The Wedding Dress (29 page)

Hillary got up from the table for her black bag and pulled a picture from the front pouch. “I found this when I was going through all the photos.” She offered Charlotte a black-and-white image. “That’s my mama and daddy, and next to them, the previous owners of our house.”

“The one where you found the trunk?” The woman, perhaps in her midthirties, was beautiful in her Sunday suit. “Do you think they’re connected to the dress?”

“I have no idea. Their names are on the back. Thomas and Mary Grace Talbot. That’s my mama’s handwriting. Darn near perfect, isn’t it? I remember Thomas was a preacher, and they’d just purchased a big tent to hold revival meetings across the country. He told Mama he had the gift of healing. I thought he was the weirdest man I’d ever met.”

“Really? Because of the healing thing?”

“I was a future nurse, so yes, even at ten, I didn’t believe any man could
heal
.” Hillary arched her eyebrows. “What do you think?”

“I think God uses imperfect people to do whatever He wants. He uses me to help brides get ready.” Charlotte gazed at the picture again, touching their faces with the tip of her finger. “Thomas and Mary Grace Talbot. Where did you wander to?”

“I guess they’d be in their late eighties or early nineties now.”

“If they’re alive.”

Hillary took up a piece of pizza. “They’re alive.” She grinned. “And I think I can find out where they live.”

Chapter Eighteen

   
C
harlotte unpacked a new shipment of dresses Wednesday after lunch. The winter gowns she’d ordered were beautiful. Dealing in her treasured merchandise always righted her tilted emotions.

Jesus Culture played from her iPad dock, and on days like today, Charlotte believed the storeroom of her shop was her most holy sanctuary.

Footsteps echoed over the shop’s hardwood floor. “I’m here.” Dixie. “Your relief.” She came into the storeroom and sat on the old wooden packing and shipping desk, gathering her hair into a ponytail. “Jared said Tim is doing well, by the way. He’ll probably go home today.”

“Good, I’m glad.” Monday, over a two-hour lunch, Charlotte had delivered the weekend details to Dixie—who demanded to know everything, starting with the first
H
in “Hey” to the trailing “e” in “Good-bye.”

“Jared said Tim’s blond restaurant girl has been there every day.”

“It’s nice to have someone care for you when you’re hurting.”

Dixie slammed her hand on the desk. “Would you stop being so nice? Get angry. Blow up. Shake your fist. ‘I’ll never go hungry again.’” She put on her best Southern-belle tone. “Fight for him, fight for what’s yours.”

Charlotte smirked, rolling her eyes. “Very dramatic, Miss O’Hara. Where would shaking my fists get me? Just riled up about something I can’t change.” She’d done her share of fist waving, and it only made her more mad and more sad. She had peace at the moment, and she’d kind of like to ride that river for a while. “I can’t fight for a man who doesn’t want me.”

“But you said he—”

“Yes, he said some stuff. But when she walked in it was like I faded into the shadows.” Charlotte held up a new Bray-Lindsay. “How do you like the dresses? I love every Bray-Lindsay gown.” She wanted to hold it to her and meld with the silky threads and pure, creamy whiteness.

“They do exquisite work. Don’t let Tawny see them. She’ll change her mind.”

Charlotte shook out the next gown, a new one from a local designer, Heidi Elnora.

The front chimes pealed through the shop followed by a high pitched, “Hello?”

“I got it.” Dixie stepped out of the room, returning a few moments later with Hillary.

Charlotte hung the gown on the rack. “Hillary, hey, what are you doing here?” She motioned for her to come in. “Dixie, this is Hillary.”

“I know. We just met.” Dixie slid back onto her perch, the old desk. “So you’re the Hillary who wore the dress? Who sealed it in the trunk?”

“Guilty. But I’m indebted to this woman, who redeemed it. Redeemed me.”
Redeemed
. The purple man’s word. For a moment it reverberated in Charlotte’s soul. “Charlotte, are you free for a few hours?” Hillary asked.

“I could be if you need me. Is everything okay?” She checked with Dix, who nodded. She’d cover the afternoon.

“I called Thomas and Mary Grace Talbot. They’re up for an afternoon visit if you’re game to go.”

  “Now?”

“Now.”

