The Wedding Shop (30 page)

“Haley—”

“Cole.” His nearness robbed her breath. “I-I'm not looking for—”

He stepped back. “For what? A relationship?” Returning to his pizza station, he gave her his back and finished spreading out the dough on a pizza stone. “You like veggie pizza? With pepperoni?”

“I like everything but olives and anchovies.” Didn't she sound the fool. Assigning her feelings to him.

He grinned over his shoulder. “Me too.”

But the light had gone out of him. Haley reached for the onion, cutting away the skin, doing her best not to cut off her thumb. “Dax was married when I met him, but I didn't know it.”

He regarded her for a long second. “You don't have to tell me, Haley.”

“But I do. I want to. He charmed the pants right off of me. Literally.”

“Haley—”

“I was head over heels. Wanted to marry him so bad. From almost the moment I met him. He was amazing. I'd never met anyone like him. When he started to pursue me, I was queen of the world. This gorgeous man wants me?”

“You're very beautiful, Haley.”

She drove the knife through the onion, letting his compliment pass. Because she felt it. Because it carried more punch than she imagined.

“Not like the women fawning over Dax. He was the type of man who dated amazon-like bikini models with rivers of gorgeous hair and perfect boobs. Now Tammy, she would've been his type. But not me, not a short, petite air force captain.”

“What happened?” Cole took out a knife and reached for the pepper, but his attention was leveled on her.

“When I found out he was married, it killed me.”

“Did you leave him?”

“No, I asked him to leave his wife. I'm not proud of it.”

She waited. For the look. For the sad sigh. The shake of his head. She deserved it. Every ounce of his judgment.

Instead, Cole shifted his attention from chopping and gazed at her with kindness. “I take it he didn't leave his wife.”

“He promised he would. For six months. Then I found out he had children and, man, it was like crashing into a mountain going a hundred miles an hour. What was I mixed up in? But I strung along for another six months.” Haley slipped from the stool and peered out the French doors leading to the patio and garage breezeway. “Home wrecker, that's what I turned out to be. Captain Home wrecker.”

“He played a part, Haley.”

“That doesn't excuse me. The fact that I played a part at all makes me ill.”

“What made you leave him?”

“Tammy's death. I'd left him three months before but had relapse moments. Then when she died, heaven invaded earth for me. For two months I had nightmares about facing God's judgment seat in my present condition. I'd wake up drenched in sweat, shaking. I knew my life was not right. One afternoon I met Dax at a park to tell him it was over, over, over. In the middle of arguing about us, his wife called. One of his kids got hurt skateboarding. The look on his face . . . Dax loved his kids. I told him to never call me again. He needed to be with his family. I got out of the air force and came home.”

When she turned around, Cole stood behind her. “I'm glad you came home.” He brushed her bangs aside, sending a battalion of fiery tingles through her.

Her eyes welled up. “Don't, Cole. We can't . . . I can't . . .”

She'd thought weeping with Charlotte had cleansed her
shameful palate, but Cole, with his kind acceptance and tender expression, raised the raw, real, deep-down Haley.

She wasn't good enough for a man like Cole. She wasn't. Since she couldn't speak, she stood there shaking as Cole pulled her to him, wrapping her against his chest.

Haley leaned without responding, a rebel sob rolling through her chest. She broke with a wail, clinging to Cole with her fists full of his shirt.

“It's okay, Haley.” Cole rocked her side to side, shaking loose every clinging thought of shame and fear. “Let it go.” He cradled her, his cheek on her head. “Let it go.”

C
HARLOTTE

Birmingham

T
he clock across the room flashed 3:01. Charlotte sat up, the room dark and still, but an undeniable stirring in her bones.

“What is it?” she whispered, a prayer to the One who heard from on high.

She'd experienced His nudging in the night many times, a call to prayer, a call to worship. She didn't mind His three a.m. beckoning. Not when she used to jolt awake in the wee hours gripped with fear or anxiety.

She wasn't that girl anymore. She'd found the Love that drove away all fear. Propping a pillow behind her back, she leaned against the headboard and closed her eyes, her husband, Tim, sleeping beside her, his breathing soft and peaceful.

She prayed in the Spirit for a while, letting her soul open to His whispers.

Her thoughts drifted backward to her day, to her work at the shop, the brides she assisted and the—Charlotte sat forward, eyes open.

