The Dress Shop of Dreams (30 page)

“I think a bride should have whatever she wants. But then perhaps you should give yourself time,” Etta suggests. “There’s no need to rush anything.”

She wonders if she should be more direct, if she should tell Milly that she’d be making a horrible mistake marrying a man whose heart belongs to someone else. But Etta worries that, since she’s far from impartial on the matter, saying something would be wrong. Etta has always regarded her role to her customers as rather like Sebastian’s role to his parishioners. She is there to offer objective advice and emotional support. She’s not afraid to say exactly what she thinks and, if this were any other
woman, she would. She’d say that Milly shouldn’t get married, that she should find someone else, a man with an undivided heart, a man who doesn’t also love another woman. But since that other woman is Etta’s granddaughter, it doesn’t seem quite right to say anything. Not directly, at least, so instead Etta suggests and implies, as heavily as she can without compromising her integrity.

“How long have you known him?” she asks. “I think it’s best to wait at least a year before jumping into anything. You want to be sure—”

“I am sure,” Milly interrupts, “and we’re not rushing. When I met Hugh I knew straightaway, before we’d even said a word to each other. And I fell in love with Walt the first time I heard him on the radio—actually, no, when I read his letters. That’s when I
knew
. I would have married him then, if he’d asked.” She giggles. “And then, somehow, I asked him instead.”

“Okay,” Etta says, “but I’m only saying, there’s no need to do it so quickly—”

Milly’s face lights up with a secret smile. Tonight is the night. This time, she’s sure of it. “Well,” she says, dropping her voice to a whisper, even though they are alone in the shop, “I’d like to fit into my wedding dress, so we can’t wait forever.”

Etta frowns. “You’re … pregnant?”

Milly smiles. “No, not yet, but I’m hoping it won’t take very long.”

Just then the music shifts from the slightly melancholic tones of “Since I Don’t Have You” to the sparkling notes of “All I Have to Do Is Dream.” Etta glances up to see Cheryl walk through the door. Grateful for the chance to avoid the sorry situation of Walt’s impending nuptials, Etta leaves Milly at the rack of dresses in every shade of blue—rustling and whispering
to one another of shifting hearts and broken promises—and crosses the purple velvet floor.

“Hello,” Etta says. “How are you?”

Seeing Milly, Cheryl blushes. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mill, I only nipped out of the shop for a moment.”

“That’s okay.” Milly smiles at her assistant, still distracted by the dresses. “Take your time.”

Cheryl beams, then turns back to Etta. “I’ve brought you a gift.”

“You have? How lovely. I adore gifts.”

Cheryl opens her linen shoulder bag, glancing up at the green-blue walls of raw silk that shimmer bright yellow toward the ceiling.

“Changing colors for changing seasons,” Etta says, as if this explains everything.

“Ah, okay,” Cheryl says. She pulls a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string out of her bag. “Anyway, I made this for you. To say ‘thank you.’ ”

“You made it? How perfectly lovely,” Etta says, pulling off the string and ripping off the paper. She holds the picture poem: vines of violet wisteria wind around the words, leaves coiling through black letters. The dresses cease rustling and the music falls silent. Etta reads aloud:

When you speak

I will listen

You will be heard by me.

When you reach out your hand

I will take it in mine

You will be held by me.

While you live

I will be there

You will be seen by me.

Today, tomorrow, and

All the days of my life

You will be loved by me.

“I thought, perhaps …” Cheryl says, glancing down at her feet snug in the deep velvet carpet. “You could give it to the man you love.”

Etta smiles. “How do you know I have one at all?”

Cheryl looks up, her eyes shimmering like the silk walls. “I don’t, it’s just a feeling I have.”

“Well then, you’re clearly a psychic poet,” Etta says. “So, thank you. It’s beautiful.”

Cora ambles along the pavement behind her grandmother. Etta glances over her shoulder and urges her on. They are walking along Trumpington Street, on their way to the Catholic church. Cora slows to a stop outside the 14 grand white pillars and 4 stone lions of the Fitzwilliam Museum.

“I haven’t been in there since I was at school,” she says. “Why don’t we go? I feel like lingering in the Egyptian Room, maybe slipping into a sarcophagus.”