“Whoa, back up, y’all. Explain to ole Dixie what’s going on. How did you get in touch with the Talbots?” She wagged her finger at Charlotte. “You didn’t give me this piece of the story.”

“I didn’t know it myself until yesterday.” Charlotte gave Dixie the Twitter version. “Hillary worked with a doctor at St. Vincent’s named Talbot. When she came across Thomas and Mary Grace’s name, she called him on the chance there might be a connection.”

“And?” Dix said, rotating toward Hillary.

“Never heard of them.” Hillary took up the story. “But he went to school with another Talbot. When you’re in the same homeroom with a guy from first grade to twelfth, you find out things. The Dr. Talbot I knew put me in touch with Harry, who is Thomas and Mary Grace Talbot’s great-nephew.”

Dixie whooshed a “wow” from her desk perch. “Do you think Mrs. Talbot wore the dress before you, Hillary?”

Charlotte hung up the last dress in the shipment. “Let’s go find out.”

Kirkwood by the River was a retirement village nestled on wooded acreage by the Cahaba River. As Charlotte parked and walked with Hillary toward the main entrance, Hillary talked.

“He’s ninety-four, suffers with some dementia. She’s ninety-three, sharp as a tack. At least, according to Harry.”

Passing through a golden sun spot on the stone patio, Charlotte stopped. “I’m not sure I want to go in.”

“What? We came all this way. Isn’t this why you found
me
?” Hillary sat on a wrought iron two-seater with flowered cushions.

“What if she knows nothing about the dress? What if this is a dead end? You were the last one who wore it and we have no idea who came before. We won’t know if the bride before you was in love or if she married out of convenience. Or if she was made a widow like you. There are three more wars to contend with here. I’m not sure I want to reach the end of the line. To know
I’ll never know
. There’s too much unknown in my past already. I don’t want to add the dress.”

“Charlotte, it’s not the asking that leaves us in the dark—we’re already there, right? If we come to a dead end in the history of the dress, then at least we know we tried. No guarantee of answers in life.”

“But I can pretend.” Charlotte eased down next to Hillary. “If I don’t talk to M’t>

“And
your
dress.” Hillary started for the entrance. “You missed your calling, Charlotte. You should’ve written romance novels.”

“It’s not about romance, Hillary. It’s about life. Who doesn’t want to be loved? To be safe? To have a place called home and family.” Was that what she wanted so desperately? To be safe? To have a home with a family? Charlotte had never framed her fear with words before. Was that why she harbored doubts about marrying Tim? Because she wasn’t sure her heart would be loved with him? Or that home meant family? Katherine sure didn’t see her fitting in.

“Sounds like you want perfect love, Charlotte. The kind that doesn’t mess with your heart or your fears. Let me tell you, that love doesn’t exist. Let’s say we walk through those doors and find that neither of the Talbots has recollection of the dress. Know nothing about it. Do you know they’ve been married seventy-two years? Seven decades plus two. That’s twice your age and then some. Maybe we don’t find another woman who wore that gown or find out how it got in my parents’ basement, but we will find someone who knows how to love. It’s that kind of love that’ll drive out your fears. Not the kind you think you’ll find by running and hiding.” Hillary shoved her shoulders back, navy square. “Now let’s go.”

Without a word, Charlotte followed. A young, dark-haired resident assistant met them and escorted them down a long hall, past the TV and dining rooms, to Thomas and Mary Grace Talbot’s door.

“Are they expecting you?” He knocked lightly. “Mary Grace? Thomas? It’s George. You have visitors.” He twisted the knob.

Around the opening door, Charlotte spotted Mrs. Talbot, thin and lost in her sweater and slacks, moving across the room with her cane. “Let them in, George.” Charlotte’s heart swelled with expectation. Mrs. Talbot smiled, and Charlotte recognized the aura of the younger beauty in the photograph. “Come in, come in. Thomas, our guests are here.”

George quick-stepped across the room, offering aid to a frail man coming from the bedroom. “Darn legs giving me fits. Don’t get old, young ladies.” He wagged his finger, bending to sit in his rocker-recliner. “It don’t pay. It don’t pay. I’m good with the Lord . . . don’t know why He won’t come get me. Ain’t no use to Him no more down here.”

“Except to keep me company.” Mrs. Talbot moved back toward another chair, George lending a support hand. “You’d miss me if you went on to glory, Tommy.”

