The Wedding Dress

by Rachel Hauck

  “I’m not proud, Charlotte.” Noelia’s voice trembled with watery emotion. “Just being honest. When Colby and I divorced, I realized how selfish we’d both been, but it wasn’t my place to tell him to get in touch with you. Or my place to tell you about Colby.”

  “But it was your place to hide my mama’s letter? To make sure he didn’t get in touch with Mama or me?”

  “When I was his wife, yes. I protected what was mine. But not a month went by I didn’t think of you.”

  Charlotte walked around the coffee table. Sitting made her ache. But her legs were putty and her knees barely held her steady. “I’m not sure what to do with all of this . . . I . . .”

  “I sent you some money last year.”

  Revelation dawned. Pieces fell into place. “The hundred grand,” Charlotte whispered.

  “Just something . . . just something . . .” Noelia brushed the first flash of tears from her cheeks, supple and slightly lined. She looked younger than her seventy-something years, but her shoulders rounded with the burden of her story. “After the divorce, I moved to Florence to be near my sister’s children. I spent a lot of money on a house too big for me and spoiling my nieces and nephews. One day while looking for some bank papers, I found your mother’s letter. I thought, mercy, where did the years go? So I looked you up on the Internet. I didn’t expect to really find anything, but I discovered your shop. I felt proud for you. So I had my bank wire a hundred thousand dollars to you anonymously.”

  “Then I’ll pay you back.” Now that Charlotte knew where the money originated, the sheen was off the prize.

  “You’ll do no such thing.”

  “I don’t want your guilt money.”

  “It’s not guilt, Charlotte. I could hardly spend away my guilt, or even pretend to buy affection from a girl who didn’t even know me. It was a gift. Hardly enough to compensate growing up without Colby.” She smiled. “He’d have liked you.”

  Charlotte stared out the window, over a lush summer lawn, a heaviness rising in her chest. A hundred thousand dollars. A gift from her father’s wife. She’d trade it all for a chance to have met the man face-to-face.

  On the edge of the manicured grounds of the Ludlow Estate, Charlotte paused for a pure, deep breath. Blue sky, summer trees, sunlight bouncing off the sparkling windows.

  Three months ago she’d driven up here to think, to feel closer to heaven. To Mama. Little did she know the ridge was burdened with secrets.

  The mountain was quiet except for the wind. Charlotte made her way up the walk to the house and let herself in, standing in the expanse of the house her great grandparents built. The house where Emily had raised her grandfather.

  The house where her father had played.

  “Charlotte, what are you doing here? Did you bring my dress?” Cleo’s walk hammered across the gleaming, spotless foyer hardwood.

  “I’d like to see the library.”

  “All right.” Cleo eyed her for a lingering moment before turning with a quick motion. “I’m working on the subpoena for the dress.”

  “What’s the delay?”

  “The judge wants more proof.” She ruffled. “Seems just a picture isn’t enough.”

  Charlotte pulled two photos from her purse as she broke into the bright, white library, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing a breathtaking view of the valley.

  “I thought you’d like to see these.” She offered the pictures of Mary Grace and Hillary in the gown. “Emily gave the gown to Mary Grace, who left it for Hillary. If a picture is proof of ownership, what are you going to do with these?” She pulled out Mama’s letter to Colby. “And this certified letter from my mother to Colby asking for child support? His wife gave it to me.”

  “Oh mercy, what in the world . . .” Cleo walked to the window, reading the letter in the light. When she finished she turned to Charlotte. “So you’re going to take this beautiful estate from the city? Claim your inheritance? It’s probably too late. Besides, you can’t manage this place, Charlotte. Once it becomes private, the public funds go away.”

  Charlotte laughed low. Poor Cleo. She had too much of her identity in her job. “I don’t want this place, Cleo. All I want is the dress. The legend is that—”

  “What legend?”

  “The legend that the dress fits every bride who is supposed to wear it. It’s never been altered.” Charlotte walked along the wall of pictures, trying to grasp the faces and names that somehow belonged to her.

  She paused in front of Colby. An image from his professor days. She could see something of herself in his eyes. “Do you think he’s rolling over in his grave because his daughter didn’t go to college?”

