The Wedding Dress

by Rachel Hauck

  “Find anything?”

  “He was killed.” Charlotte looked up at Dix. “And he was married.”

  Dixie straightened, her eyes shining. “She put the dress in the trunk and sealed it shut.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Listen to his bio, Dix. Joel was military honor society at the University of North Carolina, the Semper Fidelis Society, and the Scabbard and Blade. A recruited baseball player.”

  “Is there a picture?”

  “No, no picture.” But Charlotte started missing a man she’d never met, envisioning a clean-cut, rawboned, steely eyed marine.

  Scrolling through the pages of messages, eyes filled with tears, she searched for a hint of the woman who might have loved him. The one who tucked his dog tags into a silk sachet before sealing them away forever.

  There were only three postings on the last page and one caught her eye. It was posted three weeks ago, April 14, the anniversary of the day Joel Miller died.

  “It’s been over forty years, but I still think of you. You’re not forgotten. I miss you, Joel C. I’m not sure my heart has ever healed. With love, Your Wife.”

  “Oh my gosh. She posted a note.” Dixie stepped back with a sigh. “Wow, can you imagine?” She dropped a tissue over Charlotte’s shoulder. “War stinks.”

  “Death in general stinks.” Charlotte blotted the tears from under her eyes and stared at the screen, a cold, weighty realization sinking through her. “Dix, April 14 is the day I went up to the ridge to think and wound up at the Ludlow auction.”

  “The day you bought the trunk.”

  Charlotte shoved out of her chair, her thoughts rattling into place. “So, this grieving widow of forty-some years posts on Joel’s wall the same day I buy the trunk with a wedding dress, her wedding dress maybe, and his dog tags shut up inside it.”

  “I just got chills.” Dixie shivered, rubbing her hands over her arms.

  “Did she leave an e-mail address?” Back at the computer, Charlotte scanned the woman’s post. Yes, she’d left an e-mail address.

  Charlotte clicked on the link and typed in the subject line: Did you weld shut a trunk forty years ago with Joel’s dog tags inside?

  “Charlotte, stop, you can’t do that.” Dixie pulled Charlotte’s hand off the keyboard. “She might not want to hear from you. Or bring up memories of Joel. She put those tags in the trunk and torched it shut for a reason.”

  “Then why did she just post on his wall? She’s obviously not afraid to think of him or read about him.” Charlotte scrolled up to the last post before “Your Wife” posted. “It’s been over a year since anyone else visited here. She posted three weeks ago.” Charlotte went back to her e-mail. “I think she wants to touch him in some way. She’s missing him. The dress was probably her mother’s or grandmother’s, and she wore it for their wedding.”

  “Yes, then he died and she stored all their memories in the trunk. Charlotte, just because she posted doesn’t mean she wants you to unearth her past. What looks like a painful one too.”

  Charlotte sighed and sat back, gazing up at Dixie. “I hate when you make sense.” She combed her finger through her hair and stared at the screen. “I have to send it, Dix.”

  “I know you do.”

  Charlotte pressed Send. Now all she had to do was wait. And pray she didn’t open a sealed tomb that awakened the memories of a broken heart.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The aroma of garlic and basil lingered in the loft long after Charlotte and Dix sat at the table with empty bowls of spaghetti and salad. Dixie had left for a movie with Jared’s sister.

  “Sure you don’t want to come?”

  “No thanks. The last time I went with you and Sally somewhere, your razor-sharp bantering sliced me to shreds.”

  Charlotte cleaned the kitchen, then made a cup of tea and wandered to her living room. She’d brought the dress form out of the bedroom and put it by the sofa. Sitting next to it, she aimed the remote and turned on the TV.

  “This is a TV, dress. Have you ever seen TV before? Bunch of junk on nowadays.”

  Charlotte surfed a few channels, blowing past movies that starred geeky men winning the affections of gorgeous women who sported unrealistically perfect bosoms.

  Every so often, her gaze jerked toward the dress. She could swear the thing was moving. Even glowing. Shutting off the TV, Charlotte faced the gown, sitting cross-legged on the couch.

  “What? Tell me the story in your threads.”

