The Wedding Dress

by Rachel Hauck

  A saucy grin tripped a light his eyes. “Darling, I’ve been saying that for a while but we can’t”—he gazed around—“the officers might come upon us.” He raised her hand and slid her diamond down her finger. “I believe this belongs to you.”

  “I mean let’s get married, Phillip. I don’t want to wait until spring. Let’s get married on New Year’s Eve. Let’s end 1912 in each other’s arms.”

  “Are you sure? What about Europe for our honeymoon?”

  “We’ll go to Hot Springs or Florida. In the spring we’ll sail to Paris. Doesn’t it sound lovely, Phillip?”

  “It sounds divine. New Year’s Eve you’ll become my wife. I’ll speak to your father and mine.”

  “What about our mothers?”

  Phillip wrapped his arm around her, kissed her forehead, and escorted her out of her cell. “That, my sweet chickadee, is a chore for you.”

  She laughed. A hearty, free laugh. “You send me to the wolves while you handle the lambs, I see.”

  “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

  As they rounded the corner, Daniel stood in the corridor, a basket in his hand. His eyes roamed from Emily’s face to Phillip’s. Without a word, he turned on his heel and left.

  Phillip shook his head. “Such an odd fella,” he said, chuckling, mocking.

  “Do you . . .” Emily cleared the clutter from her voice. “Know him?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I met him.” Phillip removed his arm from around Emily. “Out on the town . . . you know how men do.”

  “Phillip.” Emily slowed her step, touching his arm. “Might I ask a question and request a true, honest answer?”

  “And risk your anger with a lie?”

  “Once we are married . . .” Keeping her eyes averted, she brushed her hand over his jacket. The fine wool released the thin residue of a woman’s perfume. “There’ll be no more Emmeline. Right?”

  “Emily!” Phillip jerked back, shoved aside his blazer, and tugged on his waistcoat. “What prompted this line of questioning? We’ve been over this. I feel lost how to answer. Why do you want to marry me if you believe me unfaithful? Was it him?” Phillip pointed to the door. “Did that cretin fill your head with lies?”

  “Just be clear and honest, Phillip. Are you being unfaithful? Have you been with Emmeline?”

  “Might I ask you a question?”

  Emily exhaled. Phillip seemed to always answer her questions with a question. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Will this be the last time I spring you from jail? I had a time settling Dad down once he heard the news. We phoned the paper to remove your name and paid a pretty sum to assure there will be no photograph. I don’t want our wedding to be overshadowed by the sight of you in a paddy wagon.”

  “I never intended to be arrested in the first place. I merely went to Taffy’s for a fitting.”

  “What did I say to you about going to the colored section of town?”

  She held her answer, tired of arguing the same thing over and over.

  “Emily, darling.” Phillip clasped her chin. “We are Saltonstalls. We do not go to people, they come to us. We do not do business with coloreds.”

  “Ever?”

  “There are plenty of white men and women in need of jobs. Any job I’d hire a colored to do I can find a poor white to do for the same price.”

  “Except in the Saltonstall mines. How does your theory work there, Phillip? The colored convicts seem to get the job done. You don’t mind finding ways to extend their sentences so they can continue to work without pay, now do you? Then a colored worker is just fine for your needs.”

  “We’re giving convicted criminals jobs and skills, so when they are released, at the proper time, they can get hired for pay.”

  “When was the last time Saltonstall mines hired a colored ex-con for a paying job?”

  Phillip bit his bottom lip and gazed at the ceiling. “Five minutes ago I could’ve made love to you in a jail cell. You were a rose in my palm.” He peered down at her. “Now you’re a thorn in my flesh.”

  “Then shall we return to the original question?”

  Phillip scooped Emily into his arms and, bending his lips to hers, kissed her with passion and fire, leaving her breathless and nimble. When he raised his head, she swallowed a moaning yearn for more.

  “Would a man who kissed you like that be burning away his desires with another woman?”

  “I reckon not.” Truthfully, Emily had no idea. She had much to learn about men. Her man. But for the moment, the heat of his ardor was enough to convince her. Phillip Saltonstall belonged to her. And her alone.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tim

  He’d wrecked before. Crashed and burned. Broken bones. Cracked ribs. Knocked his noggin. But never broken his own heart. No sir, he was careful about that precious beating thing.

