The Wedding Dress

by Rachel Hauck

  “No, ma’am.” Tim followed her along a back hall that curved like a hideaway under the stairs, alongside the kitchen, then burst into a bright, windowed library. His stomach dropped again at the sensation of standing on treetops.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I saw Charlotte Malone up here not too long ago.” Cleo leaned against her desk, crossing her ankles, folding her arms. “Lovely girl.”

  “I want to know about Colby Ludlow.” Tim walked the perimeter of the library. The adjacent walls on his left were shelves, each one loaded with leather and gilded books.

  On his right, the wall was a gallery of photos. In the center was a picture of Emily in her wedding gown. He stopped and stared.

  Charlotte. How had he missed it? The resemblance . . .

  “She’s lovely, isn’t she?” Cleo said. “That’s Emily at the time of her wedding in 1912. She was twenty-two.”

  “She’s beautiful.” Clear, serene eyes held steady for the photographer. Her dark hair was piled in a high pompadour and crowned with a lacy veil.

  “The story goes she didn’t want to wear this wedding dress. She thought it was too bulky and heavy.”

  “But she wore it anyway.” This was not the dress Charlotte found in the trunk. Not with the high collar and tight sleeves. Emily’s hands were folded on her lap and a large diamond solitaire adorned her left ring finger. On her right hand she wore an oval stone set in diamonds. He leaned closer, wishing the image were in color.

  “You were asking about Colby?” Cleo walked down the line of pictures and portraits, pointing to one near the end. “This is Colby Ludlow, Daniel and Emily’s grandson. Emily’s son, Daniel Canton Ludlow, was his father. He died at Normandy when Colby was a kid.”

  “Do you know about this picture?” Tim passed Cleo the shot of Phoebe Malone with Professor Ludlow’s Geniuses.

  “Professor Ludlow. Yes, indeed . . . Colby was tenured at University of Alabama, Birmingham.” Cleo flipped the picture over. “Back in the eighties he took a sabbatical, but I didn’t realize he’d worked at Florida State.”

  “Is that him? In the middle?”

  “It is. Where did you get this?” Cleo crossed the picture gallery to a framed piece near the end. “This is Colby on his fiftieth birthday.” She held up the four-by-six Tim found in the shoe box. “It’s him. About the same age, I’d say. He has those Canton eyes.” She handed Tim the picture. “Where’d you get this again?”

  “From a box. It belonged to Phoebe Malone. Do you know that name?”

  “Should I?”

  “Her daughter is Charlotte Malone.”

  “The bridal boutique owner? Your ex-fiancée?”

  “One and the same.” Tim pointed to Phoebe in the picture. “That’s her mother.”

  “Okay.” She laughed. “How does Phoebe Malone being Charlotte’s mother connect her to Colby Ludlow?”

  “I wonder if . . .” Tim hesitated. Cleo didn’t seem up for crazy today. “Did you know Charlotte found a wedding dress in the trunk she bought from your auction?”

  “Interesting . . .” Cleo walked around behind her desk. “Is this your way of asking me where the trunk came from, Tim? We get items from all over the south for the auction. But we do keep an inventory list.” Cleo worked the mouse, leaning down to view the monitor. She typed something and scanned the screen. She frowned and took a seat. “I’m not finding a trunk of any kind sold at the spring auction. Are you sure?”

  “Charlotte bought it here. Was mad about it because she didn’t want or need an ugly old trunk. The lock was welded shut and we had to saw it open.”

  Cleo straightened, her expression pinched. “You say she found a wedding dress inside?”

  “Yeah, a pretty nice one. The auctioneer told her it was made in 1912.” Tim perched on the upholstered chair across from Cleo. “She’s since learned about two other women who wore the dress.”

  “Oh my . . . it can’t be . . .” Up and in motion, Cleo tugged a set of keys from her slacks pocket, opened a narrow closet, disappeared inside, and came out with a picture frame in hand. “Is this the dress?”

  Beneath the glass was an old newspaper print, grainy and faded, of Emily on the back of a horse, clinging to a dark-haired man. She laughed with her head back, mouth wide, joy spilling out of her. Tim nearly felt her emotion vibrating against his ribs.