  Her email to Joel Miller’s wife was returned by MAILER-DAEMON. Which Charlotte found odd, because the address was just posted three weeks ago.

  Did “Your Wife” delete her account so soon after posting? Charlotte sipped her tea, compiling options, figuring ways to find out just who loved and missed Lt. Joel Miller.

  As if trying to get a visual of the puzzle, Charlotte had draped the dog tags around the neck of the dress form. They rested in the swag of silk draped across the neckline.

  Sliding off the sofa, she stood by the dress form, shoulder to shoulder, wiggling her toes under the hem. The skirt length fell to the top of her toes.

  Maybe if she tried it on, it would fit. Maybe. But she didn’t dare. Her heart didn’t need the hope of a wedding or an amazing, storied gown. Charlotte moved away from the dress. It had to be a second or third generation, handed down from mother to daughter. The timeless style and the enduring fabric were incredible.

  What she needed was another clue. But Charlotte was horrible at mysteries. She hated games. Mama had loved them because Mama had always won.

  She could go through all the Millers in the Birmingham phone book. Might take her months to call all the names. There had to be over a thousand Millers crowded together across four pages. She’d looked for the obvious, Joel Miller or Joel C. Miller. Maybe there was a senior or a junior. But in all of Jefferson County, there was no Joel Miller.

  Oooh, could there be something else in the trunk? Charlotte dashed back to her room and knelt to the floor. One by one, she removed the pieces of tissue paper, smoothing, folding, and stacking them. She felt around the bottom like Tim had done, knocking on the sides of the smooth and fragrant cedar.

  When she found nothing, she called Bethany. “Was there anything else in the sachet?”

  No, nothing else. Charlotte looked in the linen bag where she found the gown. Nothing. She shook the piece as if the threads were purposefully keeping her from answers. Then, on an impulse, she reached deep and turned the bag inside out.

  A rectangular business-sized card floated free and landed by her foot. It was faded pink, with embossed magnolia petals in the corners and raised lettering across the middle. Mrs. Lewis’s Famous Pie Co. 2nd Avenue North. Downtown Birmingham.

  Mrs. Lewis’s. Charlotte ran her finger over the letters. She knew this place. Tim did a fabulous remodel of the corner building that had once been the pie company.

  He had turned it into an office space with upstairs lofts. Charlotte almost bought in there before she found her place in Homewood.

  She auto-dialed Tim without considering the cost or implications. She needed answers. To sound this out.

  “You know that building you remodeled on 2nd Avenue? You showed it to me when we walked downtown on New Year’s.” That had been a fun night, their sixth date but their first kiss. Standing under a string of red, blue, green, and orange lights.

  “I remember.” He cleared his throat.

  “Didn’t it used to be a bakery?”

  “Yeah. Mrs. Lewis’s Famous—”

  “Pie Company. Right. Gert used to talk about them.”

  “My grandma worked there when she graduated high school. The Lewises also had the Lewis Bakery. So, what’s this sudden interest in Mrs. Lewis?”

  “I found her card in the trunk. In the linen sack.” Charlotte waved it in the air as if Tim could see it.

  “The plot thickens.” Now he sounded relaxed, fun.

  “Tim, oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask if you wer
e busy. Are you busy?” Charlotte dropped down to her bed. Broken or not, talking to him always felt like home.

  “I’d have told you if I was. So, you think Mrs. Lewis owned this dress?”

  “Good question. Her daughter or granddaughter. And oh, I have dog tags.”

  “Dog tags?”

  “I know, crazy. I found them in the sachet.” Charlotte gave Tim the brief history, to which he whistled and said, “Man, that’s incredible. When I searched the sachet I found nothing. Weird.”

  “Tim, do you think you can find out who owned the pie company building last? Or who might have worked there? Is there anything in the city records?”

  “Yeah, there’s plenty of buying and selling info in the records. Let me see what I can do.”

  “You’re my hero. Let me know.” Even in jest, the words “you’re my hero” carried a weight she’d not intended. She coughed, slid her foot over her polished hardwood, and figured to end the conversation quick. “Thanks. Call me if you find out anything. Or e-mail. No rush. I know you’re busy.”

