by Rachel Hauck
“She wants to see the dress. Man, she’s a crafty one.”
“Tim?” Charlotte regarded him, bells clanging, whistles blowing. “Did you tell her about the dress?”
“Sort of. I went up there today. Boy, she works fast.” He smoothed back his hair.
Charlotte walked around to the pencil jar by the phone and dug around until her fingers found a rubber hair tie.
“What were you doing up there?” She passed him the tie.
“Investigating.” He twisted back his hair.
Charlotte sighed. With his hair away from his face, his eyes were blue quicksand. “Investigating what? Are they bidding for jobs? When I was there in April, the estate looked immaculate.”
“I found a picture of Emily Ludlow while I was doing research for a project downtown.” Tim angled back for the folder he’d carried in and removed a picture, offering it to Charlotte.
She glanced. The woman stood in the midst of other ’20s women in big hats and baggy dresses. “What were they thinking with that drop-waist style? But after nearly a century of corsets, I suppose loose and baggy was the way to go.”
“Emily’s in the middle.” Tim tapped the picture.
“I know what she looks like, Tim.” Charlotte frowned. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Did you ever meet her?”
“Emily Ludlow? She was an old lady when I was born.” Charlotte tugged open the fridge for a soda. She handed one to Tim, then took one for herself. “Where would I meet her? Why would I meet her?”
The doorbell rang. Charlotte returned her coke to the fridge. “There’s Cleo.”
“I’m staying.” Tim locked his position in the dining area. “Okay?”
“Suit yourself.” Charlotte cut him a glance, then opened the door. “Hey, Cleo, come on in.”
“Sorry I’m late. My husband insisted on a bite to eat before I came here. I’m full as a tick.” Dressed in a suit and heels, she looked composed and perfect, nothing like a full tick. A black attaché swung from her shoulder. “Hello, Tim. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Didn’t expect to see you either.”
“Must be a lucky day for both of you.” Charlotte stood between them. “The dress is in the bedroom, Cleo. I’ll go get it.”
Just inside the bedroom door, Charlotte paused, listening. What was going on between them? But Tim and Cleo exchanged no words. Gently, she moved the gown and the dress form around her bed and out the door toward the living room.
Cleo gasped the moment Charlotte came into view. “That’s the dress. Tim, you said you didn’t know. My stars, it’s so obvious.” Cleo hovered around the gown as Charlotte set it by the sofa. “It’s like time has never passed. It’s . . . it’s perfect.”
“What are you talking about?” Charlotte looked at Tim. He shook his head slightly, eyes narrowed, as if trying to tell Charlotte something. “Do you know this dress, Cleo?”
“I most certainly do. It belonged to Emily Ludlow.” She unsnapped her attaché and removed a picture frame. Beneath the glass was a yellow, faded, grainy newsprint photograph of Emily Ludlow, head back, laughing, her arm linked with a dark-suited elbow.
And she wore the gown.
“Where did you get this?”
“It’s part of the Ludlow Foundation’s history, Charlotte. This dress has been lost for decades. I asked her once where it was, but she was nearly ninety and she wasn’t quite sure what I was talking about. Or so she pretended. Knowing her, she probably was faking.” Cleo knelt, turning over the hem of the dress, running her finger along the seams. “My goodness, here it is.”
Charlotte bent to confirm the seamstress’s initials. “Do you know what TH stands for? Dixie and I couldn’t figure it out.”
“Taffy Hayes. She was a black seamstress in Birmingham. Born into slavery but freed when she was a baby. Emily wanted her wedding gown made by Taffy, but mercy, her parents and her groom resisted. Her mother had hired a well-known white seamstress, Mrs. Caroline Caruthers. She made the dress we have in the wedding portrait at the estate, but then about five years ago, I found this picture among some old things up in the attic. That’s Daniel’s arm she’s holding on to. The caption says ‘Emily Canton Leaves Church after Wedding.’”
“I’ve heard of Taffy Hayes,” Charlotte said, studying the newsprint. Emily Canton wore the gown. She was the bride the purple man referenced. “She was well-known for her wedding dresses, but only in the black community.”