  The image of Charlotte backing out of his hospital room as Kim hovered over him sped around in his mind without stopping. Without mercy. Tim winced. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. But to save Charlotte would have meant humiliating Kim, and she’d done nothing wrong—her attentiveness was in response to his own overtures.

  Tim tugged on his jeans, jammed his feet into his Nike slides, then slowly slung his shirt over his shoulders. Ten days after the accident, he still hurt. Pain beginning in his waist, shot up his torso and down his arm. Sometimes at night he could feel the bone moving under the skin. Or so it seemed.

  The bruising, still evident on his neck, chest, and arms, made showering and dressing a pain and taxed him like a five-mile run. Uphill.

  His entire body was covered with deep tissue bruises. The doctor ordered him home only if he promised to lay low, rest, stay away from work. No driving. And well, no racing. As if he needed to be told. But praise heaven, he could live on his own.

  “Tim?” The kitchen door slammed. “I brought breakfast.” The beams of the remodeled ’20s cottage creaked as if responding to Kim’s familiar voice. “Sugar, are you up?”

  “Yeah, yeah, coming down the hall.” Tim slipped his phone into his pocket and moved slow and steady down the wide passage.

  “You should’ve seen the line at Starbucks,” she called.

  “Yeah? Not surprised. Popular place.” Tim detoured into his office. Since he’d been home, he had more time than was comfortable to think about his life. His choices. His self-wounded heart.

  “But if anyone knows how to work the line, baby, it’s me, Kim Defario.” Each syllable of her name was accented with her snapping fingers.

  “So true. Doesn’t need to be said twice,” Tim called, breathing deep. It hurt to talk loud. He lowered down to his drawing table stool, wincing. He still liked to draw his first ideas and designs by hand. He liked the creative feel of pencil to paper.

  “You coming? I need to go in about a half hour.”

  “Just one sec . . .” Tim ran his hand over his cracked, sore ribs. Man, it was hard to recover from a five-hundred-pound bike falling on top of you.

  He hadn’t intended to take up with Kim. Didn’t even know she was in town until she called, wanting to get together and catch up. Nice and friendly, right?

  Three weeks later she was a constant in his life, and he wondered how he got here, feeling more and more like a heel. More and more like the nincompoop who let go of the tender, beautiful, be-still-my-heart Charlotte.

  Tim slipped his cell from his pocket. No missed calls. No Charlotte. She’d reinforced her feelings about him by not coming back to the hospital after Kim broke in on their tender moment. No calls or texts.

  Tim had sent Jack. But even his charming little brother couldn’t get her to budge. So why did he miss her? What he needed to do was move on, get over her. A gorgeous, loving, intelligent woman just brought him breakfast, so what was his problem?

  His problem? The lingering taste of Charlotte’s lips. The phantom scent of her skin. The light brush of her hair against his cheek. Her sudden laugh that always caught him off guard and
made him laugh. The way her eyes danced with her words when she talked shop—wedding gowns and brides. Tim shuddered. Get a grip, man.

  She was starting to invade his soul like when he’d first met her. She was an unexpected, beautiful thrill that made flying over a motocross track seem like a kiddie ride. Rather than winning a new job for the Rose Firm, he’d spent the days after their first meeting calculating ways to win her.

  He and David had never argued so much.

  “Get your head back in the game, Tim.”

  After two months, he’d proposed. Slept like a baby that night. Felt right. Moving on with his life, growing up. Thirty-two would be forty-two before he knew it and he wanted a wife and children. But as the wedding neared, the stark reality of merging two lives into one turned tranquility into tempest.

  “Hey, Timbo, I’m eating my breakfast, and if you’re not here in sixty seconds, I’ll eat yours too.”

  “Kim, please, since when could you eat two breakfasts? I’ll eat mine and half of yours.”

  Her laugh bounced down the hall. “You know me too well.”

  The nearer he got to June 23, the more he’d panicked. Stuck his head in the sand like a scared ostrich and let go of the best thing in his life.

