The Wedding Shop (3 page)

Upon her words, lightning cracked, so bold, so loud this time the windows rattled. Tammy jumped into Haley's arms.

Then they fell to the floor laughing, hooting, popping their hands on the splintered hardwood. When they quieted down, Haley stared at the high ceiling.

“Let's own this shop one day, okay?” She gripped Tammy's hand in her own. “We'll go to college, then maybe join the Marines or something—”

“The Marines! I'm not joining the Marines.” Tammy's protest was sure. “But I'll run this shop with you.”

“But first we go places, see people, visit Hawaii,
then
buy this shop.”

“Best friends forever.” Tammy hooked her pinky finger around Haley's.

“Best friends forever.”

“We'll come back here one day and own this wedding shop.”

“Pinky promise.”

“Pinky promise.”

The lightning flickered, kissing the front window again. Haley jumped up and ran screaming around the shop with Tammy in pursuit.

Because make-believe was what best friends did. But make-believe ended.

Best friends were forever. And pinky promises could never be broken.

C
ORA

April 1930

Heart's Bend, Tennessee

T
he morning began like every other weekday, with Cora making her way up the back walk to the shop, unlocking the door, and clicking on the lights.

But today the spring sun's brightness drifting through the trees stirred a sense of hope. A vibrant anticipation.

Let today be the day.

Hanging her sweater and hat on hooks in the mudroom, Cora entered the small salon and stood at the nearest window, pushing the lace sheer aside. She gazed toward the cut of the Cumberland River visible through the trees and wished for
him
.

While she treasured spring's green and gardenia perfume, she missed the unobstructed view provided by leafless limbs. In the winter, she could see for miles from her shop's perch on the hill. Despite the cold gray days of winter, its barrenness enhanced her perspective.

But now spring had arrived and, still, he had not. She so ached for a glimpse of his long, lean stride coming up from the port, boldly taking the avenue with his broad physique, his mass of blond hair tangling about his face while the loose sleeves of his white blouse billowed about his thick arms.

Come today, darling.

“Cora?” The back door slammed, drawing her away from her post. “I'm here.” Odelia, Cora's shop assistant and seamstress, entered with a gust of cold wind and the scent of cinnamon. “Sorry to be late. The buns were still in the oven.” She chuckled, shifting the weight of the garments in her arms. “The buns . . . get it? I should've been in vaudeville. Anyways, couldn't get the old car started so Lloyd drove me in on the wagon.”

Cora leaned over her shoulder. “Hmmm, those smell divine. And no rush. We've an hour before they arrive. Mama's on her way.”

“Good, good. Ain't no hostess like your mama.” Odelia set the hot buns in the first-floor pantry, where Mama would set up a service of tea and coffee along with pastries from Haven's bakery. She'd have to delicately decide what to do with Odelia's buns. “Even your Aunt Jane said she couldn't out hostess Esmé. Now, let me get the rest of the dresses out from the wagon. Lloyd has work back at the farm and he don't cotton none to being held up.”

“I'll help you.” Cora followed Odelia out of the shop and down the walk to Blossom Street. “Morning, Lloyd.”

“Cora.” He jutted his chin her way, then lowered his hat over his eyes, handing her several dresses swinging from hangers. “Got work to do.”

“Now, shush. What do you think we're doing here all day, playing tiddlywinks?” Odelia anchored her toe on the wagon wheel and lighted into the bed, taking the dresses from her man. “Don't hold them against you. They'll go smelling like horses and pigs.”

“Odelia, here, hand them to me.” Cora reached for three more dresses.

The woman was a backbone to the shop with her seamstress skills, yet a constant mystery. Part Irish, part Cherokee, she was a workhorse with smooth brown skin that defied her age. Mama said she'd stick a needle in her eye if Odelia was a day under sixty.

When they'd unloaded the dresses, Lloyd took off. Odelia called after him, “Come get me, you old coot, or there won't be no supper.”

“How long have you two been married again?” Cora said, falling in step with her assistant. Odelia was an Aunt Jane find. Hired her when she first opened the shop in 1890.

“Since Jesus was a baby.” She examined one of the white satiny dresses. “If Lloyd's old blanket left a mark, I'll crown him.”