“Sweetheart, I wasn’t planning on going without you. You’ve been with me through it all. The spoils are yours as much as mine.” His spotted, veined hand dropped over the side of his chair and grasped hers. “Now, what can we do for you young ladies?” The light in Thomas’s eyes was kind. Wise and patient. Charlotte loved him at once. If he suffered from dementia, it hadn’t surfaced today.

“I’m Charlotte Malone, Mr. Talbot. This is Hillary Warner.”

“We go by Thomas and Mary Grace around here.”

“I’m the one who spoke to you on the phone,” Hillary said, half rising as Mary Grace started to exit from her chair. George had gone, and it wasn’t clear what the older woman wanted. “Can I help you?”

“There’s hot coffee brewing in the kitchen. Can you bring it ’round? I’d do it, but by the time I shuffle there and back, it’ll be dinnertime.” Her laugh denied her age.

Hillary moved toward the kitchen, pointing to Charlotte. “Start the story.”

Charlotte angled a bit more toward the couple, leaning on the arm of the sofa, meeting Mary Grace’s eyes, blue and clear as a southern summer sky.

“I found a wedding dress.” The air of the room shifted. Charlotte’s eyes watered with unbidden tears. “In a trunk I bought at an auction.”

“So, you found the dress?” Mary Grace’s fingers remained linked to her husband’s. “The silk one with the satin skirt, pearls about the waist, and the shimmer of gold thread.”

Hillary darted out from the kitchen, a coffee cup in each hand. “Yes, that’s the one. Who takes cream and sugar?”

“Black over here.” Thomas raised his shaking hand.

“One dollop of each for me.” Mary Grace scooped an invisible spoon through the air, her spirit, her youthfulness, threading through Charlotte.

“Charlotte?” Hillary said.

“Water for me.” Caffeine would only jack her up. Her nerves were buzzed enough from the excitement and trepidation of this meeting. “Mary Grace, you know about the dress?”

“Surely. I wore it for my own wedding.”

“Prettiest bride Birmingham ever saw,” Thomas said, clear and strong.

“Hush, Thomas.” Mary Grace took the cup Hillary handed her. “He still plies me with sweet nothings. Tell me, what do you do, Charlotte?”

“I . . . I own a bridal shop in Mountain Brook.” Mary Grace wore the dress. Charlotte reached for the water Hillary offered. The cool ceramic cup felt good against her hands.

“And you found my gown.” Mary Grace smiled, then let it fade. “But that gown is not to be sold. It must be w. I/diorn by the one who finds it.”

“Well, yes, you see, Mary Grace, I think I’m the one to
find
the next bride.” Charlotte brought the mug of water to her lips and took a sip. “Perhaps someone will come into my shop and I’ll know she’s the one.”

“You’re the bride.” Mary Grace pointed at her, slow and deliberate, almost like she was poking something invisible and buoyant.

“Told you,” Hillary whispered out the side of her mouth.

“Hush.” Charlotte slid to the edge of her sofa cushion, fixed on Mary Grace. She’d help her understand. “My job is to help brides get ready for the biggest day of their life. It’s my gift, you might say. I’m good at what I do.” Even to her own ears, her argument sounded shallow. Who was she kidding? She had no idea why she
redeemed
the dress.

“I’m sure you are, but that gown has never been for sale. It’s been gifted from one bride to the next.”

Hillary froze with her coffee mug in the air. “But I found the trunk in my parents’ basement.”

“I know.” Mary Grace rocked gently in her chair. “I left it there for you.”

“You left it there . . . I was ten years old.” Shock and surprise blended over Hillary’s angular face.

Charlotte could see that Hillary still hadn’t completely settled the issue of Joel in her heart, so she moved the topic away from the dress for a moment.

“Thomas, I hear you were a preacher.”

“Yup, yup, fifty-two years. Preached the gospel of the kingdom from Maine to Hawaii, down on into Mexico and Guatemala. Up to Canada and Alaska.”

“He still preaches,” Mary Grace said. “To me and all the residents here. Our poor cleaning lady gets a sermon every week for sure. And the man who brings our groceries is about to get born again, I know it. Then there’s our dear George who insists he’s an . . . what’s he again, Tommy?”