “I’m running these upstairs. I need to get going and pick up my kids, but I’ll work on replicating this sachet tonight.”
“Yeah, thanks, Beth.” Charlotte sat at her desk, the tags splayed against her palm, cool and smooth.
Joel Miller
1271960
USMC - M
Protestant
The soldier had a name. And for the moment, so did the dress. Charlotte fisted her fingers over the tags, tears surprising her eyes.
Joel Miller. Was he the husband of the woman who wore the gown? Was she TH? If so, how could Charlotte find out?
A small bubble of joy bounced against her heart. God heard her prayer. He was guiding her toward the dress’s destiny.
Dixie came in, a flush on her cheeks, her hair windblown, startling Charlotte from her contemplation.
“I just love that man of mine.” Dixie sighed and dropped her purse on top of the file cabinet. “He was so sweet at lunch, telling me how much he appreciated me putting up with his schedule and standing with him, going without the little things and not complaining. I said, ‘Yeah, well, be glad the steering wheel of my car can’t quote me.’”
Dix fell against the desk and swigged from Charlotte’s water bottle. “What’s in your hand?”
“Dog tags.” Charlotte lifted her hand and let the tags drop in front of Dixie. “They were in the sachet.”
“You know, Jared just couldn’t believe you got that trunk open with a hammer and screwdriver.” Dixie examined the tags.
“Bethany said the tags are exactly like her dad’s. He was in Nam.”
“Uh-huh. How’d you get the trunk open?”
“I wonder who Joel Miller is—”
“Me too. How’d you get the trunk open?”
“Screwdriver and hammer, just like Jared said.”
“Charlotte, Jared knows darn well you didn’t open that trunk with a hammer and screwdriver.”
“Tim. All right.” Dixie could be so unrelenting. “Tim came over and cut the lock open.”
“Tim, as in the guy who dumped you Tim?”
“My friend Tim. Not the mean, evil fiancé Tim. My friend Tim has tools. Real tools.”
“He was there when you found the dress?” A smirk tipped Dixie’s lips. A soft snort flared her nostrils.
“Well, we didn’t know . . .” Charlotte read the tags again. Who are you, Joel Miller? Was he still alive? If he was he’d be what . . . anywhere from sixty to seventy? If he was in Viet Nam, that is.
“What sweet irony,” Dixie said. Tim helped his ex-fiancée discover a secret wedding dress. “What’d he say?”
“Nothing. Looked a bit panicked until I assured him it wasn’t some ploy to get him back.” Charlotte fiddled with the dog tags. “He did look a bit disappointed though.”
“That you hadn’t worked up some grand scheme to win him back? Good grief, Tim Rose thinks too much of himself.” Dixie took another gulp of Charlotte’s water. “Do you think this Joel Miller is tied to the dress?”
“Maybe, but if he was in Nam as a young man, that’d make him a groom in the sixties and that gown is not a sixties gown. I’ve been Googling wedding dresses all morning, and I can’t make out the style or era of the gown from the trunk. Doesn’t match the style from 1912. In the teens the women wore ornate, lacy, high-collar dresses with long court trains. Others wore more simple dresses with hems to the top of their shoes and long tulle veils. The twenties was the distinctive drop waist. After Bethany and I found the tags this afternoon, I looked at dresses from the forties to the sixties and my gown is way too . . . too . . .” Charlotte ran her thumb over her fingers. “Rich? I can’t find another word.” She gazed at her friend. “Dix, it’s such a gorgeous gown. Wait until you see it.”
“Brides after World War I didn’t carry sachets either. I remember a few things from my textiles class at Ohio State. And most women of common lineage didn’t wear a gown of silk or satin. They wore muslin or cotton, even cashmere. Not until the fifties maybe, after World War II, do you see silk and satin becoming common for weddings.” Dixie popped her head out Charlotte’s office door to check on the shop. “Hey, Bethany. Bye, Bethany. That girl is like the wind, sneaking in and out of here.”