Him.
She thought she saw
him
today, the purple man. She didn't know what else to call him. He appeared out of nowhere four years ago and spoke into her life, setting her spirit on fire.

She'd concluded he was an angel of some sort. Perhaps the Lord Himself, if she could be so bold. One Sunday at church she
heard stories of those who saw
beyond
this world's veil. Those who saw the Lord. Charlotte just never imagined she'd be one of them.

The purple man appeared in her life when she wrestled with marrying Tim. He'd been the auctioneer up on Red Mountain that day, drawing her in to bidding on an ugly, battered trunk that contained the wedding dress.

She had no idea that ugly, battered trunk contained a hundred-year-old wedding dress and her heritage.

The purple man showed up at her shop. When she needed nudging. When she needed confidence.

“Babe, you awake?” Her husband's hand pressed against her back.

“Yes, thinking, praying.” Charlotte dropped down into his arms. “Did I wake you?”

“I thought I heard you praying.”

“Tim, I think I saw the purple man today.”

“Think?”

She smiled against his chest. “Okay, I did see the purple man.”

“At the shop?”

“Yes, outside, on the sidewalk, looking in, like he was waiting.” Charlotte quivered. “I think he wanted me to come out to him, but I was with a customer.”

Just remembering, she felt the blue intensity of his gaze, the yearning for her to come out to him. But she'd been too busy.

Charlotte sat up, restless. Bothered.

“You missed him?”

“By the time I finished, he was gone.” Charlotte rolled out of bed, thinking, staring toward the window. “I've not seen him since we got married. He surprised me.”

“What do you think he wanted?”

“I have no idea.” Charlotte paced out of their room, down the hall to her office where she flipped on the lights.

The dress? Did he want the dress?

“Char?” Tim followed. “What are you doing?”

“Where did we put the dress?”

They'd moved into the two-story home Tim designed for them last year. The angst of moving came with the joy of discovering she was pregnant. Charlotte was ready to fill their home with baby Rose. But she miscarried a few weeks later.

“Your wedding dress?” Tim said, walking around her to the closet. “I put it in here . . . unless you took it to the shop.” He slid the barn-style door to one side.

After her wedding, Charlotte had stored the dress her great-grandmother wore for her wedding in 1912. She was the lovely Emily Ludlow, a Birmingham socialite and philanthropist.

But when she found the gown in the trunk, the dress had taken a hundred-year journey of its own, being worn by two other women who had no connection to her other than their faith in the One who authored their lives.

Then at last, as if by accident, the dress came home to Charlotte.

“Here it is.” Tim reached in the back for a box—which sat atop the old battered trunk where Charlotte had discovered the gown.

He set the box on her desk. “Are you sure you want to open it? You seemed so convinced you needed to preserve it.”

Charlotte nodded, Tim's observation breathing life into the Spirit's earlier stirring. “That's just it, Tim. I wasn't supposed to box it up and put it away, zip, bam, it had served
my
purpose. What about God's purpose?”

He dug through the desk drawers for a pair of scissors. “I thought you wanted it for our kids.”

“I did . . . I do . . . but I'm not so sure
He
wants it
just
for our kids.” Her beating heart painted a clearer picture.

“It's not yours to keep or protect, is it?” Tim sliced the packing tape with the edge of the scissors.

“I thought it was my heritage, from my grandmother. Finally I had something of the family's. But, Tim, what a miracle it came
to me at all. This dress isn't mine. It's God's. That's why the purple man stood out there today.” Charlotte buzzed to life with revelation. “To tell me it's time to give it away. Only I was too busy to be with him. To hear him. Five minutes, that's all it would have taken. Five minutes. Instead, I stayed with my customer and forgot about him until it was too late.”

“Well, the Lord is talking to you now.” Tim stepped back, walking around Charlotte to put the scissors away. “The box is open.”

Raising the lid brought a level of joy only seeing the dress could bring. Like reliving every special day in her life over and over.

The notion of giving the dress away sat on her like a mantle. But to whom?

Charlotte removed the gown from its linen bag, the silky bodice smooth against her arm, the train collecting at her feet like windswept snow. The bodice and sleeves absorbed the light so the gown glowed.

“You think it's for one of your customers?” Tim hauled a dress form from the back of the closet and set it in the corner. “Did you have a special bride in the shop today? If the man appeared today, maybe that's a clue.”