But in the light of the mezzanine, the dresses were perfect, the white skirts shimmering with purity and beauty. No one in Heart's Bend could work a needle and sewing machine like Odelia.

“I'll get the display cases set up.” Cora headed down the stairs. The grand staircase with the carved, glossy, wooden spindles divided the shop in two—the grand salon on the left, the small salon on the right.

The grand salon Cora treated like a Hollywood living room, at least from what she could tell from the movies and magazines, covering the hardwood with plush carpet and the walls with bold paper.

In the light of the front display window, she positioned ornate chairs around the long, curved davenport made of a polished wood and covered with heavy gold upholstery. Here she sat her clients and their mothers, grandmothers, sisters, cousins, friends, aunts, and nieces. Here they waited for the bride to descend the staircase in her wedding gown.

If the bride was so inclined, the bridesmaids also descended the stairs, modeling their gowns for the other women. Once in a while, a father insisted on joining the party. After all, they protested, weren't they the ones footing the bill?

In the small salon, the display cases housed a variety of veils, gloves, sachets, clutches, stockings, and every other sundry a bride might desire. Dress forms and mannequins modeled wedding gowns, going-away dresses, and a very modest style of lingerie.

At the bottom of the stairs, Cora paused. What was she setting out to do? Oh yes, the display cases. And she needed to run and get the pastries from the bakery. But she paused at the front door,
peering through the etched glass, unable to quell the stirring in her heart. It moved from taut anticipation to a burning restlessness.

Rufus, where are you?

In his last letter, he said he'd be on the Cumberland this spring. “Look for me in March.” But it was already the first week of April, when the dogwoods bloomed in Gardenia Park and down First Avenue.

She feared he'd been hurt, or fallen ill. Or worse, his boat had hit the snags and sank, a swift current trapping him beneath the surface.

“Do we have time to dawdle at the window?”

Cora turned to see her mother crossing the small salon, patting her hand against her hair, then smoothing her hand down the front of her skirt. “I was just checking the temperature.” Cora rapped her knuckle on the cool glass in the direction of the thermometer. A blessed coincidence.

“Checking the temperature? Or watching the river?”

Mama liked to think Cora was an open book. One she could read well.

“I'm fixing the display cases before going to the bakery. Can you open the top panes of the windows, let in the fresh air? When the Dunlaps arrive it will get warm in here. They are a large party.”

“You know, staring out the window pining for him won't make him arrive any faster, Cora. Or make him a man of his word.” Mama unlocked the window next to the door and pulled open the pane.

“You're being unfair. He is a man of his word.”

“Well, when he can change it at will and convince you it's the truth, then I suppose you're right. Did you say something about the bakery order? I glanced in the pantry and only saw Odelia's cinnamon buns.”

“Yes, after I set up the cases I'll head over to Haven's. Will you start the coffee and tea at five till?”

“I've been hosting this shop since before you were born. I know
when to start the coffee and tea. What I don't know is what to do with Odelia's buns. The woman can sew dry grass into a beautiful gown, but her baking leaves much to be desired. No wonder Lloyd never smiles.”

Cora bit back her laugh. “Shh, Mama. She'll hear you. You can't deny they smell wonderful.”

“They do, but I've told her to her face her sweet buns are like rocks.” Mama moved to the bottom of the stairs. “Isn't that right, Odelia?”

“What's that, Esmé?”

“Your baking could break the strongest teeth.”

“That's what you've been telling me for twenty years, but Lloyd don't seem no worse for the wear.”

“Except he never smiles.” Mama turned to Cora, whispering behind her hand. “'Cause he ain't got no teeth.”

“Mama, stop.” Cora muted the laugh in her chest. “You taught me better. Now act like a kind Christian.”

“Telling the truth is being a kind Christian.” Mama moved to the remaining windows, slipping down the top panes. In the grand salon the grandfather clock chimed the hour.

Eight o'clock. Cora must get herself together. At the display cases, she retrieved the head forms from the bottom drawers and adorned them with veils, curving the long tulle around the glass and splaying it across the polished hardwood. On another set of heads, she stuck ornate combs into the coarse, fake hair.

