The Hope Dress

by Roz Denny Fox

  Dory brushed aside the possibility. “Tomorrow I’m picking her up to shop for material to make Kendra’s and Roy’s Halloween costumes. She asked me to find out if Rianne needed a costume, as well. Sylvie already loves Rianne, and it’s a very good sign that she’s looking out for your daughter’s welfare. I have no problem selecting the three hardest costume patterns in the book. Between sewing them and finishing the dress, and with the choir starting to rehearse for the Christmas production, I predict Ms. Sylvie will be far too busy to ferret out our plans.”

  * * *

  SYLVIE ARRIVED HOME from her shopping trip to Asheville with Dory. Her arms were filled with bolts of black and orange fabric. Kendra and Rianne both wanted to be witches. Roy, Dory insisted, had his heart set on being a character from his favorite animated movie. That pattern might challenge even her expertise with needle and thread, Sylvie thought, as she paused to scoop up her ringing phone.

  “Is this Sylvie Shea?” asked a female voice. Sylvie braced herself for a sales pitch and prepared to hang up, even though she said, “Yes, I’m Sylvie.”

  “Fabulous! You’re a difficult woman to track down. My name is Julie Kerr. I’m editor in chief of Bride’s Delight magazine. We’re located in Chicago.”

  Sylvie dropped the bolts with a bang. “I love your publication. You feature the most beautiful wedding gowns!”

  “I think we do, too.” Julie chuckled. “Glad to hear you agree. That’s actually why I’m calling. I’m putting together a special issue featuring Christmas brides. I recently returned from New York where I gathered names of promising new gown designers. Two boutiques placed your name high on their lists. Trudy Levine explained what happened with your partner, Sylvie, but I’d like to see anything new you might have.”

  “I have nothing, I’m afraid. I moved home and quit designing.”

  “What a shame. You have nothing original at all? I’m prepared to fly to...where is it you are...North Carolina? I’d bring a photographer. My aim in this issue is to simulate actual weddings. I’ve already done two. The designers wore their gowns themselves and rounded up friends to play the groom and attendants. I provide any necessary props like flowers and candelabra. The Christmas issue boosts careers almost as much as our June bride collection. But...if you have nothing made up, I’ll keep you in mind for next June.”

  A silence ensued. Julie eventually said, “I’m sorry to have taken your time, Sylvie. Jot down my number, why don’t you? Perhaps you’ll have something for our June issue. We shoot that in March.”

  “Wait. I have one dress. An original. My best work, I’ve always believed. How...how long would I have before you need to shoot photos? The dress still requires some work. I am toying with maybe trying to break into design again....”

  “Let me grab my calendar. How much work, Sylvie?” Julie named a Saturday afternoon in mid-November. “Sorry, but that’s my last possible weekend to fly a whole crew in and still make my deadline.”

  Sylvie stretched the phone cord around the corner so that she, too, thumbed through her calendar. “That date’s okay. I plan to raffle this dress off during our church bazaar. It’s the following week, in our church basement. I’m fairly confident no one’s booked a wedding for that Saturday, since I spoke with our pastor about displaying the gown in the chapel starting on the Friday, in fact.”

  “Even better,” Julie purred in Sylvie’s ear. “Having a minister in the photos, holding an open Bible, adds so much authenticity. So, we have a verbal agreement? If we do, I’ll get back to you after I firm up all arrangements on my end. Can you supply people to be in the shoot? I require signed release forms to allow their pictures to appear in Bride’s Delight. Parents need to sign for any kids. Like a ring-bearer and oh, say, two little girls to act as flower girls?”

  “I have two in mind,” Sylvie murmured. “I— How can I thank you enough, Julie? You’ve called me at a time when I’ve reached a crossroads in my life. Do you provide information on designers? I mean, if potential brides express interest in your featured gowns?”

  “Absolutely. We run a page at the back giving designer names and how to contact them. Be prepared to have your phone ring off the hook in January.”

  Sylvie laughed. Her heart lightened for the first time in weeks. After hanging up, she hugged herself and waltzed into her bedroom to inspect the gown. Unable to contain her joy at this sudden windfall, she raced back down the hall, picked up the phone and called her mother. She made similar calls to Carline and Dory. “I need your help, guys,” she pleaded. “This may be my last chance to see if I have what it takes to break into a very closed field. I think I’d be able to work from home.” She took a breath. “Dory, I’m thinking of Kendra and Rianne as flower girls. But...Joel would need to sign a release to have her appear in the magazine. Please, would you ask him?”