  “Let me make a quick call.” Tim took his phone from his pocket and dialed the number he’d scrawled along the edge of drafting paper the day before the accident.

  As the phone rang on the other end, he winced and hobbled to shove the door partway closed. He owed his friend Brooks in the county records office another huge favor for pulling the number Tim just dialed.

  He jerked to life when a man answered. “Hello?” Tim said. “Monte Fillmore?”

  “Speaking.”

  “You don’t know me, but I’m Tim Rose and my fia—friend Charlotte Malone used to live with your mother, Gert.”

  “She certainly did. How can I help you?” His businesslike tone told Tim to get straight to the point.

  “I was wondering if you knew her father’s name.”

  “Charlotte’s father? No. I wasn’t that close to her, or her mother. I was married with kids of my own by the time Mom took Phoebe and Charlotte under her wing.”

  “Did your mother ever mention him?”

  “Not to me. Phoebe might have talked about him to Mom, but names and news never made their way to me.”

  “Do you know of anyone else who might know Charlotte’s father? Grandparents? Aunts, uncles?” Tim paced to the window. Beyond the glass, the June day was composed of blue and white hovering over the Birmingham skyline. “Anything left behind when she moved out, or when your mom died?”

  “Don’t know anyone who might have been that close to Phoebe. My mom took Charlotte in after Phoebe died because the girl had no one else. Foster care or an orphanage were her only choices. Can’t think of anything left behind. We did a pretty thorough job of breaking down Mom’s house. Gave away five rooms of furniture, clothes, and appliances. There wasn’t much left. Why do you ask?”

  “Just trying to do a favor for a friend. Thanks for your time, Monte.” Tim hit End. When he swung the door open, Kim stood in the hall, arms folded.

  “You know, she might not want you digging around in her past.”

  “Maybe.” Kim’s eyes—hazel like a hawk’s and twice as intense—bore into him as he headed for the kitchen.

  “Sometimes not knowing is the only way to deal with hard stuff, Tim. You can’t just pop into this woman’s life with, ‘I found your daddy,’ and expect to be her hero.”

  “Never said I wanted to be a hero.” Tim opened the cupboard for a bowl. He felt like cereal. But truth? He did want to be Charlotte’s hero. He wanted to make up for his stupidity in some way. Do something lasting for her.

  “Tim, what’s going on?” Kim leaned against the counter, crossing her long legs at her ankles. Her tailored blouse fit her curves and her slacks hugged her hips. And her heart crawled out of her chest and perched on her arm.

  “We’re eating breakfast. That’s what we’re doing.” Smart aleck. His turmoil wasn’t her fault.

  “Don’t dump your attitude on me.” She went to the table and snatched up her coffee. “I mean, what’s going on with you and me? This? Us?”

  “I think I still love her.” Tim tugged open the fridge and reached for the milk, pouring it over his cereal.

  “You think?”

  “Know. I know.” When he turned, Kim was slinging her handbag over her shoulder. “I never stopped,” he said.

  “Then go get her.” Kindness undergirded the sadness in her voice.

  “She doesn’t want me. And I don’t blame her.”

  “So what was this with me? Rebound?”

  “You came back to town, gave me a call, we started going to dinner.” He peered at her. “Kim, I’m sorry. I never meant for us to be more than friends, but I’ve led you on. I should’ve . . .” He gazed at the milk, twisting on the cap. “I should’ve been up-front.”

  “You sure should’ve, bucko.” Kim’s heels resounded across the kitchen tile. “So don’t be stupid with her, Tim.” The door closed softly as she left.

  Tim opened the silverware drawer and took out a spoon, scooping the first sweet bite into his mouth, a sad wash of emotion for Kim skimming his heart.

  Lord, forgive me.

  But joy. He was still in love with Charlotte.

  Charlotte

  Through June, Charlotte occupied her Saturdays with weddings. Just not her own. She and Dix prepared no fewer than twenty-five brides.

  The best part of it all was Hillary. She came to the shop almost every day. Volunteered to run errands or help with inventory. Refusing all pay or reward. She brought in lunch dishes made in her own kitchen and bonded with Dixie over Dirty Jobs and Mike Rowe.