“Emily was the first white woman to wear a wedding gown sewn by a black designer. There were black washerwomen and seamstresses, but Taffy was a designer. She made this dress especially for Emily. It was scandalous in 1912.” Cleo walked around the gown, fascination rising in her eyes. “We’ve been looking for this gown for a long time.”
“Then why’d you sell the trunk?” Charlotte kept her back to Tim and his shaking head, though his soap and cologne fragrance made his presence known.
“I didn’t sell it, Charlotte. The trunk is not even listed in our inventory.” Cleo tucked the picture back into her attaché. “Can you help me carry the dress down to my car, Tim? Charlotte, I’ll compensate you for the purchase price.”
“Whoa, whoa. Carry the dress down to your car?” Charlotte fanned out her arms and stood between the gown and Cleo. “This gown isn’t going anywhere.”
Now the purple man’s visit made sense. The dress belongs to you.
“I’m afraid it is. That trunk, wherever it came from, was not to be sold at the auction.”
Tim stood beside Charlotte. “Cleo, you didn’t even have the trunk listed in the auction inventory. If I hadn’t come up there today, you’d have never known.”
“But you did come up and now I know.”
“Cleo, I bought the trunk, and its contents, fair and square. It didn’t belong to you before and it doesn’t belong to you now.”
“You’re right, the trunk never belonged to the estate. But this dress belongs to the Emily Ludlow Foundation and the Civil Rights Institute.”
“It belongs to me.” A royal purple wash splashed Charlotte’s heart.
“City ordinance dictates that historical items found on-site belong to the estate. If they are not found on-site but are proven to belong to an historical estate, site, or registry, the item’s ownership reverts to the estate or site.” Cleo fussed with her attaché, producing a collection of papers. “And if none of those strike your fancy, Charlotte, the dress belongs to Birmingham’s Civil Rights Institute for Emily’s groundbreaking move to wear a wedding gown designed and sewn by an African American woman.”
“Come on, Cleo. You’re leaving something out,” Tim said. “The ordinance dictates that historical items revert to the site or to an heir.”
“There is no Ludlow heir, Tim.” Cleo crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “What is your point?”
“Your researchers should’ve done a better job.” Tim nodded, aiming his rakish smile on Charlotte. “There is a living Ludlow heir. And I’m looking right at her.”
Tim
“What are you talking about?” Charlotte peered at him like he’d lost his mind. “I’m not related to anyone. Remember me? The one with one branch on her family tree? I’m especially not kin to the Ludlows.” She flipped her hands in the air without aim, her body swelling with big breaths. “I think you knocked the last bit of sense out of yourself when you crashed your bike.”
“Crashing my bike is what gave me a moment to think about all of this.” He went back to his folder and passed over the picture of Charlotte and her mom. “I called Monte Fillmore to see if he had anything of yours or your mom’s among Gert’s things.”
“Why would you do that, Tim?” Charlotte stared at the picture. “I haven’t seen this in twenty years. Where’d you get it?”
“Monte brought me a box of your mom’s things. From her office. He meant to give it to you, but forgot and . . . anyway, Charlotte, this picture was in it. It was also filled with Ludlow newspaper
clippings. Which I found odd until I saw this.”
Tim passed over the FSU picture. Circumstantial evidence for sure, but it was all he had to make his case. To keep Cleo from walking out of here with the dress. He’d wanted to get to Charlotte before she did.
He’d brought the folder over, thinking he’d invite Charlotte to dinner, warm the waters of their relationship, then tell her Colby Ludlow was her father.
“That’s Mama.” Charlotte tapped the picture.
“Tim, come on, I can’t stand by and let you fabricate a story to this poor girl.” Cleo huffed and strutted in a circle. “You have no proof—”
“Stop.” Charlotte pressed her palms against the air. Against Cleo’s words. “Tim, what are you talking about?”
“Charlotte, I think Colby Ludlow is your father.”
“What? How? He’s . . . he’s . . . old.” Charlotte tapped the picture.
“He was forty-five in ’81.” Cleo blurted. The resident Ludlow encyclopedia.
“You’re saying my mother had an affair with her professor?” She shook her head, handing Tim the picture. “She wasn’t that kind of person, Tim.”
