The Wedding Dress

by Rachel Hauck

  Sometimes luck put a man in the right place at the right time. Sometimes, a good friend. But more often than not, Daniel mused, it was the providence of God and His never-ending grace.

  Charlotte

  The clatter of teacups came from the other side of the wall. Mrs. Pettis insisted on making tea.

  “Can I help you?” Charlotte called as she shifted on the edge of a worn mohair sofa. Her knee cracked the sharp-edged coffee table. Furniture was jammed in every space from one end of the room to the other. Charlotte didn’t know how the old baker got around without running into a chair or table.

  The long, narrow room smelled of lemon drops. Lace curtains hung limp at the windows and grayish white doilies covered the arms of every chair and the back of the sofa.

  Across from Charlotte, Tim sank down into a tired wingback. Using his city connections, he’d found out the last owner of Mrs. Lewis’s Famous Pie Company was Aleta Pettis. Tim called her Monday morning, and by Monday afternoon Charlotte was riding with him down I-20 toward Irondale.

  “Sure you don’t mind me being here?” he said, pulling himself out of the soft cushion and perching on the edge of the seat.

  She shrugged, taking in the pastoral pictures on the wall. She kind of minded, but . . . “You might as well see the fruit of your labor.” Charlotte peered at him. He’d practically insisted on driving her to meet Mrs. Pettis. But what was he really doing here? Was he that curious about the wedding dress?

  Pieces of her lunch conversation with Dix flitted around Charlotte’s head.

  “Careful, Char, you’ll start thinking he’s into you.”

  “How do you know he’s not?”

  Dixie lifted Charlotte’s bare ring hand. “Exhibit A.”

  “I’m the one who returned the ring. He didn’t ask for it.”

  “Of course not. He’s got some kind of heart. Can’t call off a wedding and ask for the ring back on the same night. Got to do it in stages.”

  “Dixie, he wanted to stay engaged.”

  “But not get married? Hello, Charlotte, if he’s not marrying you, he’s not into you. No man gives up a girl he really wants.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Jared. He spilled the guy code on our honeymoon.”

  So Charlotte shifted her body at an angle, away from Tim. If he’s not marrying you, he’s not into you.

  “Here we go, young people. Tea. Oh, the cookies, I forgot the cookies.” Mrs. Pettis wagged her finger in the air as she headed back to the kitchen. “They’re not homemade, sorry to say. I had to give up baking. Now where are those cookies?” Cupboard doors opened and closed.

  Tim sniffed his tea. “She seems nice enough.”

  “Don’t you mean safe enough?” Charlotte inhaled the hot, sweet scent of brewed tea. “Tim, there’s no way she’s going to remember a cake she made in 1968. Or ’67. Or whenever Joel Miller got married.”

  “You have a name. That’ll narrow it down.”

  “A name. The groom’s. You really think she’ll remember the groom? She probably never met him.”

  “Let’s just ask. See what she says.”

  Faith. Tenacity. Maybe that’s why he came along.

  “Here we go. Cookies.” Mrs. Pettis held up a rubber-banded package of Oreos. She wobbled, reaching to hold on to a chair. “I lose my balance from time to time.” She unwrapped the green rubber band and slid the cookies onto a china plate matching the cups, both with a faded baby’s breath pattern. “So, you want to know about Mrs. Lewis’s?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Charlotte set her cup and saucer on her lap and reached for the pie company’s business card in her purse. “I found this card in an old trunk, along with a wedding dress and a set of dog tags.”

  “Oh my.” Mrs. Pettis ran her finger over the raised print on the card. “Haven’t seen one of these in years.” Her gaze glistened when she looked up.

  “Do you know the name Joel Miller, Mrs. Pettis? It’s the name on the dog tags I found. Is he related to you? Maybe married to your daughter?”

  “I never had a daughter. And my son is a Pettis, naturally. I don’t know any Millers. At least not a Joel. ’Course, my memory ain’t what it used to be.”

  “He died in 1969. Killed in Viet Nam.”

  “Oh my, oh mercy, that is sad, right sad.”