  “I’ll check tomorrow.”

  Hanging up, Charlotte wandered back into the living room and tucked the pie company card in the empire waist’s sash. She dropped to the sofa and pointed her phone at the dress. “I’m going to help you find your way home. You just wait and see.”

  Emily

  In the upstairs sewing room of the Canton home, Emily stood on a stool in her bloomers and corset while Taffy Hayes slipped the unfinished gown over her head. Mother stood vanguard, arms crossed, lips pursed.

  The western windows were ablaze with the glory of the setting sun, which warmed the chilly October air in the room.

  “I just love to see the fabric against a girl’s skin.” Taffy’s slender, dark hands tucked and pinned with quick skill. “What do you think, Mrs. Canton? This ivory satin is lovely with her skin tone and the rich chestnut color of her hair.”

  Taffy spoke so respectfully, kind and gentle. Not like that boisterous, arrogant Caruthers woman.

  When Taffy stepped aside, Emily caught her reflection in the mirror. The dress, her wedding dress, came to life. This was exactly how she pictured herself as a bride. The gown was light, easy on her shoulders. The round neck sat just below her collarbones. Not up under her chin, desperate to cut off her wind.

  The skirt, or what Taffy had fashioned so far, just barely touched her shoes in front while the back swept around to a petite train.

  “I have in my mind to add two flounces over the skirt, like this.” Taffy demonstrated with a run of fabric. “Sort of swag down to give the skirt some character and depth. I figured an empire waist will accentuate your figure”—she smiled softly—“and I’ll sew it up with pearls.”

  “And the bodice?” Mother’s condescending tone drew a sharp glance from Emily.

  “Same material as the skirt but with lace. The sleeves will be lace and silk. I do love to work in silk. My, my, Mrs. Canton, Miss Canton is as pretty as a Gibson Girl, even more so, I declare, with that thick hair and hourglass figure.”

  “The gown is lovely, Taffy,” Mother said. “What I can see of it.”

  “I’m glad you like it. I haven’t sewn for a—” Taffy pursed her lips. “For a wedding in a while.”

  “What color gowns do you sew for colored brides, Taffy?”

  “Emily.” Mother snapped her shoulders back, dropping her folded arms.

  Emily looked at her mother in the mirror. “I mean no disrespect. I’ve never been around a colored girl before.”

  “Colored girls what can afford a wedding dress, and there ain’t many, like white satin or taffeta. Some choose ivory. Most of them get married in their church dress. If they have a little bit of money, they might get married in a new walking suit.”

  There was no envy in her voice. Just a resolve, a resolution, to the way life was for colored girls in Birmingham.

  “Most of the poor girls in this city marry in their church dresses,” Mother said, as if to minimize Taffy’s confession. “It’s not restricted to coloreds.”

  “I didn’t say otherwise, Mrs. Canton.” Taffy stood back, taking in the shimmering fabric. “Mr. Saltonstall will be weak-kneed when he sees you walking down the aisle.”

  Mother ran her hand along the skirt, taking in the dropped neckline. “It’ll make more of an evening dress.” Her gaze lowered to the straight skirt. “Maybe you can change into it for the reception.”

  “Mother, no—”

  “Emily, we can’t tell Mrs. Caruthers ‘never mind,’ now.”

  “Caroline Caruthers? She’s a fine seamstress. We were taught by the same woman, Madam Sinclair.”

  “See there, Mother.” Emily ran her hand over the silk waist. “Mrs. Caruthers’s dress makes me feel as if I’m carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I’ll suffocate in it. Faint on Father’s arm.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Emily.” Mother walked to the sewing room door. “Taffy, please excuse us. I’d like a moment with my daughter.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Taffy walked to the door with her measuring tape around her neck, stabbing the straight pins into the cushion strapped around her wrist.

  “There’s cake and milk in the kitchen,” Mother called after her. “Tell Molly I sent you down.”

  Emily stepped off the stool when Taffy closed the door. “Don’t, Mother. I know what you’re going to say.”

  “Then why are you behaving like this?”

  Emily walked to the window and peered out. She wasn’t sure she knew the answer. In the yard below her window was the tree where Daniel surprised her two months ago.