“I’m not trying to impugn her character, Char, but Colby Ludlow taught at FSU one year when he took a sabbatical from UAB. And the picture is yours. Keep it.”
Cleo folded her arms, “I told you so” on her lips. “I knew Colby and his wife, Noelia. She was a fine, classic woman of Birmingham society. Colby was his own man, but an adulterer? I hardly think so.”
Tim sighed and angled his shoulder away from Cleo. She was wearing him thin. “Once I started piecing things together, I made a few calls of my own. Including one to Noelia Ludlow.” Tim passed a slip of paper to Charlotte. On it he’d written Noelia’s name, address, and number.
“You called her? Tim, what? Why? Why are you doing this?”
“When I asked her about Colby’s year at FSU, she sighed. Know what she said?”
“What? What did she say, Tim?”
“She said, ‘You want to know about Phoebe Malone?’”
Charlotte swatted at him. “You’re lying. There’s no way some seventy-year-old woman knows about my mother from 1981.” She tore up the paper and tossed the pieces at Tim. “Just stop. What is wrong with you? What right do you have investigating in my life without my knowledge? Huh?” She slammed around him, clipping his shoulder with hers. But he remained steadfast and planted.
He exhaled and took it. Letting her steam.
“I’ll just be going with the dress.” Cleo dared reach for the back button. Charlotte’s hand clamped down on her arm.
“Stand back. Get your hands off my dress. It’s mine. And if you don’t believe me, hunt down the little man in the purple shirt who sold it to me. He’ll tell you.”
“What little man in a purple shirt?”
“The one who sold me the trunk. At your auction.”
“What do you care about this dress?” Cleo cackled. “You’re not getting married. Even if you were—and boy, Tim, it looks like you escaped this briar patch—you own a bridal shop, Charlotte. Designers were probably begging you to wear one of their gowns. This old one means nothing to you.”
Tim stepped forward and hooked his hand under Cleo’s elbow. She needed to go. Upsetting Charlotte had never been his intention and he could see she was speeding for the edge.
“You’d better go, Cleo.” He picked up her attaché as he swept her across the room to the door. “If you want the dress, you’ll have to get a court order.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.” She shook free of his grip. “You have no proof Colby Ludlow is Charlotte’s father. None. A picture and the supposed testimony of his ex-wife? I’ve got more than that on my side.”
The door slammed. Tim moved back into the living room. Charlotte sank down to the edge of the sofa, staring at the dress.
“All I wanted was to go to the mountain to think and pray. Look what happened.”
“I’m sorry. I thought . . . I don’t know.” Tim brushed his hand over his hair. “When I saw all those Ludlow clippings in the box, it just struck me as odd.”
“You should’ve talked to me first, Tim.”
“Yeah, I get that now. I wanted to do something nice for you, Char.” He perched on the sofa next to her. She smelled like summer. When she turned to him, there was a hint of forgiveness in her eyes.
“I was six or so when I first realized I didn’t have one of those father-man-things in my house. I’d gone on my first sleepover at Gracie and Suzanna Rae’s, and their dad was a firefighter. He took us for a short ride on the fire truck, then for ice cream. For dinner, her mother made fried chicken and biscuits with big tall glasses of the sweetest tea this side of heaven. We were halfway through dinner when Mr. Gunter got up for something and when he walked by Mrs. Gunter, he kissed her and said, ‘Love you much.’ She said, ‘Love you more.’ My little heart started pounding and I watched them with wide eyes the rest of the night.” Charlotte crashed against the sofa cushion. “And I thought, ‘What is this?’”
“Your mom never said a word about your dad? Not even a hint?”
“When I came home from Gracie and Suzie’s, I asked Mom, ‘Where is my firefighter daddy?’ She said my father loved me but was unable to be my daddy. I don’t know, I just accepted it. When I got older, I asked more questions.”
Tim brushed the tears from her cheeks, sorry his gallant act had turned into this.