“Stop being so morbid and hurry up,” Etta says, trying to sound flippant and light, as if her heart isn’t aching for her granddaughter.

“I think we should postpone,” Cora says. “I’m not in the mood to meet anyone, let alone a secret priestly grandfather I’ve only just found out about. Can’t we wait for a time when my heart isn’t cracked in half, when I’m in better spirits?”

“And when will that be?” Etta asks, knowing that the last few days have been the worst of her granddaughter’s life but needing to push her on. “If we wait forever you’ll just sink into a pit. I won’t have it.”

She reaches out and begins pulling Cora along with two hands, determined not to let her granddaughter spend any more time than she has to in mourning for lost love. If she made a mistake about Walt, if she got Cora’s hopes up when she shouldn’t have, then she’s more sorry than she can say. But Etta will do everything in her power now to make sure that, before too long, Cora can put it all behind her and get on with her life. Etta desperately doesn’t want her granddaughter to spend a lifetime pining away for a man she can never have. Etta lived that life and she won’t have Cora living it, too.

“You sprung this new grandfather on me too quickly,” Cora moans as she’s dragged along. “I need to think about how I feel and what I’m going to say …”

“That’s the last thing you need,” Etta says, aware of how bullish she’s being but believing that it’s the best way to help her granddaughter right now. “If I leave you to stew in your own juices you’ll shrivel up and die. You need to move on. Meeting Sebastian will help you do that.”

Cora sighs loudly as they shuffle past the fancy French hotel on the corner. She glances in the restaurant window: 28 tables, 118 chairs, meaning 472 pieces of silverware …

“Speaking of which,” Etta continues, “have you decided what you’re going to do with yourself workwise yet?”

“No,” Cora snaps. “I’m taking a bit of a break, okay? Perhaps I’ll have a holiday, go traveling in Asia or some such thing.”

Etta laughs as she pulls Cora into Lensfield Road. “That actually
sounds like a great idea, but you’ll never do it, not in a million years.”

“Why not?” Cora glares at her grandmother. She’s about to say something witty and withering in return but when she glances up at the sky for sudden inspiration she sees the spires of the church and instead holds her breath.

“I was thinking of a summer wedding,” Milly calls out from the kitchen, “the first of August. What do you think?”

“Sure,” Walt says from the sofa, “whatever you want is fine with me.”

The television is on and the opening credits for
Howards End
play. Milly walks into the living room carrying a china bowl brimming over with popcorn. Little kernels drop to the floor as she crosses the carpet.

“If we’re really lucky we’ll get one of those beautiful, breezy days,” she says, “and a confetti of flower petals. It’ll be lovely.” She sighs happily as she snuggles in next to Walt, balancing the bowl on his lap then taking a handful.

“Oops, I forgot the salt.” Milly stands again and hurries back to the kitchen. “Pause the film for me, will you?”

“Yep.” Walt leans over to the tiny desk upon which the remote controls are balanced, picks up the bigger one and points it at the television. “It’s not working.”

“What?” Milly calls. “I can’t hear you.”

“It’s okay.” He reaches for the smaller remote and notices that the desk drawer is open. Glancing inside, Walt sees it’s stuffed full of letters addressed to Milly, the postmark on the top dated only a few weeks ago. Frowning, Walt reaches in and removes a letter. He slides three pages out of the envelope and begins to read.

A moment later Milly steps back into the living room holding a salt shaker. “Oh!” She smiles. “You found them.”

Walt looks up, his face a confusion of shock and pain. “This is a love letter,” he says. “These are love letters.”

“Yes,” Milly says, “so beautiful they should probably be published.”

“What?”

“Don’t you think so? Of course I wouldn’t, they’re private. I only meant—”

“What the hell are you talking about? You’re not even trying to deny it?”

Milly frowns. “Deny what? Why would I deny it?”

“You’re having an affair and—”

Milly’s eyes fill with tears. “What? I know we said we’d keep it a secret; that we wouldn’t talk about it. But it’s not funny now …”

“I know it’s not funny, it’s a bloody shock is what it is.” Walt pulls the drawer open so far that it falls out of the desk and clatters to the floor, scattering letters across the carpet. He jumps up and starts to stamp on them. Milly drops to her knees, grabbing the letters from beneath his feet.