  Since seeing him at Newman’s, she thought of him now and then, just memories she’d shove aside. But with her next breath, Emily knew she missed him. Something about the day, about being fitted with Taffy’s dress, stirred her longing for him.

  When she looked at Taffy, listened to her talk, Emily felt a kinship with the older colored woman. More than just a common faith in Jesus, but a sense of feeling . . . trapped. Locked in by society, expectation, and the wants of others.

  “Emily.” Mother touched her arm and bent her head to see Emily’s face. “Tell me, dear, what are you thinking to have that expression on your face?”

  Smiling, Emily tapped the windowpane. “Remember when we first moved here and Howard Jr. and I dug up the backyard to make a fort?”

  “Mercy, I do.” Mother pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I’d just joined the garden club and was to host my first meeting. My prize lawn and roses were destroyed.”

  “We were terrified.” Emily laughed, pointing to a far willow tree. “We hid up there trying to decide if we were going to run away or not. We just knew Father would strap us.”

  Mother smiled. “But you two didn’t mean it. I knew you didn’t.”

  “You told Father you handled it and he merely gave us a stern look at dinner and reminded us to behave, that we lived among a different kind of people.”

  “Something we can never forget. Something you must remember now, Emily. Is it our society that’s bothering you? Our friends?”

  “I do admit, Mother, it feels as if you and Phillip, even Father, are trying to fit me in a mold so society will like me.” Emily moved away from the window, the soft swish of the silk around her legs. “It’s my wedding. I want to wear a gown I love. I don’t care if the seamstress is the one the Woodward or Campbell girls used. Or if she’s colored.”

  “Now, you listen to me.” Mother’s heels thudded as she crossed the floor. “You will wear the gown Mrs. Caruthers made, and that is the end of it. As soon as the wedding is over, you may change into this gown Taffy is making.”

  Emily faced the mirror, sighing. She’d met defeat. “Mother, are you happy?”

  “You’re vexing me a bit at the moment.” Mother’s light tone betrayed her scowl.

  “Are you happy with Father?”

  Mother’s cheeks pinked. “Don’t I look happy?”

  “Has he ever been unfa
ithful to you?”

  Mother inhaled sharply. “Mercy, girl, what a thing to ask. Certainly not.” She fussed with the satin and silk still draped over Emily. “Your father and I were cut from the same cloth. He escorted me to my debutante ball, and I don’t think he ever left my side. This gown is quite lovely. Gracious, I believe Taffy sewed with gold thread.”

  “Do you think I’m cut from the same cloth as Phillip Saltonstall? Is he a man like Father?”

  “He’s a very powerful man from a very powerful family. He adores you, Emily. I’m very proud and happy for you. This is a good match. For you, for our families. Even for Howard Jr. You and Phillip will be quite the couple of our Magic City. In fact, I was speaking to Della Branton at bridge club and she’s decided to attend suffrage meetings with her daughter because of you. If the future Mrs. Saltonstall believes in suffrage, she will too.”

  “How foolish. I’ve been to a few meetings. I’m not even sure I believe in suffrage. She should believe in a cause because her heart tells her, not the future Mrs. Phillip Saltonstall.” So now she was responsible for the convictions and actions of others?

  “Oh, my dear, you are your father’s daughter.” Mother softened, her smile fresh with love. “So forthright at times.” She kissed Emily’s cheek. “You’re going to be very happy with Phillip. He’ll be a wonderful husband. He’s quite handsome, don’t you think?”

  “Mother, I saw him with another woman.” The confession released a valve in her heart. “The day we first met with Mrs. Caruthers, when I leaned out Loveman’s window.”

  She’d been pondering Phillip and Emmeline for quite a while. In the evenings Daniel’s letters tucked under her bed called to her. But she could not very well read them if she didn’t want Phillip involved with another woman. Weren’t love letters the same? Emily involved with another man? Daniel? Even if it was only in the privacy of her own heart?

  “Goodness, Emily. Phillip knows everyone. He’s twenty-eight years old, with friends all over the city.”

  “It was the woman who attended our engagement party with Herschel Wainscot. Emmeline Graves.”