“Once Mom told me he’d died, then came into my room, apologizing, confessing her lie. She said one day, she’d tell me more. I was ten then and still rather innocent and happy with my life. Mom loved me, took really good care of me. We had so much fun, Tim. The first time I saw an episode of Gilmore Girls, I could’ve sworn the producers lifted the show from our lives.”
“Then she died.”
“I miss her.” Charlotte tipped her head back, dropping her arm over her eyes. “And now I have so many questions only she can answer. Like, why, why, why did she not get along with my grandparents? Why did her mother leave her father? We moved to Birmingham from Tallahassee when I was three and never went back. Only saw my grandpa twice afterward.” She peered out from under her arm. “What did you find out from her? Colby’s wife?”
“All I asked for was her address and if she’d be willing to talk to you. This is where my journey ends and yours begins. But if I’m right, your mom was in love with Colby and she moved here to be near him. Maybe to get support or a chance for him to see you.”
“Oh my gosh, Tim, all the times we picnicked up at the Ludlow estate.” Charlotte sat up, fingers pressed to her temples. “There’s a side service road.”
“I know the one.”
“We’d park, then hike just to the edge of the estate and spread a blanket, eat a bucket of chicken or McDonald’s. Never once did she mention knowing the Ludlows or speak of them at all. Just, like, ‘Isn’t that an amazing house, Charlotte?’ ‘Wouldn’t you like to live in a house like that, Charlotte?’ When I was in junior high, we took a class trip up to the estate for a civics class. We learned”—she faced the dress—“that Emily Ludlow was the first southern woman to wear a wedding gown by a black designer. And, Tim, I grew up to deal in wedding dresses.”
“Yeah, you did. What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know, but . . . but, Tim, why did this dress come to me?”
He cleared his throat. Because she was supposed to get married. But he foiled the divine plan. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
“Because, Charlotte, Emily Ludlow is your great grandmother.”
“My . . . great grandmother. But we don’t really know. It’s all speculation. I’m not sure I want to know, Tim. I’ve learned to live with the life I’ve been given.”
“We all need to know where we come from, Charlotte. We can’t live in a vacuum. You mean to tell me it’s fine for you not knowing? No idea of your family heritage or who might have come before you? That’s got to be an amazing feeling, to be r
elated to Emily Ludlow.”
“Tim, you seem to think I’m missing something I once had. I never had family. Just Mama. That was my world. Yours is brothers and cousins and friends from first grade, racing motorbikes and fortieth wedding anniversaries. I like my solitude. It’s okay. It’s what I know.”
She stooped to pick up the torn pieces of Tim’s note. “What was her name?”
“Noelia Ludlow. Do you have tape?” Tim eased off the couch, poised to follow her directions.
“In the kitchen.”
Together, they stood at the counter and worked the tape.
“I didn’t go looking for this, Charlotte.”
“Then why did you call Monte?”
“Okay, maybe I did go looking for this, but Monte said he didn’t know anything, so I let it alone. Then he brought over the box. I saw the Ludlow pictures. The clippings. The pieces seemed to align.” Between them, on the counter, sat the taped note. Tim inched it toward Charlotte. “I don’t think this was my idea, Char. I think it was God’s.”
She was silent for a moment, her chest rising and falling with her breath. “Why now?”
“How should I know? But, Charlotte, you’re the one who redeemed your own inheritance.”
“I bought a trunk.”
“Charlotte, you bought your great grandmother’s dress. Out of the blue. The idea boggles my mind. It’s incredible.” Tim walked to the door, pulling his keys from his pocket. She stood in the kitchen, watching him. “I was stupid to let you go.” He twisted the knob and opened the door. “This is my way of saying I’m sorry.”
“Some things aren’t meant to be.”
Tim paused in the open door. “But some things are. We just have to be smart enough to recognize them.”
The next afternoon, Charlotte sat in Mary Grace and Thomas’s warm apartment, fragrant with Bengay.
She wished the AC would kick on but didn’t have high hopes. Thomas wore a thick sweater and Mary Grace, a robe and wooly slippers. Breakfast dishes sat on the tables next to their chairs. A church broadcast played on the TV.
Charlotte had been neck deep in a new shipment of dresses, not thinking about Tim, Cleo, Colby Ludlow, and his wife when Mary Grace called.