  “Syl, how long are you going to make that poor man grovel?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. He hurt me, Dory. I loved him.”

  “Don’t you still? A little bit, at least? Come on, Sylvie, I’ve seen how often you look at his house when I come to pick you up.”

  “He could’ve told me. I’d have forgiven him if he’d done that, Dory. I thought what we had was special. Joel encouraged me to dream again—something I couldn’t do after New York. I feel so much more for Joel than I did for Desmond. Can’t you understand how much I hurt, Dory?”

  “I understand you just used the word feel, not felt, to describe what’s in your heart for Joel. We know he hurt you, Sylvie. The family believes it’s the last thing he ever wanted to do. All I’m suggesting is that you consider giving him a second chance.” Dory hung up then. Sylvie held the phone against her breast for a long time. Carline had mentioned seeing Joel talking and laughing with Melody Pritchard outside the post office the other day. What hurt worse than his betrayal was knowing it might already be too late to offer forgiveness. Maybe he’d written her out of his life. Rianne rarely asked Sylvie over to the house anymore. At first it’d been almost a daily occurrence.

  Panic began to set in as she considered the task she’d taken on. The dress needed more faux diamonds hand-stitched on one entire half of the underskirt, so they’d wink through the featherweight tulle in the glow of candlelight. She had three Halloween costumes to construct for kids who’d be devastated if she didn’t produce them on time. In addition, someone needed to twist people’s arms to give up a Saturday afternoon and stand around for what could be a boring photo shoot. That sounded like a job for her charming, persuasive mother.

  It took more effort to convince Nan Shea to help than Sylvie would’ve thought. But, maybe it was understandable. Her mother had stood by twice and listened to her cry her eyes out over hopes and dreams gone awry. What if she believed Sylvie would fall on her face again? That possibility only served to strengthen Sylvie’s resolve to satisfy her obligations and see this last-ditch effort succeed. The proof—whether she had what it took to be a wedding-gown designer—would be in the pudding, as Grandmother Mary Shea used to say.

  Sylvie threw herself into sewing every night. She barely broke for anything, and left most of the details of the photo shoot up to her mom and sisters. So much so, she gave Julie Kerr her mom’s phone number as the prime coordinator for the project.

  Sylvie did decorate her house for Halloween. All the kids in town counted on her to have her porch fixed up and looking spooky. She wore a witch’s costume and served cold cider and hot doughnuts to anyone venturing this far out of town. She steeled her resolve to meet Joel face-to-face if he brought Rianne trick-or-treating, as he surely would.

  She assumed they’d come in a group with Dory’s two. Rianne had said Joel intended to walk with Grant and the kids.

  The night was cold and crisp. Fall was upon them. Sylvie’s trees had shed and a permanent smoky haze lingered in the air from burning fireplaces. The doorbell rang as Sylvie dipped out the first batch of doughnuts. She still had to toss them with cinnamon and sugar.r />
  Racing to the door, she was totally unprepared to greet a ruddy-faced Joel peering back. His breath clouded in the cool night air. Rianne popped out from behind Sylvie’s stack of pumpkins and shouted “Trick or treat!” Sylvie’s throat worked convulsively. Time seemed to stretch and her voice failed her.

  Joel laughed, the laugh Sylvie missed so much she ached at the memory. “Don’t you look like the Wicked Witch of the East?” he said lightly. “I must admit I’ve seen you looking better.”

  That broke the spell that gripped her. Sylvie hugged Rianne and delivered her most practiced cackle. “Come, my pretty, I have food and libations in the kitchen.”

  Joel followed Rianne through a maze of hanging spiderwebs, dangling bats and leering skeletons to a room transformed into a witch’s den. “This is so cool,” he exclaimed. “I guess I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again, Sylvie. You’re a woman of many talents.”