  “Did you see what he did last night?”

  “You know I did. Right when I was taking a bite of my dinner. I’ll never look at spaghetti the same.”

  On Sundays, she saw Tim from a distance, arriving for the late service as he left the early. She’d park on the opposite side of the parking lot from his truck and scoot into the sanctuary’s side door, but three out of four June Sundays she ran smack into him.

  Hundreds of congregants, and she had to bump into Tim Rose. Usually one or two of the other Roses as well. She’d made every effort—short of being late for church—to miss them.

  Yet, that’s exactly what she did. Missed them.

  Today, the Sunday after her supposed wedding day, Charlotte hurried toward the sanctuary, bleary-eyed, bone weary from wedding month, but grateful to be on her feet and moving.

  She’d dressed seven brides yesterday, June 23rd, burying any threat of her soul remembering it was supposed to be her wedding day.

  The ten a.m. sun burned high and hot from a wispy blue sky. Summer was sitting down hard on its first Sunday, stirring up the crickets’ mournful serenade about the humidity.

  Charlotte skipped up the portico steps when a familiar voice caused her to pause. “Where to for breakfast?” She looked back to see David passing by on the sidewalk, leaving the first service, with Jack and younger brothers Chase and Rudy. The rest of the Roses, Katherine with their two children and Mr. and Mrs. Rose, huddled in the middle of the parking lot.

  Charlotte leaned against the guardrail. What did she want for breakfast? That. To stand in the middle of a family huddle. Or to walk up to the family, stick her head in the middle, and ask, “What’s the plan?” No invitation required. No rejection expected.

  Tim crossed the parking lot in a light, limping jog, his shirttail flapping over his jeans, his hair breezing past his jaw and shining in the sun.

  A Rose by any other name . . .

  He stopped just shy of the huddle and turned toward the church, squinting toward her. Her middle fluttered with the swirl of summer leaves.

  “Hey.” He stepped over to her. “How are you?”

  “Tired . . . tired but good. You?” She smiled because he carried this aura of it�
�s all okay about him. He was both confident and vulnerable. A combo she wasn’t sure her heart could endure. “You look healthier than the last time I saw you.”

  “I feel better than the last time you saw me.” He stopped at the bottom of the steps, hands at his waist. “So, yesterday was—”

  “Busy-busy. Dix and I had seven weddings. Didn’t get home until midnight. I fell asleep in my clothes.” Don’t give him a chance to say it. That today she would’ve been his wife.

  “You look good.” His intonation made her feel warm and admired.

  “I don’t have big bags under my eyes?”

  “Not at all. Charlotte, I’m sorry about the hospital.”

  “What about the hospital? You mean Kim?”

  “The kiss. And yeah, Kim.”

  The kiss? He was sorry about the sweet, tender, passionate kiss? The one that sashayed across her mind without permission whenever her day found a moment of silence?

  “Listen, I’d better get inside. I can hear the music.” Charlotte backed up the steps toward the sanctuary.

  “You want to come to breakfast with us?” He motioned over his shoulder at the clan.

  More than anything. “No, no, I can’t. Better go hang out with Jesus and His friends for a bit.”

  “You sure?” He squinted at her, his brow in a deep furrow. “We can wait until your service is out.”

  “Really? No, I couldn’t ask you to do that, Tim. That hungry huddle over there will turn into an angry mob if you ask them to wait.”

  He stepped forward. “Then I’ll wait.” He waited, breathing deep, his woodsy scent collecting in the air pocket between them.

  “It’s okay. I’m going to worship, then go home and crash.”

  “All right then. Guess I can’t keep a girl from her Lord.” He watched her for a long moment, then, “Oh, hey, how’s it going with the dress? What happened with Hillary?”

  “Pretty amazing.” Charlotte smiled. The ends of her hair waved on the breeze at him. “She did marry Joel in the dress. When he was killed she sealed up the trunk. She also had a picture of her parents with the people they bought the house from and that led us to Mary Grace Talbot, who wore the dress in 1939.”