The Wedding Dress

by Rachel Hauck

“I know. We just met.” Dixie slid back onto her perch, the old desk. “So you’re the Hillary who wore the dress? Who sealed it in the trunk?”

  “Guilty. But I’m indebted to this woman, who redeemed it. Redeemed me.” Redeemed. The purple man’s word. For a moment it reverberated in Charlotte’s soul. “Charlotte, are you free for a few hours?” Hillary asked.

  “I could be if you need me. Is everything okay?” She checked with Dix, who nodded. She’d cover the afternoon.

  “I called Thomas and Mary Grace Talbot. They’re up for an afternoon visit if you’re game to go.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “Whoa, back up, y’all. Explain to ole Dixie what’s going on. How did you get in touch with the Talbots?” She wagged her finger at Charlotte. “You didn’t give me this piece of the story.”

  “I didn’t know it myself until yesterday.” Charlotte gave Dixie the Twitter version. “Hillary worked with a doctor at St. Vincent’s named Talbot. When she came across Thomas and Mary Grace’s name, she called him on the chance there might be a connection.”

  “And?” Dix said, rotating toward Hillary.

  “Never heard of them.” Hillary took up the story. “But he went to school with another Talbot. When you’re in the same homeroom with a guy from first grade to twelfth, you find out things. The Dr. Talbot I knew put me in touch with Harry, who is Thomas and Mary Grace Talbot’s great-nephew.”

  Dixie whooshed a “wow” from her desk perch. “Do you think Mrs. Talbot wore the dress before you, Hillary?”

  Charlotte hung up the last dress in the shipment. “Let’s go find out.”

  Kirkwood by the River was a retirement village nestled on wooded acreage by the Cahaba River. As Charlotte parked and walked with Hillary toward the main entrance, Hillary talked.

  “He’s ninety-four, suffers with some dementia. She’s ninety-three, sharp as a tack. At least, according to Harry.”

  Passing through a golden sun spot on the stone patio, Charlotte stopped. “I’m not sure I want to go in.”

  “What? We came all this way. Isn’t this why you found me?” Hillary sat on a wrought iron two-seater with flowered cushions.

  “What if she knows nothing about the dress? What if this is a dead end? You were the last one who wore it and we have no idea who came before. We won’t know if the bride before you was in love or if she married out of convenience. Or if she was made a widow like you. There are three more wars to contend with here. I’m not sure I want to reach the end of the line. To know I’ll never know. There’s too much unknown in my past already. I don’t want to add the dress.”

  “Charlotte, it’s not the asking that leaves us in the dark—we’re already there, right? If we come to a dead end in the history of the dress, then at least we know we tried. No guarantee of answers in life.”

  “But I can pretend.” Charlotte eased down next to Hillary. “If I don’t talk to Mrs. Talbot, then I can make up the rest of the story. A lovely girl, a handsome groom, a simple wedding. And she’s wearing your dress.”

  “And your dress.” Hillary started for the entrance. “You missed your calling, Charlotte. You should’ve written romance novels.”

  “It’s not about romance, Hillary. It’s about life. Who doesn’t want to be loved? To be safe? To have a place called home and family.” Was that what she wanted so desperately? To be safe? To have a home with a family? Charlotte had never framed her fear with words before. Was that why she harbored doubts about marrying Tim? Because she wasn’t sure her heart would be loved with him? Or that home meant family? Katherine sure didn’t see her fitting in.

  “Sounds like you want perfect love, Charlotte. The kind that doesn’t mess with your heart or your fears. Let me tell you, that love doesn’t exist. Let’s say we walk through those doors and find that neither of the Talbots has recollection of the dress. Know nothing about it. Do you know they’ve been married seventy-two years? Seven decades plus two. That’s twice your age and then some. Maybe we don’t find another woman who wore that gown or find out how it got in my parents’ basement, but we will find someone who knows how to love. It’s that kind of love that’ll drive out your fears. Not the kind you think you’ll find by running and hiding.” Hillary shoved her shoulders back, navy square. “Now let’s go.”

  Without a word, Charlotte followed. A young, dark-haired resident assistant met them and escorted them down a long hall, past the TV and dining rooms, to Thomas and Mary Grace Talbot’s door.

