The Wedding Shop (10 page)

“Mrs. Welker.” Ruth's voice carried her emotion. “I might not have been the perfect Christian girl Mama raised me to be. But if you think your son is too good for me because of it, then you must think again.”

“He's a young man, expected to sow his wild oats.”

“Come now, Fleming. The old double standard? Don't put on Ruthie what we felt was unfair to be put on us. You never have liked Ruthie and now you're trying to come between my daughter and your son.”

“I like her just fine. But . . . my Stu can do better.”

Cora clapped her hand over her mouth. Such a bold confession. Tears spurred in her eyes. This was supposed to be Ruth's happiest season. A time of celebration and love, of harmony. But Mrs. Welker had brought her brand of bitter to the proceedings.

A slow bead of sweat trickled down the side of Cora's face, her back against the wall as Mama's sticky hand clung to hers.

The grandfather clock tick-tocked, tick-tocked, the only sound in the salon.

“What do you think they're doing?” Mama's low inquiry was followed by a short prayer. “Lord, help us.”

Absolutely no sounds came from the grand salon. It was as if they'd all left. Another trail of sweat prickled down Cora's cheek. Mama squeezed her hand so hard it hurt.

“Get the tea and pastries.” Cora freed her hand from Mama's and rounded the corner with a big inhale. “Oh, Ruth, that dress is divine on you. Just divine. You have such exquisite tastes. The waistline shows off your figure so well.”

Ruth had slouched onto the bottom step, rivulets of water cutting tracks through her lightly powdered face. “It's ruined. Everything is ruined.”

“No, no, come on now, nothing is ruined.” Cora sat down next to the devastated bride and wrapped her in her arms. “Family is not always easy, is it?”

“She hates me. My mother-in-law hates me.”

Cora leaned to her ear. “Do you love him?”

Ruth met Cora's gaze, wiping away her tears. “Yes, very much.”

“Does he love you?”

“With all his heart. He tells me every day. Twice a day even.”

“Then you'll be able to face your families together. Why not let the past be just that . . . the past?”

“Here we are, here we are, ladies . . .” Mama swooped in, a tray of tea and sweets in hand, her polished southern charm beating against the tension in the salon. “Mrs. Dunlap. Mrs. Welker, girls . . . I tell you, aren't you blessed to be forming a family together? Bridesmaids, are you family or friends? Both? Oh, and a cousin. I had a cousin as a bridesmaid too.”

While Mama worked her charms, Cora brought Ruth back from the edge.

“Come on, let's try on your gorgeous evening gown.” Cora took Ruth's hand, leading her up to the mezzanine. “Odelia surely worked her magic for you.”

She managed Ruth through the rest of the fitting, getting
a smile out of her when she modeled the dresses she bought for their Florida honeymoon. Mama served so many pastries she ran out, had to cut up Odelia's left over rock-hard cinnamon rolls. She served those with a pound of butter and a fresh pot of coffee.

“I figured if I kept their mouths full they'd leave off the arguing.”

But a slight tension hovered in the grand salon, and Ruth refused to push past it. She flat out declined to model her wedding dress one last time.

“I don't want Mrs. Welker to say one hurtful word. And she will, if not from her lips then from her eyes. Did you see her frown with every dress I modeled? Mama, poor Mama, what will I ever say to her?”

“You're a grown woman, about to be married. You only need to be honest with your husband.”

“He knows everything, he does. As I do about him. In college, times are different, you feel different, the old rules don't seem so important anymore.”

“But aren't they?”

“More than any of us will ever know.” Tears glistened in Ruth's eyes. “More than we'll ever know.”

“I'll have Odelia pack up your wedding gown and load it in your car with the other things. No one has to see you wear it until you're ready.”

“Do you think Stu will love it?”

“Of course he will. But he'll love the woman in the dress much, much more.” Behind the room divider, Cora helped Ruth slip from her dress, then handed it over to Odelia.

When she came out in her regular clothes, carefully setting her hat on her head, she paused in front of Cora. “I apologize again for Mrs. Welker. She wanted Stu to marry someone else. The daughter of her high school friend. She and I went to Wellesley together. I suppose that's where she heard her stories.” Ruth wrung
her hands together. “About me and all. Mrs. Welker thought Stu would've backed out of our marriage by now.”

“Just remember Stu chose you,” Cora said, walking with Ruth down the stairs. “Don't let anyone ruin your special day.”