“She’s going to make sachets for us to pitch with the dresses.”
“Brilliant, boss. So, did you try it on?”
“The dress? No. And I’m not going to either.”
“You’re kidding me. Really? How can you resist? I’m itching to try it, and I’m already married.” Dixie reached for Charlotte’s water, but Charlotte grabbed the bottle and tipped her head toward the minifridge in the office corner.
“You do know we have a whole fridge of water, right?”
With a sigh and eye roll, Dixie stooped to open the minifridge. “Why won’t you try it on?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
Charlotte turned the tags over and over in her hand, tears blurring her eyes for a moment. “I’m just not. What if it’s never been worn? What if it’s made for that one special bride? I’m not going to ruin it.”
“Certainly someone has tried it on, especially if the dang thing is ninety or a hundred years old.”
“My job is to find the woman that dress is looking for.” Charlotte couldn’t explain the special, hallowed reverence she had for the gown. It deserved her respect. It deserved more than an immature bride trying it on with a curled lip and a disdaining, “No, not for me.” No, Charlotte’s instincts would lead her to the right bride.
“It’ll be like finding a needle in a haystack, but if anyone can find that wedding frock a bride, it’s you.” Dixie squeezed Charlotte’s shoulder, then twisted open her water bottle. “In the meantime, what can we find out about the dog tags?”
“Back to Google,” Charlotte said.
The search engine provided a quick answer. The tags were definitely not World War I. Nor from the Second World War—those tags were notched.
“The last notched dog tags were issued in 1964. Joel Miller’s don’t have the notch so they might be from the last years of Nam?”
Charlotte typed “Joel Miller” in the search bar. It was a start. A list of names splashed to the screen. Charlotte scrolled past a New York lawyer, a politician, an actor. But who or what was she looking for, expecting to find?
The front bells chimed and Dixie moved toward the door. “Keep looking,” she said. “I’ll take care of the customer.”
Charlotte detailed her search. “Joel Miller+Birmingham.” A list of names
returned. After scrolling through a few pages, she refined her query just a little bit more.
Joel Miller+USMC+Viet Nam+Birmingham
The discovery of the dog tags generated a lot of questions. How did the tags get stuffed into a bridal sachet? Did Joel dump his bride before the wedding? Charlotte envisioned an angry, wounded bride taking a blowtorch to the trunk lock.
If so, then was the dress ever worn? And how had the dog tags been sealed inside?
Google’s first hit brought up The Wall, a memorial site dedicated to Viet Nam veterans. Oh, Joel Miller, are you in here?
Charlotte entered the site, her fingers stumbling over the keyboard as she typed in Joel’s name and serial number and state. An icy sensation swirled around her heart and down to her belly.
Holding her breath, fingers pressed lightly to her lips, she waited for the search to return. When it did, her eyes misted.
Joel C. Miller, Marine Corps, 1LT, 02, age 22, born September 4, 1946, in Birmingham, AL. Casualty date April 14, 1969.
Oh, Joel Miller.
And he was . . .
Married.
The words on the screen blurred together. Charlotte’s heart kicked into high gear as she clicked on his info tab. His tour began on September 11, 1968. On April 14, 1969, in Quang Tri, South Viet Nam, he died from hostile fire . . . ground casualty, body not recovered.
Not recovered. Not. Recovered. What did that mean? Was he lost, left to die alone? Blown to pieces, so it was impossible to—
Mercy, mercy, Lord have mercy.
Another button took her to a bevy of postings to Joel C. Miller from friends and family and fellow marines.
“I was there the day you died. I’ll always remember you, JC. Semper Fi.”
“Thinking of you, Miller. Remember how we took the baseball championship our senior year at NC State just before we took off for the marines?”
Dixie returned and propped on the desk next to Charlotte’s screen and leaned to see. Her ponytail swung down over her shoulder.