  She was wearing the dress. The vibration around his heart faded when a gut check warned him to keep quiet. He’d said enough. Maybe too much?

  “Tim, tell me. Is this the dress?” Cleo tapped the picture. “It’s satin and silk with pearls around the waist. The skirt is layered with swags. There’s a V cut at the hem in front.”

  “I’m an architect, not a seamstress.” Tim stood, backing up. “Thanks for your help, Cleo. I need to get going.”

  “Not so fast, buddy. Why are you asking about the Ludlows all of a sudden? Wondering about a trunk sold at the auction? You’re hiding something.” Cleo circled him, blocking the door. “Emily Canton was supposed to marry Phillip Saltonstall, of Saltonstall Industries.”

  “I know the Saltonstalls,” Tim said.

  “But on their wedding day, she changed her mind, and instead of marrying Phillip, she ran out of the church, hopped on a horse with Daniel Ludlow, and married him later that day. Unfortunately, all we have is this picture.” She offered up the grainy newspaper image. “When she was alive, Emily claimed she didn’t know what happened to this dress. Oddly enough, we don’t have the dress she’s wearing in that wedding picture either. But what estate wants a portrait of the matron’s wedding wearing the wrong gown?” Cleo stared at Tim. “Know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, that’s too bad. And the heirs? To the Ludlow estate?” Tim inched toward the door.

  “All gone. Colby was the last.” Cleo cat-walked after him. “The foundation is the heir.”

  “He never married?”

  “He did. Married a Woodward girl but they didn’t have children. In the late nineties they divorced and she moved to Florence to be near her sister’s family. Colby hired me to manage the estate after his grandmother died. Our mothers were friends,” Cleo said. “When Colby died, a board of trustees took over but kept me on to oversee the day-to-day operations and administer the foundation.”

  “What if an heir showed up?” Tim landed his hand on the doorknob.

  “Like fell out of the sky? Or emerged from the woodwork?” Cleo cradled the picture against her chest and snorted. “There is no heir, Tim. I don’t know what you’re up to with this inquiry, but we searched for an heir after Colby died. Even if one did pop up, the estate is in the hands of the trustees. Besides, Tim, the Ludlow history isn’t of biblical proportions. There are people alive in this city who knew Daniel and Emily and Colby. Trust me, if there was an heir, we’d know about it. The Ludlow line has ended, sadly.” Cleo marched to the closet, her footsteps confirming her assertion—there is no heir—and returned the framed newspaper image to the dark shelves.

  “What happened to Colby?” Tim said. Maybe he was imagining it, but every time he looked at the picture with Phoebe and Professor Ludlow, he saw Charlotte. “He retired from UAB and what?”

  “Played a lot of golf. He lived the life he wanted.”

  “Was he a good man?”

  “As good as any man can be. He was generous, kind, decent,” Cleo said. “You know, Tim, if Charlotte has the gown Emily was wearing on the back of the horse, it belongs to the Ludlow Foundation. It also belongs to the city and the civil rights museum. Emily wore the first wedding dress in the south made by a black designer. Got herself arrested for it too. We’ll need it returned.”

  “Arrested over needle and thread and a few yards of fabric?”

  “Hard for us to imagine, but yes, back then they took the separate but equal law seriously. So if you know where the gown is . . . you best do right by me and bring it back.”

  “Thanks again for your help, Cleo.” Tim headed for the door, regretting his decision to come here. “
I need to get to my meeting. I’ll let myself out.”

  The last person he needed to do right by was Cleo Favorite. The first person Tim Rose needed to do right by was Charlotte Malone. And figure a way to prove Colby Ludlow was her father.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Charlotte

  Charlotte rounded the corner from her office into the showroom, the Lifestyle section of the News in her hand. “Dix, we’re at the tipping point. The article on Tawny’s wedding is fantastic.”

  But instead of finding Dixie in the middle of the shop, she found the man in purple.

  “Hello.” Charlotte stopped. “You again.”

  “The dress is yours, you know,” he said without so much as batting an eye.

  Charlotte folded the paper and walked to the sales counter. “Why don’t you just tell me who you are and your connection to the dress?”

  “Have you tried it on?”