“I'll make it my mission.” Ruth pressed a kiss to Cora's cheek. “Thank you for your kindness and discretion. Mama? Mrs. Welker? Y'all ready?”

When the Dunlap party had gone, Cora collapsed onto the sofa.

“Well, wasn't that something?” Mama said, collecting the china dessert plates and tea service. “I never in all my born days witnessed such a confrontation. It'll be up to the two of them to make their marriage happy.” Mama turned for the pantry. “I think I'll fix a sandwich. Do you want one?”

“Yes, and for Odelia too. Thank you, Mama.”

Cora closed her eyes for a moment. Poor Ruth. But if she and Stu loved each other . . .

She sat forward, blood pumping. Rufus. Surely she had a letter from him in the stack of mail on her desk.

She jogged up the stairs, flopped into her desk chair, and reached for the letters. Her hand trembled as she picked up a postcard with his name on it. Cora stared at the image of St. Louis on the front. Did he send her a postcard?

But the message was addressed
to
him rather than
from
him.

Rufus St. Claire

Heart's Bend Port

Heart's Bend, TN

Morris must have included it by mistake, thought it was a postcard to her from Rufus. Cora studied the strange, beautiful script, then turned the card over.

Rufus, darling, please telephone as soon as you dock. Most urgent. Lovingly yours, Miriam

Rufus? Darling? Lovingly yours, Miriam?
The card shook in her cold, trembling fingers.

Who was Miriam? Cora read the sentence again and again, pressing down the heat of panic.

Rufus . . . darling . . .

Mama called Cora
darling
all the time. Perhaps Rufus had a sister he'd never mentioned. Or a young aunt. Rufus, as wonderful as he was, enjoyed being mysterious. Cora couldn't deny it was an aspect of his character that captivated her.

Maybe she was a cousin. Miriam sounded like a fine cousin's name. She had a cousin Miriam on Mama's side.

Lovingly yours.

Why was she lovingly his? When Cora wrote to Ernest Junior during the war, she signed her letters, “Your loving sister, Cora.”

When she wrote to Rufus, she signed, “All my love, darling, forever.”

A dark spark pinged around her ribs and fired into her muscles, sinking into her bones. A drain of dread deepened her shivers to a tremor.

Steady, Cora. Don't panic. Think. Be reasonable.
What could a girl tell from such a cryptic note?
Nothing
. What kind of woman sends a postcard merely to ask for a telephone call?

A thought bounced through her. Oh, perhaps the wife of a mate. A very close mate. Surely such a relationship existed.

Cora exhaled, clasping the postcard to her chest. Yes, Miriam must be the wife of a friend, a shipmate, perhaps a pilot he'd sailed with in the past. Maybe even an old school chum or army buddy.

She'd nearly panicked over nothing. Daddy's preaching to always stay level-headed hadn't fallen on deaf ears as he feared.
Examining the handwriting again, Cora imagined a slim, pretty woman with a worried expression.

There was no return address. No last name. The writer would remain the mysterious Miriam.

“Cora, Odelia, I made sandwiches.” Mama's sweet voice wound up the stairs.

She tucked the postcard into her pocketbook. She'd carry it home with her tonight, and later, when she wrote to him, she'd mention Miriam. Surely she was no one Cora should worry herself over. Rufus was a man of his word. When she saw him face-to-face, he would reassure her with each movement of his passionate kisses.

C
OLE

W
hat do you think? We want you in on this.” Brant Jackson, the head of Akron Developers, passed Cole a folded piece of paper. “Be our project manager. This salary ought to inspire you.”

Cole reached for the paper. He'd left Keith and Haley at the wedding shop to spend the last hour sitting in Akron's portable office on the southwest side of town, listening to their pitch, reviewing the downtown loft plans, as well as plans for the row of shops perpendicular to the old downtown on Main Street and First Avenue west of the old wedding shop.

He absorbed it all from a twenty-thousand-foot view until he read their offer. Six figures. Plus bonus. His heart pumped a bit faster.
Be cool, man, be cool.
“Very generous.”

“We believe you're the man for the job.”

The call came out of the blue Monday afternoon. Akron asking him to interview for a construction manager position.

“What about my crew? Danner Construction is solid, but we're small still, growing steadily.”

“We don't want Danner Construction, Cole. No offense. We want you. We have our own crews.” Brant leaned forward with a knowing nod. “Got a good gig going with the unions, you know. All you have to do is manage the teams and report to me.”

The other men around the table, wearing crisp button-downs and creased khakis, smiled and nodded.