  “Do you think maybe you made a cake for his wedding? Based on his birthday and death, I think he might have married sometime in ’68?”

  “I suppose that’s possible. I made a lot of wedding cakes in my day. First working for Mrs. Lewis, then when I owned the place. We had so many, many customers. They all knew our names, naturally, but we smiled and called everyone Jimmy. Even the ladies.” Mrs. Pettis laughed behind her hand, chewing on her cookie. “Do you know I calculated how many pies I made in my forty years as a baker. Two hundred and twenty thousand pies. My land, I about choked on my own gizzard.”

  “How many wedding cakes?” Charlotte wanted to get a feel for the odds of her making Joel Miller’s cake. Maybe that would lead to finding his bride. How, Charlotte had no idea. If she fished with enough questions, maybe something would bite.

  “Oh sure, about twenty thousand cakes.” She chortled. “Makes me feel kind of like I accomplished something. Didn’t feel so important doing what any woman could do in her kitchen. But I took pride. Made each pie and cake with care. I loved the bakery. It was such a sad season when all the businesses shifted away from downtown. All those great buildings, great stores like Loveman’s and Pizitz just closed up and vanished, as if they never existed.”

  “Would you like to keep this card, Mrs. Pettis?” Charlotte offered the woman a remnant from her glory days.

  Her hand trembled as she reached for the card and her eyes glistened. “Now, what can I do for you young people? Are you getting married?”

  “No, no,” Charlotte said, “we’re just friends.”

  “We were going to get married, but—”

  “We’re just friends.” Charlotte shot Tim a look.

  “Did he cheat on you, sugar?” Mrs. Pettis reached for another Oreo. “I’m sorry, son, but you seem like the cheating kind. Handsome men with long hair usually are, you know.”

  Charlotte wanted to laugh, but Tim seemed rather taken aback. Served him right. “He didn’t cheat, Mrs. Pettis. Just decided he wasn’t ready for marriage. He’s only thirty-two.” Those Oreos were looking better all the time. Charlotte reached for one. “He waited a full twenty-four hours after he broke my heart to go on a date.”

  “It wasn’t a date. Just a friend dining with a friend.”

  “My,” said Mrs. Pettis.

  “His ex-fiancée.” Charlotte wrinkled her nose at the older woman as if they shared something in common, something womanly. And she liked watching Tim squirm.

  “My, my.” She waved her half-eaten cookie at Charlotte. “It’s the good-looking ones with the hair you got to watch, I’m telling you. It was the same in my day.”

  “Can we please just get to the business at hand?” Tim ran his palms over his hair, picked up his petite teacup with his large hand, then put it down. “Mrs. Pettis, is there any way we could find out about Joel Miller? Who he might have married? Do you remember him? He was a soldier, a marine.”

  “You say he died in the war? So many good men lost in wars. My own brother died in the war. The big one. My father was never the same afterward. He’d come home from the steel mill, sit in his chair and read the paper, then he’d go out to the front porch, lean against the post, and stare beyond the neighbor’s yard like he was waiting for his son to come home. Sometimes I think he longed to be with him, away from the stinking mill. He died himself about ten years later. Consumption got him like so many of the mining men. There used to be a ring of smog hovering over the city. Do you kids remember? I suppose you’re too young. My mother couldn’t even hang out her clothes on the line without getting them smudged.”

  “Mrs. Pettis.” Tim stood. “Thank you for your time. Charlotte, I
need to get back to the office.”

  What office? Charlotte gave him the sit-down eye.

  “My old bakery is an office space now, you know.”

  “Yes, and loft living on the second floor,” Tim said, sinking back down to his chair.

  “Well now.” Mrs. Pettis sniffed the air, wrinkling her nose. “I wonder if folks can still smell the baking pies in the old bricks. We used to say baking was the aroma of heaven.” She laughed, strolling down her private memory lane, consorting with people alive only in her heart. “We used to do it up for Christmas too. Decorations and candies. We had a little contest with Newberry’s and Mary Ball Candies. Downtown was the happening place. ’Course, in the days you’re talking about, racial tension was mighty high. Downtown became right scary what with the church bombing and police dogs being let loose on folks. But those days are behind us now. Hallelujah.”