“I don't know. I mean, I meet so many brides, but the dress has never come to mind before. Not even today when I saw him.” Charlotte slipped the gown over the dress form. “I don't know . . .”

She stood back, observing, thinking, praying. Only one person came to mind. “A few weeks ago I helped a new shop owner from Heart's Bend. I think I told you about her. I made her try on a dress and—”

“The Lord touched her. Something about her past.”

Charlotte glanced at her husband. “Haley. The dress goes to Haley.” She spoke at first in faith, but once the words were in the air, they brought life to her soul. “Yes, Haley.”

“Are you sure?” Tim yawned, scratching his head, the thrill of the chase fading.

“I am. I really am. I mean, I'll give it a few days, but yeah, Tim, Haley is the next bride for the wedding dress.” The thick chills down her arm punctuated her declaration.

“Then give her a call. When is she getting married?”

“That's just it. She's not. Said she doesn't want to get married. She'll be the bride's
maid
, so to speak, but never the bride. She had a really devastating breakup.”

“Sounds like the perfect time to tell her God's got something grand for her.” Tim kissed her cheek. “I'm going back to bed.”

“I'm going to stay in here and pray.” Charlotte dragged one of the chairs over to the dress and sat down, peaceful, ready to meditate.
Dress, where is your new home?

Tim paused at the door. “And if we have a daughter one day?”

“Then the Lord will have to send it back to her. If it is hers to wear.”

When she was alone, Charlotte sat for a long while in the quiet, in the glow of the dress. The gold threads from a hundred years ago still held. This gown's journey and existence were a miracle.

It had never been altered, yet it fit every one of the brides who wore it. Though it was designed a hundred years ago, it looked as if it could be on the cover of a bride's magazine today.

A blend of vintage and modern. The gown was timeless.

Charlotte's confidence grew. Haley Morgan was the next bride to own the wedding dress.

C
ORA

Thanksgiving 1932

Y
ou ought to accept Birch today.” Mama sat with her hands folded in her lap, her passenger window rolled halfway down, the delectable aroma of her good fried chicken, lima beans, and fresh baked bread filling Cora's car. “If he'll still have you.”

“Your brave act is not fooling me.” Cora took the bend in Mason Road toward the Good farm, a patch of blue trying to break through the overcast gray. “You don't want to live in the shop alone, Mama.”

“You're the one being fooled, Cora. You think you're denying Birch for me, but you're hiding. Afraid. You think he's your last chance at happiness, but what if he turns out like your daddy or Rufus.” Mama raised her chin a little higher. “And if I were you, I'd have thrown that piece of junk around your neck into the river. Don't stand for nothing good. It's an insult to Birch if you accept him.”

“It's a fine piece. Real gold. Just because Rufus was a bad egg doesn't mean the necklace is . . .” Cora pressed her fingers against the gold heart. She'd not taken it off since he gave it to her, kissing her in such a way she turned into ice cream on a hot summer day. “I don't think Birch will be like Daddy or Rufus. I just had to consider if I wanted to be a farmer's wife.” She'd thought about it all spring, summer, and into the fall, even though he had assured her she did not need to give up her shop.

Despite her emotional wrestling, she couldn't get away from the truth. Birch was a stellar man and he loved her. And that scared her the most. Something felt wrong to be so humbly loved by one man. In his light, she could see Rufus hadn't loved her at all.

“At least a farmer's wife eats.”

“After she works all day in the dirt.”

“You work all day, just in a different dirt. And Birch won't make you leave the shop. He already said so. He knows how important it is to you, to Heart's Bend.” Mama pulled a cigarette from her pocket. She wore a new fashion—culottes. Some sort of skirt-like pants swinging loose about her hips and legs. Her hair was a new blinding shade of blonde, and she'd plucked her eyebrows so she could draw on a pair like Joan Crawford's.

“When the divorce is final I think I'll head on back to New York. It'll be spring by then. I'd like to know you're married and settled before I go.”

“You can move in with me and Birch.”

She looked askance at Cora. “So you've decided then.”

She nodded. “But I thought I'd tell him first.”

Mama blew a long stream of smoke out the car window. “It's time to move on, Cora. For both of us. I'm happy for you.”

But she was nervous. “I've not seen him since the Labor Day parade.” Where he bought her an ice cream and walked her around town, talking, holding her hand. In Gardenia Park he asked again if she'd decided.