Six figures was more than he'd earned in the last two years and then some.

“You have a good reputation for getting projects done on time or before. Each time you'll earn an extra bonus.” Sam Bradford, the man on Brant's left, clapped his hand on the table. “It's a freaking awesome offer, Cole. What's your hesitation?”

Cole sat back, laying the paper on the table. “What about my crew?”

“Give them a good reference. They'll find work. But we have our teams in place.”

“I see.” But there weren't many craftsmen around like the men Cole had on his team. He'd known his main guys, Gomez, Hank, and Whiskers, since he was a kid. Friends of his dad's. Best craftsmen around. Could build, fix, repair, imagine anything. “Why can't I hire my guys?”

Brant exchanged a look with Sam. “You can. There'll be lots of side work. We have big plans for downtown Heart's Bend. She's going to be the gem of Tennessee. But the crews we have are Akron crews. They know our methods and standards.”

“Then why not hire one of them to be project manager. I'm an outsider.” Cole pushed away from the table, away from the swirl of doubt that reined in any excitement. He should be jumping up and down, shouting, “Yes!” But . . .

“Cole.” Sam glanced around from the coffee station where he filled his stained mug. “Here's the thing. We need a lot of guns in this fight. You're our sharpshooter. The hometown boy people know and trust.”

“You
do
know about my father, don't you?” The jailbird.

Brant waved him off. “Old news. We don't like to hold the sons responsible for the sins of their fathers.”

“Then you're the rare exception.”

He exaggerated, but it felt good to blow off steam about his old man from time to time, blame him for the jobs he didn't get. Shoot,
it was a crazy mystery how he ended up in the same business as his pop in the first place. A divine sort of comedy.

“So what's the problem? Say yes!” Brant slapped his hands together as if it were a done deal, cocky confidence supporting his sporty grin.

But Cole never said yes right away. He liked to process. Think things through. But the merits of this offer were evident. Taking this job meant ease of life, no doubt. No more beating the bushes for clients. No more sleepless nights wondering how he was going to meet payroll. No more juggling bills, going without, turning down jobs because he didn't have enough resources.

This job also meant he could crawl the rest of the way out from under his father's reputation.

Cole reached for the offer still lying on the table. “You've certainly presented me with a generous offer.”

“Comes with a full benefits package too. Health, dental, vision, 401k, flex vacation. If a job gets done and we're waiting to start the next one? You can take off all the time you want.”

“It's almost too much to pass up.” He smiled. This was starting to feel good.

“Of course it is. Come on. Say yes.”

“I'd still like to think on it.”

Sam and Brant exchanged glances. What were they
not
telling him? “Thing is, Cole, we need you tonight for the town council meeting.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because that postage-stamp-size piece of real estate on Blossom and First is the most precious in town. At least to us.” Brant angled toward Cole. “It's smack in the crossroads of all new development. Our entire First Avenue plan is kaput without it.”

“We're offering the town two and a half times what it's worth,” Sam said. “We can't get them to budge. There's some kind of sentimental attachment to the ugly old thing.”

“You think the corner of Blossom and First is the only way to get parking?” Cole went to the town map tacked to the trailer wall. “What about here, Elm and Pike? There's nothing there but an old field. It's only a block away.”

“The field is the easement for our outdoor mall. Right next to where you're pointing will be a Starbucks.”

“But we have a great coffee shop in town. Java Jane's. What will happen to her?”

“She'll have to be competitive.” Brant's chuckle mocked Cole's concern. “Nothing like good stiff competition.”

“With a national chain?”

“Cole, take it up with the town council if you're not happy. The plans are already approved.”

Now he understood why Drummond Branson bombarded half the town's inboxes with e-mails begging them to get out to the council meetings.

“Downtown shopping is where the tourism will be. They need a place to park, hop a trolley, see the sights.”

“What sights?”

“We've got a dozen specialty shops all lined up. Not to mention now that we've discovered a gem of a wedding chapel, Heart's Bend has become a destination wedding stop.”

Cole mused over the notion. Last year news broke that ole Coach Westbrook, a Hall of Fame football coach, had built a wedding chapel off River Road in the early fifties for his sweetheart. Only thing was it took sixty years to marry her.

“The chapel only books about four weddings a month. They aren't looking to become a cheap destination.”

“That'll change when they see the demand. And the money.” Sam's expression darkened with a sharp glint in his eye.

“Not everything is about money,” Cole said with conviction but no authority. He could use an influx of cash right now. What with business being off for the winter.