  Charlotte peered at Tim. Mrs. Pettis wasn’t going to help them, was she? “Thank you again, Mrs. Pettis.” She carried their teacups to the kitchen. When she came out, she joined Tim near the door. “We enjoyed meeting you.” Her heart sank a bit. Now what? Where could she find Joel Miller? Hire a detective? She hadn’t even done that to find her own father.

  “Mrs. Pettis, we need to get going.” Tim twisted the door knob. Charlotte slung her handbag under her arm with a final glance at the old baker.

  “Too bad. I got a whole attic of bakery records going back to 1939. Your Joel Miller and his bride most likely will be in there.”

  “How’d you like that routine?” Tim said when they landed at the top of the attic’s narrow staircase. He shoved boxes aside to make a path. “‘Oh, you kids, I don’t remember any of my customers, called everyone Jimmy. By the way, I have sixty years’ worth of records in my attic.’”

  “Stop. You’re just sore because she said men like you are unfaithful.”

  “She said men who look like me are unfaithful.” Tim kicked a box out of the way.

  “That’s it, take it out on the box.”

  “It’s hot up here. Can we just find the”—he moved to the wall shelves loaded with boxes—“whatever we’re looking for and go?”

  “Hey, you’re free to go anytime, Tim. I’m going to look for the invoice or something with the name Joel Miller and his bride. Go if you have to go.”

  “And how will you get back?”

  “Bus. Cab.” Charlotte surveyed the room under the warm eaves. Small sailors’ windows on either side of the attic let in enough light for them to see. Tim was working his way through the furniture to turn on a Tiffany-looking floor lamp by a wide-seat willow rocking chair.

  “Look to your left, Tim. Isn’t that a Victrola? And a Westinghouse radio.”

  “My grandpa had one of these in his garage.” Tim absently turned the radio knobs.

  Old suits, faded dresses, and a coat with the scarf and gloves stuffed in the pockets hung on a line strung from one pitched corner to the other.

  “And people wonder if time travel is possible. They should come here.” Charlotte unbuttoned her Malone & Co. jacket and slipped it off, draping it over the stair rail. “I think what we want is on those shelves, Tim.” She pointed to the far wall. When she looked around, he was watching her. “What?” She nudged aside a box of folded clothes.

  “When I told Mrs. Pettis we were going to get married, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Can we just find the bakery records?” Charlotte motioned again to the shelves. “These boxes look official, don’t they?”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” Tim crossed over and pulled out the first box from the bottom shelf. “Yep, bakery records and they’re dated. The box is marked 1959.” He pulled the lid off and took out an invoice. “December 1959. All of these are 1959.”

  “Okay, so let’s find ’67, ’68, and ’69 and see if we can find Joel Miller.” Charlotte reached for a box on her far right, two shelves up from the bottom.

  It was marked 1967. She dropped it to the floor and knelt beside it.

  “Man, she made a lot of pies and cakes.” Tim checked over his shoulder from his spot by the shelves. “Did you find something?”

  “Maybe,” Charlotte said, her fingers flying through the invoices. “She separated them by months.”

  Tim reached for the box marked 1968. “It feels so normal with you. I forget we’re . . . you know. Broken up.”

  “Try to remember, will you?” On top of filing the invoices by month, Mrs. Pettis had alphabetized them. “Looks like she filed wedding cake orders by the bride’s last names.”

  “But we don’t know the bride’s last name.”

  Charlotte looked up, smiling. “But we know the groom’s, and Mrs. Pettis wrote the groom’s name below the bride’s.”

  “Jackpot. Now, if we can find Joel Miller . . . Charlotte, what if Mrs. Pettis didn’t make their cake?”

  “Shh, don’t say that out loud. You’ll jinx us.” Charlotte fingered through July and August of ’67. Nothing. “Is it because of her?” she braved to ask, but without looking at Tim.

  “Her? What are you talking about?”

  Charlotte sighed. Loud.

  “Kim? No, I didn’t postpone our wedding because of her.” He mimicked Charlotte’s inflection. “I told you she didn’t call until after we . . . talked. I just need to sort some things out, Char.”