  “No, and frankly I don’t intend to try it on. I’m not getting married. But I’ll find the right bride for it. Not that it’s any of your business.” The sales counter created the perfect barrier.

  “But you are my business, you see.” His gaze, the same intense polished blue, seemed to root around in her heart, turning over her foundation stones.

  The ones that said Charlotte Is All-Sufficient. Charlotte Doesn’t Need Anyone. Charlotte Is Immune from a Broken Heart.

  She couldn’t look at him. Not long anyway. She felt restless, like she was standing in the midst of holiness, and if she stood for one second longer, she’d implode.

  Or worse, break down in tears.

  Yet, in the midst of the swirl of heat and chills expanding in her chest, she was profoundly at peace.

  “How can I be your business? You don’t know me. I think you should leave.”

  “All right, I’ll go.” He backed toward the door. “Just remember, the dress is yours.”

  “I don’t think anyone is going to sue me for it.”

  “The dress is yours.”

  The shop phone rang, a soft, muted melody. When Charlotte answered, a sharp voice hit her ear.

  “This is Cleo Favorite from the Ludlow Foundation.”

  “Cleo, how are you?” Charlotte glanced back at the purple man. But the spot where he stood was empty. Now where did he go? How did he enter and exit without a sound?

  “I want to see the dress.”

  “What dress?” Charlotte scanned the room and carried the portable phone with her as she moved up the stairs. He was gone.

  “The dress you found in the trunk you purchased at our auction in April.”

  “How did you know I found—”

  “Is it at your shop?”

  “No, my loft. Cleo, how did you know I found a dress?”

  “Does seven o’clock work for you?”

  “Um . . . yeah, I think.” Talk about being bulldozed. “No, wait, Cleo. Eight is better. What is this about? Who told you I found a dress in the trunk?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you. What’s your address? I’ll Google the directions.”

  When Charlotte hung up, her emotions were taut and torqued. What was going on? First, the weird little purple man appears. “The dress is yours.” On the heels of him vanishing, literally, Cleo calls demanding to see the dress.

  Charlotte came around the sales counter. “Sir? Little man?” She walked the shop. He wasn’t in the fitting salon or the storeroom. Not in the kitchen or her office. “Sir? Man in purple . . .” He wasn’t upstairs. He wasn’t in the bathroom.

  Out the front door, Charlotte stared down the sidewalk and across the street. Not a sign of him anywhere. The wind whistled down the lane and gooseflesh raised on her arms. Crossing the showroom, she stood where he’d stood and breathed the air he’d breathed. A soft, subtle but distinct spice hung in the air just above her nose.

  “Char, I’m back.” Dixie emerged from the kitchen, her thick heels clomping, her Dolce & Gabbana swinging from her elbow. She unwrapped a Tootsie Pop and shoved it in her mouth.

  “That weird man was here. The one with the purple shirt and the Nikes.” Charlotte raised a foot, motioning with her fingers.

  “This is getting creepy. What’d he want?” Dixie disappeared into the storeroom and emerged wearing her Malone & Co. suit jacket. “Did you see the paper? The reporter did a great job on the story. The picture of Tawny is so good. You’re a genius at dressing brides, Char.” Dixie stopped behind the sales counter and picked up the newspaper Charlotte left there.

  “He said the dress is mine.”

  “Who? The reporter?” Dixie popped open the paper, the lollipop jammed into the side of her mouth, her cheek puffed into a perfect round ball.

  “No, Dix, stay with me.” Charlotte popped her hands together. “The man, the weird one. Purple dude. He said the dress in the trunk was mine.”

  Dix made a face. “Of course it’s yours. When was that a question?”

  “I don’t know, but he didn’t say it like, ‘Hey, the dress you found in the trunk is yours.’ Of course it is. I bought the trunk. But he said it like, it’s yours.” Charlotte lowered and dragged out her voice. “Then about a minute after he said that, Cleo Favorite from the Ludlow Foundation called asking about the trunk and the dress.” She held up the portable phone. “She wants to come over at eight o’clock tonight.”

  “How’d she find out there was a dress?”

  “That, my friend, is a good question.” Charlotte reached under the sales counter to place the phone on the receiver. “But the weird little man insisted on one thing. The dress is mine.”