  The Mercers stayed only long enough to partake of cider and melt-in-the-mouth doughnuts. After Joel’s abrupt departure, Sylvie felt as though the joy had seeped out of the room. As though something fantastic had gone out of her life. She vowed right then to sit down with Joel after the wedding shoot. After she’d auctioned off the stupid dress. If there was the tiniest chance they could clear the air and start anew, Sylvie wanted the opportunity.

  The days after Halloween turned blustery. It was good to be inside by a warm fire, sewing. She didn’t surface for more than a week.

  A day prior to Julie Kerr and crew arriving, Sylvie finished the gown. She’d also made matching long, green velvet dresses for Rianne and Kendra. She’d long since settled on a Christmas theme for the mock wedding and conveyed that to her helpers. Nan said once that Julie wanted real flowers. Her mom asked Sylvie’s preference. “Carline said you used to talk about having a winter wedding yourself. If this was a real ceremony, what flowers would you want?”

  “That’s easy,” Sylvie said, seeing the chapel in her mind. “Nothing but green pine boughs dotted with bright green Christmas balls tied with white satin ribbon. For flowers, I’d fill the dais with fifty or sixty ice-white poinsettias.”

  “Sounds simple enough,” Nan said. “I’ll send Jeff and Rob out to cut boughs. Poinsettias ought not to be a problem this time of year.”

  “Mom, I’ve never asked. Who did you guys rope into standing in as groom? If you say Buddy Deaver, I may call Julie and renege on our deal, I swear.”

  “I’m not positive, honey. The groom is Carline’s bailiwick. I know it’s not Buddy. Last name I heard bandied about was Mason Walker. He’s home on leave from the air force. The girls swear men in uniforms have universal appeal.”

  “Oh. I haven’t seen Mason in a while. I guess he’ll do,” she said listlessly.

  “You don’t sound overjoyed, Sylvie. What’s wrong?”

  “No...noth...ing, Mother. It’s all pretend. Mason’s not very tall, is he? Maybe I’d better plan on wearing white ballet slippers.”

  “No. No. Heels, I think, Sylvie. The boy’s shot up. Must be what the air force feeds him. Six foot, they tell me. You don’t want to look like Mutt and Jeff.”

  Sylvie had a hard time picturing the guy she remembered as a half-pint growing so tall after high school. “All right, Mom. Heels it is. I haven’t heard back from Julie since you and she started communicating. I’m supposed to be at the church and dressed by three o’clock, right? Are you collecting Rianne, or is Dory coming by for her? She can ride with me.”

  “Sylvie, stop worrying. Nervous as you are, you’d think this was a real wedding.”

  “Don’t you dare share this with anyone, but...it almost feels like it’s real.”

  They signed off then. Sylvie was surprised her mom didn’t have something snide to say in response to her confession. She must be slipping. Or else she accepted that the wedding vigilantes had finally had their first failure.

  Saturday, Sylvie drove to the church alone. Parking, she carried her dress in a side door the pastor’s wife had promised to leave unlocked. Sylvie couldn’t resist peeking into the main sanctuary. The sight took her breath away and brought tears to her eyes, which she quickly wiped away. The place couldn’t have looked more like the setting she’d envisioned so often. Drawing back, Sylvie closed the door tight and fanned a hand in front of eyes threatening tears again.

  Her mother rushed through the door, followed by her sisters. Their opportune arrival drove away the last vestiges of melancholy gripping Sylvie. Their teasing laughter, and the children’s excitement at the prospect of being part of a big production, was infectious. “Are you sure Julie Kerr’s plane landed on schedule?” Sylvie asked for the umpteenth time.

  “Yes, honey,” Nan said, setting a crown of entwined white rosebuds on Sylvie’s smooth hair. “Haven’t you heard all that bumping in the next room? That’s the camera crew setting up. Smile, honey. This is going to be your finest hour.”

  Dory hugged her for luck, then Carline did. They each held Sylvie for a long moment. Their dresses were ones Sylvie didn’t recognize, because she’d truly had no time to sew bridesmaids’ gowns. However, they couldn’t have been more fitting if she’d chosen them herself.

  “We’re going out now, Sylvie, so Julie can arrange us up front the way she wants us to appear in pictures. We’ll take the girls and Roy.” Dory handed her son a white pillow on which two glittering wedding bands were tied.

  “Wait, guys. You’re leaving me to walk out there alone?”