  “Most likely . . . Charlotte, Noelia said you are Colby’s daughter?”

  “Yes, she did.” Charlotte stopped in front of the picture of Emily in her wedding gown. “This is the one she was going to wear?”

  “When she was to marry Phillip Saltonstall.”

  Charlotte turned to Cleo. “Did you know Hillary Saltonstall wore the dress in 1968? Phillip was her great-uncle.”

  Cleo buttoned her lip, her chest deflating. Her fight waning. Charlotte smiled. God had a way of weaving a lovely tapestry.

  “Well then. What are you going to do with the dress, Charlotte? Sell it? You can’t do that . . . it’s . . . it’s not right.”

  “Sell it? No, Cleo, no. I’m not going to sell it. I’m going to wear it.”

  Tim

  Tim swept the last of the dust and grime from his garage. The hollow emptiness of the three-car space made him feel a bit empty. Out of sorts, maybe. But unbelievably free.

  He leaned on the broom handle, peering toward the sunset that ribboned through the trees. With or without Charlotte, it was time to grow up. Maybe when and if he had kids, he could take up moto-cross again.

  When he’d loaded his last bike into the truck bed of his final customer, the tightness in his chest released and he understood how long he’d been hanging on to something God had asked him to surrender.

  He was free. He thought racing made him free, took the edge off, allowed him to burn off stress and energy, be adventurous. No. Racing kept him in bondage. He couldn’t not race. Other factors in his life had gone cold, waiting on back burners, for him to get around to them.

  Like taking up his guitar again. Giving more attention to his career. Settling down. Marriage. Time with his friend, Jesus.

  A truck motor hummed in the driveway. Tim looked up as David cut the engine and stepped out.

  “How’s it feel?” he asked, making his way toward the garage.

  “Like I lost fifteen hundred pounds.”

  “I can’t believe you did it.” David smacked Tim on the shoulder. “Good news. The downtown commission loved your designs for the remodel of the old Saltonstall offices and furnace, including the bronze memorial to convict labor.”

  Tim smiled, clapping his big brother a high five. Good. It was all good.

  “And . . . ready for more good news? Brody Smart called on my way here. There’s some new developments going on west of the city. He wants us to bid. Said unless we submit children’s drawings, we have the job. They want to give it to us.” David did a funny jig around the garage. “Finally, our ship is coming in.”

  Tim put the broom into action, unsure of the stream of emotion in his chest. One act of obedience and God opened up heaven. His garage was empty but his heart was full.

  “Want to come to the house for dinner? Katherine is making sloppy joes and tater tots. Your favorite.”

  Tim shook his head. “She’s going to have to get used to the idea that she’s only married to you, Dave.”

  “Don’t be like that, Tim. You’re a brother to her. She wants the best for you.”

  “If she did, then she’d have loved Charlotte.”

  David stared toward the street, his hands on his belt. “Are you going after Charlotte again?”

  “I don’t know. Got to see if she’s still talking to me after telli
ng her Colby was her dad.”

  “I’m with you if you do, Tim. Whatever you need.”

  The brothers chatted a few more minutes, then David checked the time and said he had to get going.

  Tim set his broom in the corner, flipped on the radio, and pulled a lawn chair to the center of the garage, facing the neighborhood.

  Space. Glorious space. He was ready for whatever God raced his way next.

  His neighbor zipped past on his motorcycle, beeping his horn, waving. Tim answered with an easy wave. He didn’t envy the man at all. Not one tiny bit.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Charlotte

  In the warm lamplight of her bedroom, Charlotte slipped the gown from the dress form. In ten seconds she’d know.

  Did the dress fit her? Was she the next bride?

  “Charlotte, what’s taking you so long?” Hillary banged on the door.

  “Do you need help?” Dixie said.

  “Hush up, give me a minute.”

  She’d showered. Donned clean undergarments. Then approached the dress. Slowly. Carefully. The dress held the hearts of three other women. The history of a hundred years.

  It wasn’t until Charlotte stepped into the skirt that she realized how much she wanted to be a part of their story, of the gown’s history.