  The last word of her sentence sent a hot tingle over her heart.

  At five ’til eight, Charlotte let herself into her loft, fumbling to juggle her purse, iPad, a bag of groceries, and the key. The bag of groceries hit the floor, spilling bread, apples, oranges, and a bag of baked Goldfish over the tile.

  “Need some help?” Tim slid past her, stooping to gather the fruit, tucking it into his arms, a folder jutted between his fingers. His chestnut-blond hair hung long and loose about his face. A light beard dusted his chiseled cheeks.

  “What are you doing here?” What was with today—July 19—Charlotte woke up an ordinary girl in an ordinary day. Just the way she liked it. But ever since Purple Man appeared, she felt a shift in her spirit. Like the morning she went up to the mountain to pray.

  “I was wondering if you’d care to grab a bite of dinner?” Tim dropped the apples and oranges one by one into Charlotte’s fruit bowl on the counter. When he turned to her, he raked his hair away from his face.

  “I can’t.” Charlotte averted her gaze. She loved Tim’s hair and the fullness of his lips. If she looked at him too long, her heart would start to pound, and she’d get all breathless and girlie. “Someone’s stopping by.” Charlotte opened her pantry and set the torn bag on the shelf. Didn’t even bother to take the items out. She shoved the door closed. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

  “Don’t have a girlfriend.” He hopped up on the counter, setting the folder beside him. It was his thing, sitting on her counter. He had a way of just making himself at home.

  “Ah. Well, these things happen.” When Charlotte looked at him, he flashed his pearly whites.

  “How about dinner after your company?” He shrugged, holding up his hands. “Before your company?”

  “Can’t. Don’t know how long he’ll be here.”

  Tim’s confidence faded a bit. “Do you have a date?” He slid off the counter.

  “No, but it was worth faking it to see your face.” Charlotte crossed the kitchen, heading for her room. “It doesn’t feel good, does it?”

  “I never went out on you, Charlotte.” Tim reached for her as she walked by. “Hey, where are you going?”

  “My room. To change. Do you mind?” Charlotte headed down the hall. When she closed the door, she fell against it, expelling the air from her lungs.

  A smile pinged her lips. He was jealous, wasn’t he? When he thought she
had a date. So Mr. Cool and Confident wrestled with the green-eyed monster.

  Charlotte changed into jeans and a pullover, then wriggled her toes into her favorite worn flip-flops.

  As she went to her bathroom, a wave of gold light caught her attention. The dress. Still displayed in the corner. The silk skirt shimmered with light and the gold threads beamed. The waistband of pearls flowed around the gown like an incandescent river.

  Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed. “Hey, magic dress. Cleo’s coming to see you. What does she know that I don’t? And who’s your friend, the man in purple?” Charlotte leaned to listen. “Hmm . . . well, maybe you don’t know either. After all, Hillary barricaded you in the trunk for forty years. And oh, Tim’s here. I know. What’s that about? You remember him, don’t you? He helped redeem you from the trunk.” She slicked her fingers along the creamy folds of the skirt. “Can you keep a secret?” Charlotte laughed low. “Of course you can, look who, rather what, I’m talking to. I’m in love with Tim. I shouldn’t be, but I am.” She flopped back on the bed. “With just about every part of my being.”

  For a long moment, Charlotte stared at the ceiling. Then at the dress. Why couldn’t she be over Tim? And why did inanimate objects have stories they can’t tell?

  She pulled her hair back, then flipped off her bedroom light and went back to the kitchen and to Tim. It was after eight and Cleo would be here any moment.

  “So, what else is going on, bubba?” Charlotte clicked on the dining area lamp, then went for her iPad. Friend, treat Tim as a friend. As a bubba. “How’s the firm? You and David doing well?”

  “The firm’s fine.” Tim slid down from the counter. “David is fine. So, who’s coming over here?”

  “If you’re here when she comes, I’ll introduce you.” Charlotte flipped Tim a faux smile and set her iPad on the table. “Or maybe you already know her.”

  “Cleo Favorite is coming here, isn’t she?” Tim propped his hands on his belt with an exhale.

  “How did you know? Tim, what’s going on?”