“I've given you all spring and summer, Cora. Surely you know your answer by now.”

Her answer,
“Mama's still so fragile,”
seemed acceptable to him.

“He'll be happy to finally have your answer,” Mama said. “I just hope you are worth the wait.”

“Mama!”

Meanwhile, the wedding business was slow. The drought across the south caused more farm failures than the bank closings,
and brides were choosing to wed in Sunday dresses or refashioning their mothers' gowns into their own.

Cora kept a close watch on her money, however, mindful that every time she withdrew money she was not compromising all Aunt Jane worked so hard to build.

“I hear Birch invited half the town to his Thanksgiving feast this year.” Mama sighed, shaking her head. “I sure do miss our big parties at the homestead.”

Hard to believe it'd been two years since Daddy informed them the bank was closing and he'd lost everything.

“When I marry Birch, you can play hostess again. You are far better at it than I am.”

“I'll be in New York.”

“You'll only have to turn around and come back for your first grandchild.” Cora spoke what she believed was right, what she wanted to be true. But the words felt foreign, as if they weren't truly for her.

Loving a man like Rufus took the wind from her heart. Might loving a man like Birch restore her?

“We'll see then.” Yet the corner of Mama's lips tugged into a smile.

All spring and summer, Mama had managed her grief and the dramatic changes in her life by driving out to Birch's farm, daily tending her gardens, which produced blue-ribbon winners at the county fair.

Cora slowed the car, taking the long drive down to the Good farmhouse. Yes, this
would
be a good place to build the rest of her life. She parked in the open field, the last in a long line of cars.

Mama scanned the horizon and the meadow. “Look at all the folks. Now, this is what you call a real Thanksgiving feast. Just think, you'll be the mistress of this place very soon.” She reached into the backseat for her tin of chicken, slipping her arm through the bread basket handle.

“One thing at a time, Mama.” She pictured Birch swinging her up in his arms with a shout, whirling her around, shouting to the guests, “I'm engaged!”

As they walked along the dusty, gravely drive toward the gathered crowd, Cora scanned the sea of faces for Birch.

When they arrived at the food tables, Mama was immediately surrounded by a group of women fascinated and aghast by her attire, fear mixed with envy in their shrill voices.

“I could never.”

“Dean would not let me out of the house!”

“Well, I think you look darling.”

“Good for you, taking charge of your own life, Esmé.”

Cora greeted friends, smiling, all the while scanning the faces for Birch.

“Cora, dear, how are you?” Reverend Clinton's wife squeezed her shoulders in a light hug. “We're so very sorry about your daddy.”

“Yes, well, it can't be helped.” Cora fixed a shallow smile. Was the reverend's wife talking about the divorce? Mama claimed she'd told no one. “So Mama told you?”

“Yes, of course. Such a tragedy for you and Esmé. You have our prayers. We are here for you.”

“Th-thank you. Prayers certainly make a difference.”

Odd. Very odd. Cora grabbed Mama as she walked passed. “Mama, why was Rosalee Clinton consoling me about Daddy? Please don't say you told them about the divorce.” She didn't want to think about divorce on her engagement day.

“No, I didn't mention the divorce.” Mama pinched her lips together with a sigh. “But I might have told a small white lie.”

“Oh, law, what did you tell them?” Cora squeezed Mama's arm, shoving her off to one side. “There is no such thing as a small white lie. I know because my mother told me. When she washed my mouth out with soap for fibbing.”

“Well, everyone kept asking about him.” Mama twisted her
hands together, staring over the pasture where the boys and men played football. Cora's heartbeat quickened when she finally spotted Birch. “It seemed a good idea at the time. What did you want me to say? The truth? A divorce means shame and humiliation, whispers and shunning. It means I lose my place on the Women's League board. I might want to marry again. I'm only fifty-four.”

“I can't even imagine what you said.” Cora folded her arms, waiting. “Go on, what did you tell them?”

“I might have told a few people . . .” She dipped her head as she lowered her voice. “That he, well, died.”

Cora gasped, stepping back. “That's a big, bold
black
lie. Mama, how could you?”

She jerked her arm from Cora's grasp. “I did it to save us.”

“Us? You mean yourself. You're moving back to New York, so why do you care? Now you're leaving me with this lie.”