  “Are they expecting you?” He knocked lightly. “Mary Grace? Thomas? It’s George. You have visitors.” He twisted the knob.

  Around the opening door, Charlotte spotted Mrs. Talbot, thin and lost in her sweater and slacks, moving across the room with her cane. “Let them in, George.” Charlotte’s heart swelled with expectation. Mrs. Talbot smiled, and Charlotte recognized the aura of the younger beauty in the photograph. “Come in, come in. Thomas, our guests are here.”

  George quick-stepped across the room, offering aid to a frail man coming from the bedroom. “Darn legs giving me fits. Don’t get old, young ladies.” He wagged his finger, bending to sit in his rocker-recliner. “It don’t pay. It don’t pay. I’m good with the Lord . . . don’t know why He won’t come get me. Ain’t no use to Him no more down here.”

  “Except to keep me company.” Mrs. Talbot moved back toward another chair, George lending a support hand. “You’d miss me if you went on to glory, Tommy.”

  “Sweetheart, I wasn’t planning on going without you. You’ve been with me through it all. The spoils are yours as much as mine.” His spotted, veined hand dropped over the side of his chair and grasped hers. “Now, what can we do for you young ladies?” The light in Thomas’s eyes was kind. Wise and patient. Charlotte loved him at once. If he suffered from dementia, it hadn’t surfaced today.

  “I’m Charlotte Malone, Mr. Talbot. This is Hillary Warner.”

  “We go by Thomas and Mary Grace around here.”

  “I’m the one who spoke to you on the phone,” Hillary said, half rising as Mary Grace started to exit from her chair. George had gone, and it wasn’t clear what the older woman wanted. “Can I help you?”

  “There’s hot coffee brewing in the kitchen. Can you bring it ’round? I’d do it, but by the time I shuffle there and back, it’ll be dinnertime.” Her laugh denied her age.

  Hillary moved toward the kitchen, pointing to Charlotte. “Start the story.”

  Charlotte angled a bit more toward the couple, leaning on the arm of the sofa, meeting Mary Grace’s eyes, blue and clear as a southern summer sky.

  “I found a wedding dress.” The air of the room shifted. Charlotte’s eyes watered with unbidden tears. “In a trunk I bought at an auction.”

  “So, you found the dress?” Mary Grace’s fingers remained linked to her husband’s. “The silk one with the satin skirt, pearls about the waist, and the shimmer of gold thread.”

  Hillary darted out from the kitchen, a coffee cup in each hand. “Yes, that’s the one. Who takes cream and sugar?”

  “Black over here.” Thomas raised his shaking hand.

  “One dollop of each for me.” Mary Grace scooped an invisible spoon through the air, her spirit, her youthfulness, threading through Charlotte.

  “Charlotte?” Hillary said.

  “Water for me.” Caffeine would only jack her up. Her nerves were buzzed enough from the excitement and trepidation of this meeting. “Mary Grace, you know about the dress?”

  “Surely. I wore it for my own wedding.”

  “Prettiest bride Birmingham ever saw,” Thomas said, clear and strong.

  “Hush, Thomas.” Mary Grace took the cup Hillary handed her. “He still plies me with sweet nothings. Tell me, what do you do, Charlotte?”

  “I . . . I own a bridal shop in Mountain Brook.” Mary Grace wore the dress. Charlotte reached for the water Hillary offered. The cool ceramic cup felt good against her hands.

  “And you found my gown.�
�� Mary Grace smiled, then let it fade. “But that gown is not to be sold. It must be worn by the one who finds it.”

  “Well, yes, you see, Mary Grace, I think I’m the one to find the next bride.” Charlotte brought the mug of water to her lips and took a sip. “Perhaps someone will come into my shop and I’ll know she’s the one.”

  “You’re the bride.” Mary Grace pointed at her, slow and deliberate, almost like she was poking something invisible and buoyant.

  “Told you,” Hillary whispered out the side of her mouth.

  “Hush.” Charlotte slid to the edge of her sofa cushion, fixed on Mary Grace. She’d help her understand. “My job is to help brides get ready for the biggest day of their life. It’s my gift, you might say. I’m good at what I do.” Even to her own ears, her argument sounded shallow. Who was she kidding? She had no idea why she redeemed the dress.

  “I’m sure you are, but that gown has never been for sale. It’s been gifted from one bride to the next.”