  She turned her face to him. His blue eyes peered at her from under his dark brows and seemed to gaze straight into her heart. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I really am.”

  “I believe you.” Charlotte went back to her box, flipping through the invoices. “But we’re over. Moving on. Better to find out we’re not right for each other before the wedding than after.” Why couldn’t she be mad at him? At least keep a wall built between them. Instead, he melted her resolve at the very hint of his sweetness.

  Tim took the top off his box. “I never said we weren’t right for each other. I think we fit pretty good. I just—”

  “Tim, we came here to find out who Joel Miller married. Let’s just do that.” Charlotte went back to the invoices. As if she could read the handwriting through her watering eyes.

  In contemplative silence they worked through the boxes. Then the crackle of thin paper suddenly ceased from Tim’s box.

  “Hello, pot-o-gold.” He held up an invoice to the hot, hazy light fitting through the small windows.

  “You found it? Really?” Charlotte stooped to see over his shoulder. His cologne seeped through the oxford threads of his shirt as she rested her palm on the familiar muscled curve of his arm.

  She let her hand fall away. Breaking up had ended her time with Tim, but not the longings of her heart.

  “Here we go,” Tim said, looking up at her, his eyes full of comfort. Charlotte dug her fingers into her knees. If she wasn’t careful, she’d trip and fall in love. “Bride. Hillary Saltonstall. Groom. Joel Miller. They ordered a coconut cake with lots of icing. Look, lots is underlined three times.” Tim tapped the paper, his smile a white beam. “Pick up the morning of the wedding. September 8, 1968.” He stood, slinging his arm around her and kissing her forehead. “We found our bride.”

  Then he realized what he’d done and released her with a sheepish, “Sorry,” and offered Charlotte the invoice.

  “No . . . no worries.” She rubbed the fiery burn of his lips from her skin. But nothing could remove it from her heart. Stop. Focus. Think. The dress. This is about the dress. “Joel Miller, Hillary Saltonstall. Here’s a note at the bottom. ‘Rush order, groom leaving for Viet Nam.’”

  That moved her heart away from Tim. Joel Miller rushed to his wedding before going off to war.

  “When did you say he died?” Tim asked.

  “April ’69.”

  “Six months later.” His eyes remained fixed on the invoice as if it could somehow show him the past. “Do you think they actually got married? You said the dress didn’t look worn.”

  “Or altered.” Charlotte took the invoice from Tim. “It’
s possible for a gown to fit from one bride to the next without alterations, but it’s highly improbable. Something has to be changed. The hem. The bodice. Something. Unless the dress wasn’t really made in 1912 and the auctioneer just made up a story to trick me into buying it.” She was shaking. While she was further down the trail of discovering the heritage of the dress, she felt miles away from the truth.

  But in her hand she held a piece of a man’s life that history and time had forgotten. Except “Your Wife,” who’d posted on Joel’s wall. Except God. “Do you think Mrs. Pettis will let me have this? At least borrow it?”

  Tim fit the lid on the box and returned it to the shelf. “Why not? It’s the reason we came.”

  At the stairs, Charlotte picked up her jacket and draped it over her arm. “On the wall where I found Joel’s name, it said his body was never recovered.”

  “Bet that would be hard on a new bride.” Tim walked over to her and brushed her hair off her shoulders, then quickly stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Ready?”

  “Ready.” It was getting hotter and hotter in that old attic.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Saturday just before noon, Charlotte pulled into Hillary Saltonstall’s Crestline driveway. It curved like a concrete river past the front of her terra-cotta brick home and cut through the plush, manicured lawn. Shading oaks and elms canopied the house and cooled away the noonday sun and the rising May heat.

  Charlotte stepped out of her car, her low-heeled pumps tapping on the driveway. She removed her suit jacket, tossing it into the passenger seat.

  The clear-blue-day breeze shifted the light and rearranged her emotions. On the drive over she’d mentally worked out a pragmatic interview with Hillary, planning how to forge into the woman’s past. Which enabled Charlotte to ignore the fact that she herself was driving into her own past—her old Crestline neighborhood.