“I'm doing you a favor, girl.” Mama stepped forward with bravado. “I do this because you're my daughter. Because you're about to get married. You think I want Ernie's cowardice and selfishness following you into your marriage? Making a mockery of our family because he can't come home and face the world he created? Be a man? Now folks actually have
sympathy
for us, and for him too, I might add. I'd rather face his fake death than the scandal of divorce.”

“Then where's the funeral? The fresh burial in the family plot?”

“I said he died in Florida and was buried there. Folks are too kind to ask any more questions.”

“Buried in Florida. Not in the Scott section of the Heart's Bend Memorial Gardens? Where three generations of Scotts and your son are buried? You're telling me folks are buying that?”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Cora, what's with the semantics? He's not really dead, you know. Go find Birch. Tell him yes. Think about your life, your future. That's what I'm doing.”

“You are a rascal through and through, Mama. What do you think the
kind
townsfolk will do when they find out he's alive?”

“Praise be!” Mama raised her hands in shocked surprise. “A miracle. Ernie Scott come back from the dead.”

“Oh my gosh, Mama, you are going to answer for this one day.”

But when she raised her gaze to Cora's, her lips quivered and her eyes swam with tears. “Don't be angry with me, but Ernie's fake death was the best out for us all. You know I'm right.”

Cora clung to her mother, the stately, kind woman who raised her to love God and love others, who was trying her darndest to save face among the people she'd known her whole life, to walk among them with some shred of dignity.

“I love you, Mama.”

“Love you too, honey-darling.” Mama gave her a hard squeeze, then stepped out of Cora's embrace, tipping her head to the field. “Go get your man.”

Her skin flushed warm. “I'm nervous.”

“Come on now, you ain't getting any younger.”

“That's the kind of pep talk every girl likes to hear.” Cora smoothed her hand over the skirt of the new dress she'd waited to wear until today.

“You look beautiful.” Mama touched the end of Cora's chin. “The dress brings out the honey flecks in your eyes. Now, go show those young girls how a mature, wise, beautiful woman handles her man. Come on, where's that pretty smile of yours? Ah, there it is. That's my girl.” Mama raised her hand, waving to Janice Pettrey. “Look at Janice, young and in love with that boy Ricky Cantwell. Now,
you
go get with Birch.”

Nervous! Cora was so very nervous as she started across the field, walking into the wind, the sun rising to its noon perch, casting a light along her path. This
was
her moment. Their moment.

Raising her hand over her eyes, she spotted Birch running through the field, his shirt tossed off, the ball tucked against his ribs, laughing, his tanned arms taut with muscle.

His hair gleamed as his bangs bounced over his forehead. He
looked like one of the boys chasing him. At thirty-seven, he even looked as fit and energetic as Orie Westbrook, a former Rock Mill High football star, who'd only graduated a few years ago. He was married now to Vera, with a little baby. Jimmy.

Orie tackled Birch, dropping him hard to the ground. He popped up laughing, tossing the ball to Fred Clemson, who seemed to be acting as referee.

Daddy loved football so Cora listened to the radio broadcasts with him. When she agreed to listen to the first nationally broadcasted Rose Bowl game in 1927, a game between Daddy's beloved Alabama and a California school, Stanford, his eyes misted a little.

Cora approached the fan section, greeting everyone, cooing over baby Jimmy, waiting for Birch to notice her. He looked so
vibrant
and happy. His grand smile nearly tipped her heart over. How had she not seen him like this before? Seems now that she'd made her decision to marry him, her heart woke up to love.

After a touchdown, the teams ran for the water bucket. Cora waved at Birch, hoping he'd come over her way. But he seemed caught up with his team.

“You want some water, Cora?” Vera said. “I'll walk over with you.”

“How do you like being a mother?” She was young, not more than nineteen. At thirty-two, Cora felt ancient next to her.

“It's a lot of work.” She looked at Jimmy, who munched on a teething ring. “He's a sweet boy but I—”

Vera's voice faded in Cora's ears as a scene up ahead captured her attention. Twenty yards away, beautiful Janice Pettrey ran toward Birch, leaving
that boy
Ricky behind, and launched into his arms. Birch caught her up and swung her around, his face buried in her neck. Her excited scream-laugh pierced the air. Pierced Cora.

She stopped walking. Birch? What was happening?

“Cora?” Vera said, looking back at her. “You coming?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Cora forced her feet to comply though the vision of Janice in Birch's arms burned into her soul.