  Hillary froze with her coffee mug in the air. “But I found the trunk in my parents’ basement.”

  “I know.” Mary Grace rocked gently in her chair. “I left it there for you.”

  “You left it there . . . I was ten years old.” Shock and surprise blended over Hillary’s angular face.

  Charlotte could see that Hillary still hadn’t completely settled the issue of Joel in her heart, so she moved the topic away from the dress for a moment.

  “Thomas, I hear you were a preacher.”

  “Yup, yup, fifty-two years. Preached the gospel of the kingdom from Maine to Hawaii, down on into Mexico and Guatemala. Up to Canada and Alaska.”

  “He still preaches,” Mary Grace said. “To me and all the residents here. Our poor cleaning lady gets a sermon every week for sure. And the man who brings our groceries is about to get born again, I know it. Then there’s our dear George who insists he’s an . . . what’s he again, Tommy?”

  “Agnostic.”

  “Yes, that’s what he says he is. Imagine, believing in nothing. What hope is there in that?”

  “Exactly. If you got good news, you best tell it.” Thomas laughed softly. “Don’t make no sense to be quiet.”

  “He’s a gifted preacher,” Mary Grace said. “He led many a lost soul to the foot of the Cross. Why, there was the time we were preaching in a tent out in the middle of a Kansas prairie and—”

  “Mary Grace, where’s my coffee?”

  She picked it up from the table between them and handed it to him. “It was hotter than anything that summer and the flies were just thick as could be. Let me tell you, no wind was sweeping down the plain that night. But the folks came out to hear the preaching.”

  “Most folks didn’t have TV in those days.” Thomas sipped his coffee and set it back down. “It was right after the war and the country was ready for some good news. A message of hope.”

  “But the heat just melted folks right in their chairs. Hand fans were just a-going, then Thomas started preaching and fifty words into his message he suddenly stopped.” Mary Grace pressed her palms against the air, her eyes on her husband. “He stood right in the middle of the stage, spread his hands, tipped back his head, and closed his eyes.”

  Mary Grace’s story stirred a bubbling sensation spreading in Charlotte’s chest. The Talbots spoke like young, energized believers. No sign of fading. Of dementia.

  “There Tommy remained, center stage, arms spread, face toward heaven, and he said in the most even, calm, but oh-so-sure voice, ‘Lord of heaven, who calmed the seas and rebuked the storm, I ask for Your mercy on these humble folks who drove for miles and miles to hear Your Word. Please send us a cool, gentle rain.’”

  “Some folks on the front row snickered.” Thomas shook his head.

  “Yet he didn’t let it bother him or break his concentration,” Mary Grace said. “Time ticked on. Thomas didn’t move, and nothing happened.”

  “The sweat under my shirt started soaking through. I’d just put my entire reputation and ministry on the line with that crazy request.”

  “So, what’d he do? He requested it again.” Mary Grace popped the air with her lightly fisted hand. A don’t-you-just-know gesture.

  “Just in case the folks in the back wanted to snicker too.” Thomas and Mary Grace told their story like a well-danced waltz.

  “‘Lord,’ he said, ‘Master of the wind and the waves, Creator of all things, Lover of our souls—’”

  “If you’re going to go down, go down praising His good name.” Thomas raised his hand, waving toward heaven.

  “‘Send us a cool, gentle rain,’” Mary Grace finished.

  “The chairs were creaking,” Thomas said. “Men were clearing their voices, tugging on their sweaty collars. Babies cried and mamas tried to cool themselves by waving fans.”

  “It was the longest minute of our lives, waiting to see what Thomas, or God, would do. Then . . .” Mary Grace paused, eyes sparking. Charlotte leaned toward her, hand gripping her water cup. Hillary hovered close. “Then the tent shook a bit.”

  “The air stirred.”

  “And the sweetest cool breeze rushed right under the tent, around our chairs. Through people’s hair. You could see the ends flutter.”

  “It smelled like new mown grass. Folks rose to their feet, started praising. Just when their voices hit a crescendo, the softest rain pitter-pattered on the top of the tent. It rained the rest of the night and all the next day.” Thomas sat back, a smile on his lined face, his coffee cup shimmering in his hand.