Next she set out long, silky white gloves with pearl buttons and arranged a pearl set on a blue velvet runner.

The shop had an important client this morning. A Miss Ruth Dunlap from Birmingham, a society bride who also happened to be a shop legacy. Her mother, Mrs. Laurel Schroder Dunlap, born and raised in Heart's Bend, bought her gown and trousseau from Aunt Jane in 1905. She would expect the royal treatment for her daughter. As well she should.

Jane Scott cut her bridal fashion chops in Milan and Paris in the late 1880s, bringing them back home to Tennessee when her mama, Granny Scott, died. Never in all their born days had the women of Heart's Bend—farmers' wives, mountain women, half-breeds, and former slaves—seen the likes of what Aunt Jane brought to town.

But they loved it. Aunt Jane's elegant style made the small-town shop a legend in middle Tennessee and northern Alabama, launching an unlikely small-town tradition and becoming Heart's Bend's darling.

“Cora, I know you don't like me nosing into your business,” Mama said, returning to the small salon. “But—”

“No, I don't. I'm not a child.” Cora examined the last display case. Everything seemed to be in order.

With a smile at Mama, she headed up to the mezzanine and her desk. She shuffled the papers, shoving aside a large box of mail. All work for tomorrow after Miss Dunlap returned to Alabama.

Mama followed her up.

“You are
not
a child. Which is precisely my point.” Mama anchored her hands on the side of the desk and leaned over Cora. “You're thirty years old, darling. I'd been married, given birth to two children, and become president of the local Tennessee Equal Suffrage Association by the time I was twenty-eight.”

“Cora, you want to choose a veil for Miss Dunlap?” Odelia popped out of the wide, long storage room. “I think gloves would go well with her gown too.”

“I set out the veils and gloves on the display cases in the small salon. She can choose when she tries on the dress.”

Aunt Jane skimped on nothing when she hired Nashville architect Hugh Cathcart Thompson to design The Wedding Shop. It was the height of high class.

A place of business
and
a place of residence. Though Cora had yet to occupy the third floor for herself, Aunt Jane had lived atop her beloved business for thirty years.

“What about a leaving dress? Casual wear? We have the samples from Elsa Schiaparelli's knit collection.”

“Yes, of course, let her choose. We can order what she wants. The knitwear is still popular.”

Cora liked Schiaparelli's styles. As if she knew women were real people, with real work to do.

“Odelia, help me out here. Tell Cora not to close off her heart.” Mama brushed her hand over Cora's dark hair. “That's all I'm saying. Walk out with another man. Don't just stand at the window waiting for the captain. You run a wedding shop, yet have never been the bride.”

“Thank you, Mama. I hadn't noticed.” Everyone in a town the size of Heart's Bend noticed the thirty-year-old wedding shop owner had never been a bride. “Weren't you the one who taught me to follow my heart?”

“Yes, but I sure didn't know it'd lead to a dead end.” Mama started down the stairs. “I'll say no more. I don't want you upset when the Dunlaps arrive. Shall I go for the pastries? I have time before the coffee and tea.”

“No, Mama. I said I'll go.” She needed the escape, the fresh air, the walk to straighten out her thoughts, to dream of
him
for a moment without Mama invading.

In the four years she'd known and loved Rufus St. Claire, he'd never lied to her. Ever. He'd been delayed, hampered by shipping schedules, and hindered by the rule of the river, but he always kept his word, walking up First Avenue with his rogue smile, his arms laden with gifts, his kisses more sweet and passionate than the time before.

Then he'd press his silky lips against her ear.
One day you're going to marry me.

Cora shivered, collapsing in her chair. She missed him so much she ached. She'd been fine all winter and spring, satisfied with his
letters, until this week, until she saw the back end of March but not the face of the man she loved.

Leaving the mezzanine, with its three oval, cherry-framed mirrors used to dress and style the brides, Cora felt nothing like the brides she loved and served. But oh, she longed to walk where they walked.

She'd dreamt of her day in this shop since she was a girl. Of descending the grand staircase to the musical ooh's and ahh's of Mama and Odelia, her groom's mother—if she was alive—her friends and family.