“Not everything is about money. But money makes
everything
a whole lot better.”

“There's a woman in town who wants to reopen the old wedding shop.” Cole rapped his knuckle against the map. “Wouldn't that fit into your novelty shop ideas? Wouldn't it go well with the wedding chapel?”

“Sure. We'll give her a space right here. In the new mall.” Brant pointed to an area northeast of the old shop. “But this?” He slapped his hand over Miss Cora's place. “Must be parking. We've gone over and over it, and there is no way we can build the lofts or the mall without that plot of land on Blossom and First. No parking, no project.”

Cole regarded him for a moment, then made his way to the door. “Still, I'd like to think on it. I appreciate the offer, but when a man gets a six-figure salary and benefits tossed in front of his eyes, he needs a minute to get the stars out of the way.”

Brant laughed too forced, too loud, and clapped him on the back. “Either way, come sit with us tonight. We could use you in our corner. Let the town council see we are partnering with local businessmen.”

Sam filled his coffee cup again. “It's time the town took control. That old ugly building is not a town treasure. Heck, it's been empty for the better part of thirty years. It's a liability.” He pointed to Cole. “You know I'm right.”

“I can't say yes to your offer just yet, but if you want, I'll be there tonight.”

Outside, Cole walked to his truck under a cold steel sky.
Dadgummit.
This Akron deal was stellar. It would set him up for the next few years. Maybe for life. Though it bothered him he'd have to give up his crew. But offers like this didn't come along every day. Shoot, if he was the manager he could hire whomever he wanted, right? Keep his guys working with side jobs.

He cranked the engine and backed out of the lot, setting a
course for Ella's diner. Mom was always good with this sort of thing. She had a knack for seeing through the bull, for balancing integrity with business.

He shifted in his seat, adjusting the seat belt, bothered by a pinch in his chest. Must have been something he ate. Cole raised the radio volume, jamming to the new Laura Hackett Park song.

He thumped his chest with his fist. Heartburn? But no, he'd not eaten yet today. Didn't even have a cup of coffee.

Haley flashed across his mind. The pinch behind his ribs tightened. Cole brushed a bead of sweat from his forehead. Forget the dropping temperature outside. The heat of pressure was coming from the inside.

Was this concern for his crew? Shoot, those guys could find work until he could hire them on an Akron job. Always had, always would. They were the best. And he didn't care squat about that old shop. He felt no sentimental value where Tammy was concerned. She'd never talked about the place. Not that he could remember.

But he'd watched Haley, heard her heart and, dang it, if he sided with Akron he'd be a bullet in her dream. Why she wanted to resurrect that old beast made no sense, but what right did he have to get in her way?

He wrestled with his thoughts all the way to town and as he entered Ella's and perched on his stool at the counter.

What did it matter what Haley wanted? He had to see to himself. Get his life going again. Even if it required him to stand on the other side of the aisle from his friend.

C
ORA

The clock on her desk pinged midnight. Twelve sweet melodic chimes. Cora rose from her desk, stretching, massaging her neck, a
fragrant June breeze skipping through the open window, dallying with the curtains.

It had been a long day but a very productive one. It had taken the better part of a week, but she'd organized the orders generated by the magazine ad and created a schedule for Odelia, which, thanks to the woman's interference, took twice as long as it should have. Then she began correspondence with each customer.

Thank you for your order of a two-dress trousseau. The scheduled delivery date is October 1, 1930, COD.

Sincerely,
Cora Scott
Proprietress, The Wedding
Shop
Heart's Bend, TN

On her desk were two piles, separated by those who paid cash and those who ordered COD. Cora and Odelia agreed to fulfill the cash orders first, then the CODs.

Over the summer into the fall, the orders promised to bring in fifteen thousand dollars. Odelia nearly swooned.

“That's a lot of money, sweet heaven above. Now, how in tarnation am I gonna make all them clothes? You keen on me hiring help, ain'tcha?”

“Please do. Mama's maid, Liberty, and her mama are great seamstresses.”

“I got a few names in mind myself. Can I offer a better than fair wage? Ain't right to entice a woman away from her family, maybe even a second job if we ain't going to make it worth her while. And some of these gowns are mighty detailed. We ain't running no sweatshop.”

“Of course.” But Cora needed to hear what Odelia considered a fair wage. Once they agreed to an hourly rate versus a per-garment fee, Odelia got busy on a list of potential candidates,
calling those with telephones and planning home visits for those without.