  Nan stopped at the door. “Your father will be here in a minute to escort you. That was Julie’s idea. She wants her photographer to capture your expression as you approach Reverend Paul. This is about giving an aura of reality.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know. Sure, I guess. I don’t know why I’m nervous. But I am.” The next thing Sylvie knew, she stood by herself—but not for long. Her father walked in from outside, bringing the sting of fresh, cold air. “Sweetheart, you’re beautiful.”

  “Stop, Daddy, you’ll make me blush or cry.”

  “No tears. Brides are supposed to blush.” Rob flung open the door at the rear of the chapel and crooked an arm. “Ready, princess?”

  Grateful for his solid support, Sylvie slipped her arm through his and donned a smile as they walked through the door. Her feet abruptly stopped. The pews overflowed with people she recognized. Friends from town. The chapel pews were full.

  Her dad patted her hand. “You didn’t suppose a secret like having a big Chicago magazine come to our town wouldn’t leak, did you? As well, this gown has created a sensation. Everyone in town’s been dying to have a look.”

  She shook her head as they turned the corner and stepped onto the white runner. Somehow, she hadn’t expected music, either. But the wedding march brought everyone in the church to their feet.

  She and her dad were nearly down the aisle before Sylvie glanced left, right or ahead. When she did, her knees almost gave way. Mason Walker didn’t occupy the groom’s spot. The very last man Sylvie expected to see—her neighbor and still the only man who owned her whole heart—stood waiting. Love shone from Joel’s eyes. At his side, in the role of best man, stood Brett Lewis.

  “Daddy?” Sylvie faltered. She much feared she sounded like she had as a child, asking for her father’s guarantee that all was right with her world.

  “Joel loves you, baby. He arranged this. Julie Kerr is his friend. Her offer is legitimate, but so is Joel’s. If you look honestly into your heart this minute and swear you can’t marry this man—a man your mother and I believe would lay his life on the line to make you happy—I’m prepared to speak up when Reverend Paul asks if anyone knows just cause why you and Joel shouldn’t be joined in holy matrimony.”

  Rob urged Sylvie forward to a point where Joel’s love and that of his daughter’s were reflected on their shining faces for her and all their friends to see.

  Rising on tiptoe, Sylvie kissed her dad’s leathery cheek. “So, this is real? I’m getting married today?”

 
Rob nodded, still gripping her damp, trembling hands. “So is a second chance at your career, Joel’s gift to you.”

  She smiled, swept up the full skirt of a gown it’d taken her nearly six years to complete and left her father. Sylvie ran the final steps down the slippery satin runner and launched herself into the waiting arms of her groom. “I do, I do, I do,” she cried.

  “So do I,” Joel answered gruffly, tears flooding his eyes.

  “Me, too,” interjected Rianne from the side.

  The confused pastor held up a hand. “Wait, everyone. We haven’t reached that part of the ceremony.” He said it twice before pandemonium ceased and the congregation stopped clapping and shouting. Tears appeared in the eyes of almost every person in the room, except for Julie Kerr’s cameraman. He took in the scene through a wide-angle lens and captured the very real moments on film. It would be the shot mounted in the white leather wedding album. And the photo that would appear on the cover of Bride’s Delight magazine. The same one would sit on Joel and Sylvie’s mantel. A picture destined to catapult Sylvie Shea Mercer’s wedding-gown design business into high gear.

  At a meticulously planned reception later that evening, Grant Hopewell was overheard muttering to Jeff Manchester, “Gotta hand it to the city boy. He topped our romantic gestures by a mile or more.”

  Of course Joel acted smug. His eyes never left his wife, who talked animatedly with Lester Egan, his editor. Only Joel knew that his bride and his old boss were discussing a possible joint cartoon strip featuring newlyweds tackling dual careers at home.

  “True, he topped us,” Jeff lamented, tipping his glass to the newlywed. “I knew Joel was a force to be reckoned with when he brought in a pro ball player for our festival ball game. With a devious mind like his on our side, I’ll bet we can finally surprise those three Shea women next Valentine’s Day.”

  Rob Shea walked up, entering their tight huddle. Clinking his glass around the circle, he sipped before remarking, “Ahem. Make that four Shea women—and the fact that you need to gang up on them will remain our little secret.”