  Please fit. Charlotte hesitated as she drew the skirt over her hips. “What if it doesn’t fit?”

  “Oh, merciful me, it’ll fit, Charlotte.” Hillary. Without doubt. “You think all this happened just so you could give it to someone else? It’ll fit. Trust me.”

  “If it doesn’t, you’ll find the perfect bride, Char. It’s what you do.”

  “Shush, Dix, what kind of thing is that to say? She is the perfect bride.”

  “Well, if she’s not, she’ll find one. Hillary, you’re freaking her out.”

  Charlotte grinned at the banter on the other side of the door, slipping her arms gently into the sleeves, and settling the bodice on her shoulders. She loved Hillary like a sister, no, like a mother, already.

  Gathering the dress in the back with her hands, Charlotte held her breath. Would it fit?

  The waist of pearls pulled against her middle, hugging her ribs. Perfectly. It fit. The dress fit. I won’t cry, I won’t cry.

  But her heart raced and when she tried to speak, tears weighted her words. “It fits, y’all. It fits. Come button me up.” The bedroom door crashed open.

  “I can’t believe you doubted me.” Hillary went right to the back buttons.

  “Oh, Char.” Dixie stood back, a wide smile on her face, a sheen in her eyes. “It’s gorgeous. You are gorgeous.”

  “But how? Emily had to wear a corset. Mary Grace said she was thin. Oh, Hillary, the waist is going to be too tight.”

  “Charlotte, stop fretting and start thinking of what you’re going to do when you see it does fit.” Hillary hooked the rest of the buttons in silence. Only the sound of the women breathing.

  Charlotte watched in the mirror as the dress formed to her figure, the bodice accenting her curves. The scoop neck nestled just under her collarbone. The pearls at her waist rested in a neat row, not strained or taut. The bell shoulders tapered to fitted sleeves and dropped just below her elbow.

  “Here, put on these shoes.” Dixie set down a pair of cream pumps from the shop. “The heel is about what Emily would’ve worn.”

  “All buttoned.” Hillary angled around to see Charlotte’s face, gently gripping her shoulders. “Exhale,” she whispered.

  When she did, her ribs rested against the sides of the dress and every fiber settled into place.

  The mirror reflected more than a woman in a beautiful gown. It reflected Charlotte’s heart. And instantly she knew . . . she’d risk her heart again.

  “I have to go.” Charlotte yanked her purse off the bedroom floor.

  “Go where?”

  “After love.” Out of the loft and down to her car, it was all so clear to her heart and mind. She didn’t belong to the dress. She belonged to Tim. That’s what the dress had been trying to tell her all along, since that day up on the ridge.

  Carefully settling in behind the wheel, she fired up her car and fifteen minutes later plus one close call with a cement truck, she whipped into Tim’s driveway.

  The garage door was open and he sat in the middle of an empty space, his hair flowing in long soft strands about his face, his bare feet sticking out from a pair of a creased jeans.

  “Tim?” Charlotte tossed her keys into the driver’s seat as she stepped out, holding the gown’s hem off the ground.

  “Charlotte.” He jumped up, making his way to her. “You’re wearing the dress?”

  “Yes, it . . . it fit.” She passed him for the garage. “Tim, where are your bikes?”

  “Sold them. Finally listened to that still small voice in my soul.” He fixed his gaze on her. “Why are you wearing your great-grandmother’s wedding dress?”

  She could tell he liked saying that—great-grandmother. “Because . . . I . . .” She hadn’t fully worked out what she’d say once she saw him. She was driven by her need to see him.

  Tim pointed at her, skidding sideways toward the door to the house. “Don’t move. I’ll be . . . just . . .” He opened the door. “Wait.” And disappeared inside. His footsteps thundered through the house and back again.

  He burst through the door, his eyes sparkling, dancing, as he beelined for Charlotte. Without a word or hesitation, he bent to one knee and reached for her hand.

  “Marry me, Charlotte. Please, marry me.” He slid his grandmother’s ring onto her finger.

  “This is why I’m here, Tim. Wearing my great grandmother’s wedding dress.”