  “I tell you,” Mary Grace said. “There were no atheists in the crowd that night. We had a ton of folk who gave their hearts to the Lord. Even had a couple of healings. Remember the boy with polio, Tommy?” Her dark eyes sparkled. “Threw down his crutches, snapped off his brace, and ran around the tent like a freed man. His daddy finally caught him and let a doctor in attendance examine him. He determined the boy had a whole new leg.”

  “A boy was healed of polio?” Hillary set her coffee down with a snort. “Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I’ve been a nurse for almost forty years. I’ve never seen anyone healed of anything like polio.”

  “I see. So your faith is based on your experience? What you’ve seen? Won’t get you very far.” Thomas was no longer an old man. He spoke with authority. “Without faith it’s impossible to please God.”

  “Thomas, please.” Mary Grace squeezed his fingers, gentling her way into his sentence. “It was a bona fide miracle, medically proven. Now, darlings, what was it you wanted to know from us?”

  Yes, back to the dress. Charlotte cleared her throat and smoothed her hand over her Malone & Co. skirt.

  “Mary Grace, Hillary found this picture in a box of her parents’ things.” Charlotte indicated Hillary should pass over the picture of the Talbots with her parents.

  “On the back it has a date,” she said. “The day my parents bought the house from you.”

  “Oh my.” Mary Grace pressed her small, spotted hand to her chest. “That was so many years ago.”

  Thomas put on his glasses and leaned in to see the photograph. “Who’s the young, beautiful lady I’m standing next to?”

  Mary Grace chortled. “I was in my late thirties and dreading turning forty, thinking it was so old.”

  “Bet you’d trade now if you could, wouldn’t you, love?” Thomas said.

  “In a gnat’s breath.”

  Maybe they’d want to trade with Charlotte or Hillary, but Charlotte wanted to trade with them. Even for a moment. To know what it felt like to love for seventy-two years. To tell a story in perfect harmony. To still hear she was the prettiest bride in Birmingham.

  “You’re with my parents. Lindell and Arlene Saltonstall.” Hillary moved over to Thomas, who held the picture. “They bought the house from you in ’57. I was ten. I had an older brother. We called him Shoop.”

  “Hillary, you were the young girl I left the dress for.” Mary Grace sat back, sighing, and closed her
eyes. “Tell me, were you any relation to the Saltonstalls who owned the mines? My father worked their mines for thirty years.”

  “My great grandfather was one of the brothers. But my grandfather, Paul Saltonstall, didn’t want anything to do with the family mines. He went in another direction. Wanted to be in engineering.”

  As Hillary spoke, Mary Grace tipped her head back. Her eyes fluttered closed.

  “Mrs. Talbot?” Charlotte started to get up. Was the woman all right? Thomas didn’t seem alarmed. Or very awake himself.

  “Dear, call me Mary Grace.” She opened her eyes. “I was just remembering my father. So, Hillary, tell me, did you wear the gown?”

  Hillary flowed with the stilted conversation. “Yes, yes, I did.”

  Charlotte could hear Hillary’s heartbeat in her words.

  “I married my first husband in that dress. Six months later he was killed in Viet Nam.”

  “Oh dear, I’m so sorry.” Mary Grace worked her way forward, out of her chair. She reached for her cane, steadied herself, and moved to the small breakfront drawer. When she worked her way back to her chair, she held a photo.

  Through the reflective light, Charlotte could see the smiling, newly married Talbots.

  “This is Tommy and me on our wedding day.”

  Charlotte held the picture, a touched-up black-and-white. An artist had brushed a pink hue on Mary Grace’s cheeks. Reddened both of their lips a bit. But there was no mistaking her beauty and his handsome youth. And she was wearing the dress.

  “We met in elementary school. I fell in love with him on the playground.”

  “She was the preacher’s daughter and I wanted nothing to do with her.”

  Thomas rocked in his chair and Mary Grace’s eyes had closed again. Charlotte glanced at Hillary. If they didn’t find out about the dress in the next few minutes, they might not find out at all. At least not today.

  “Mary Grace.” Hillary moved to kneel by her chair, squeezing her hand. Charlotte guessed she was half checking to see if she was awake and half checking her pulse. “How did you get the dress? Was it made for you?”

  The older woman sat forward a bit. Her shaking hand reached for her coffee. “I was given it by the woman who wore it first.”