“What are you doing?” she shouts. “I adore these letters, I reread one every day. I fell in love with you through these letters. I—”

Walt stops stamping. “What are you talking about? Me? How could you fall in love with me? I didn’t write them.”

Tears roll down Milly’s cheeks as she clutches an armful of letters to her chest. “Stop! Stop!” she sobs. “I don’t want to play this game anymore. It was silly and romantic before, now it’s just horrible. Please, please stop.”

With great force of will, Walt steadies his voice. “What game? What are you talking about?”

Milly gazes up at him through her tears. “We were writing to each other. We agreed to keep it secret, not to talk about it, just to write—”

“But I didn’t,” Walt says, “I’ve never written you a letter in my life.”

“No, no, no.” Milly shakes her head. She sets the letters she’s holding carefully down on the floor, then picks one up, opens it, pulls out the last page and holds it out to Walt. “You did. You wrote them all. See.”

He takes it from her and reads his name.
With all my love, Walt xxx

“This isn’t my writing,” he says. “I didn’t write this.”

“What do you mean?” Tears run down Milly’s cheeks. “You didn’t mean any of the beautiful, wonderful things you said?”

“How would I know?” Walt asks. “I haven’t read them.”

As the shock of this slowly sinks in—the revelation that not only does Walt not love her in the way she thought, but that she doesn’t love him in the way she thought either—Milly suddenly realizes something else.

“If you didn’t write them,” she says slowly, “then who did?”

“He’s not here,” Cora hisses, as soon as they step inside the church. “Let’s go back.”

“Don’t be silly,” Etta says. “Of course he’s here, he’s expecting us.”

Cora waits just inside the ancient oak door counting 14 pews on each side of the aisle, 168 Bibles, 7 statues of the Virgin Mary, 23 flickering prayer candles in the far corner by the lectern …

“Stop stalling,” Etta says. “Come on.” If it were any other time, Etta would be much gentler on Cora. But Etta firmly believes
in the art of distraction, of distracting the mind in order to help the heart forget. In this instance, a found grandfather is perfect to shift the focus from a lost love, especially a grandfather as special as Sebastian.

After lingering awhile at the statue of St. Francis, Etta glances at her watch and beckons Cora to follow her along the aisle. Reaching the lectern, they hear the hum of voices a few feet away.

“Confession,” Etta whispers. “Let’s wait here.”

She slips onto a pew a respectful distance from the confessional and Cora sits next to her.

“How long will we have to wait?”

Etta gives her granddaughter a sideways smile, ignoring her sullen disposition. Just then, a sudden sharp sob makes Etta and Cora turn toward the confessional, then back to each other with raised eyebrows. A moment later a man hurries out of the booth, past the pew and down the aisle. It’s only when he’s nearly at the door that Cora realizes she’s staring at the rapidly disappearing head of Dr. Baxter. For a moment she’s about to tell Etta, then decides against it, keeping the imprint of his shadow to herself.

Etta nudges her granddaughter. Cora looks up to see a man with thick gray hair and a brilliant smile walking toward them.

“Hello,” Sebastian says.

Etta grins. “Hello.”

As Sebastian briefly clasps her grandmother’s hand, Cora watches them curiously. Etta hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about her history with this man who happens to be Cora’s biological grandfather. Etta only said she loved him once and neglected to mention whether or not she still does. But, looking at them now, Cora would estimate with a probability of 98.7 percent
that Etta is head over heels. She feels a pang of sorrow and regret for her grandmother, since being in love with a priest is about as bad as being in love with a man who is about to marry someone else.

“And this is Cora, my granddaughter,” Etta says.
Your. Our
. She wants to say but now it feels too strange, too sudden.

Hearing her name, Cora looks up to see Sebastian reaching out his hand to her. She stands and takes it.

“It is an honor and delight to meet you,” he says, grinning. “I must say I can’t quite believe it, even as you stand here.”

“Thank you,” Cora says, glancing at her grandmother. “It’s lovely to meet you, too.”

The three of them stand in silence for a few moments. Cora looks at Sebastian again and takes a deep breath. “I, um …”

“Yes?”

“The man who just confessed to you,” she says, “do you know him?”