  When Tim picked her up and whirled her around, Charlotte let out a laughing shout, tipping back her head and letting joy echo in the garage.

  Tim buried his face against her neck, and for a moment, their heartbeats felt intertwined.

  “The ring fits, the dress fits.” He lowered her feet to the garage floor. “We fit, babe. We fit.” He kissed her, his hands around her back, holding her to him. “Man, Charlotte, you smell good. You feel good.”

  “Hey, friend Tim?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tell fiancé Tim I’m happy to have him back.”

  “Charlotte.” He jerked his head up, holding her face in his hands. “What time is it?”

  “Six thirty.”

  His breath on her face created tingles on her toes. “Marry me. Now. Tonight. You have a dress. A beautiful dress. I own a tux. Our license is still good.”

  “Tim, seriously? Now? Tonight?” Charlotte peered toward the August evening. The day still had a lot of light left. “Who will do the ceremony?”

  She loved the glint in his eyes. “Leave it to me. What do you say?”

  “Yes. Yes!” Her lips covered his, light and trembling at first, then with growing confidence and passion as he drew her into himself and poured his love into her.

  It was the breeze that made her look up, a change in the texture of the unseen, a change in the texture of her heart.

  She was ready. Charlotte moved with firm footing around a stand of beech trees and onto a moonbeam path. A pearly, full moon glowed over Red Mountain, burning back the curtains of night.

  A midnight wedding.

  Charlotte gripped her bouquet as a quintet began to play the “Hallelujah Chorus.” Another round of joy swelled in her middle. Excitement tingled down her arms and legs. Her heart trembled with love. Her mind rested in peace.

  “All right, Charlotte, are you ready?” Cleo popped out of the shadows, the pearls around her neck rivaling the moon’s essence.

  “Yes . . . I’m ready.” Her escorts came from behind Cleo. Her sisters-of-the-dress, Hillary and Mary Grace.

  The song on the strings intensified. The breeze ushered past and for a slight moment carried the fragrance of jasmine and cedarwood. Mama’s scent. Charlotte closed her eyes and inhaled.

  “I must say, Daniel,
Emily and Colby would be proud.” Cleo’s typical bold voice wavered with emotion. “As am I.”

  “My mama would be proud too.” Charlotte inhaled one last time, holding on to the fading scent.

  “She sure would.” On her left, Hillary slipped her arm through Charlotte’s. “I know I am.” She kept her gaze forward, her back straight. Charlotte pressed her cheek to Hillary’s shoulder, seeing the slight tremble on the woman’s lower lip.

  “This might be the second-best day of my life,” Mary Grace said. She stood on Charlotte’s right and linked her arm tightly around the bride’s.

  “Mine too.” Hillary straightened Charlotte’s veil—Emily’s veil—and kissed her cheek, waving Cleo aside. “Let’s get this girl married.”

  The music mounted. In the array of white string lights and candles, Charlotte saw Tim and David rise from the chairs and stand in front of the kneeling altar along with a proud, smiling Thomas.

  Tim peered down the aisle at her. In the muted light, Charlotte could see the sheen in his eyes. On the waves of flickering flames, she felt his radiating heart.

  He’d done this. All of it. Called Cleo. Rallied his family and friends. Within hours, a wedding and reception had been planned and executed.

  When Tim called Hillary, she jumped into action, drove up to Kirkwood, and stirred Mary Grace and Thomas to attend. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” they’d said.

  A midnight wedding.

  Brother David contacted a Rose Firm client who played in the Birmingham Symphony. He in turn gathered a string quintet—two violinists, a violist, and two cellists—who were wholly inspired by a spontaneous, midnight nuptial.

  Rosined bows drew “hallelujah, hallelujah” from the strings. Charlotte started down the aisle toward the circle of white chairs, toward Tim. Toward love.

  The dress swished about her legs. The empire waist hugged her heart. Tears gathered in her eyes. Beside her, Hillary sniffed and cleared her throat while Mary Grace let her tears flow freely without shame.

  “I never thought . . . oh, my dear, sweet Jesus, I never thought . . . at ninety-four years old, my, my . . .” she whispered.