The Wedding Shop (8 page)

“She can't hear me through the walls.”

“Good morning, Liberty,” Cora said, stepping onto the porch, tugging on her driving gloves.

“Morning, Miss Scott.”

Cora stopped in the middle of the walk. “Liberty,” she said, seeing a lightness in the young woman's step, a luminous quality to her dark, pretty expression. “Are you glowing?”

She stopped, eyes averted. “I might be.”

“Do tell.” Cora recognized the light of love in her eyes. She'd seen it in her brides many times.

“I done got engaged last night, Miss Cora.” She raised her hand, displaying a thin gold band with a small center pearl. “Ain't it lovely? The finest thing I've ever owned. And my man got a promotion as foreman at the DuPont plant, yes he did.”

“Well, congratulations.” Cora drew her into an embrace. “You'll have to come by the shop, pick out a dress.”

The DuPont plant along with the L&N freight system and the Cumberland River trade made Heart's Bend a middle Tennessee gem. Their little town was prospering. The Yankees could keep their collapsing economy.

“Come by your shop? Oh, Miss Cora, I don't think—”

“Well, I do think and I insist.” Jim Crow be darned. “Come by on your afternoon off. I'll see what I can find for you.”

“Thank you kindly, Miss Cora, but I reckon we'll be saving money for the church and a small reception.”

“Nonsense. The gown will be my gift to you. You've been a good maid to the house.”

“My afternoon off is Wednesdays. I work Saturdays at the plant, cleaning the offices.”

“Wednesday afternoon is fine. Today, then?”

“If you're sure.”

“Of course I'm sure.”

Cora slipped behind the wheel of her car, rolled down the window, and fitted her key into the ignition.

When Aunt Jane died and left her with more money than she'd ever dreamed of having—which shocked Daddy as well—Cora purchased her own car. A brand-new Buick roadster for eleven hundred dollars. Daddy liked to have choked. But, oh, it was a pretty thing and very sporty. Aunt Jane would most definitely have approved.

Rufus thought the car fit her very well. He liked to drive it when he came to town, and she happily let him sport her around.

True love was all around her. Daily. At the shop. At home, despite Daddy and Mama's bickering. Now sweet Liberty had found bliss.

How long must she continue to wait? Didn't God hear her nightly pleas?

Yet, if true love brought the kind of joy that beamed from Liberty's lovely face, then Cora would wait for Rufus until man walked on the moon. She didn't care if she was forty, fifty, or a hundred, that was the kind of love she wanted.

Easing off the clutch and moving down the shaded lane, Cora fought an image of Birch Good parading across her mind along with Daddy's,
“He's no dewdropper.”

He was handsome enough. Fit as a fiddle with his farm-trained muscles. He was sweet and kind, steady as the day was long. Rock solid and . . . boring.

Cora eased to a stop at the end of the road and dropped her head to the steering wheel.
Oh so boring.

Every day would be the same with him. Up before dawn to face backbreaking farm work, then to bed at dusk, falling into an exhausted sleep. All for what? So the elements, the pests, the market prices could devour it all?

She imagined he'd kiss her politely in the morning, then again at night. He'd make love to her once a week and take her to church every Sunday, after which they'd dine at her parents'.

Maybe, for a hootenanny, he'd drive her down to the Bluegrass Tavern on a Friday night to listen to the band, drink a glass of sarsaparilla, and share a plate of deep-fried chicken.

The very idea made her heart race. “Lord, please, no, I beg of You.”

A horn sounded behind her and she jerked her head up, popping off the clutch at the same time, raising up to see Mr. Carmichael in her rearview mirror, frowning.

Like he'd never sat at a stop sign too long. For ages, he'd stop at the end of the street to read the newspaper before going home to his six kids.

By the time Cora drove the two miles to the shop and parked in the side shade of Blossom Street, she'd affirmed her resolve. She was in love with Captain Rufus St. Claire, and if she were to have
any
adventure in life, any
passion
, she would wait an eternity for him.

H
ALEY

T
uesday morning Haley waited for Realtor Keith Niven on the shop's front walk, a messenger bag slung over her shoulder, watching the traffic pass the corner of Blossom and First.

A thick snow drifted down from a pale gray sky, but from her vantage point she could see the northeast corner of Heart's Bend, toward the shops on First Avenue, across to Gardenia Park, and down Main Street.

The day was bleak and snowy, but she was happy. Something good was about to go down.

Yesterday she spent an hour with Drummond Branson, head of the Reclaim Downtown committee and the Historical Society. He was also a respected contractor and surveyor in the area.

If anyone knew how to make her dream a reality, it was Mr. Branson. He armed her with an original drawing of the shop, tips on renovation, ideas for funding, and how to approach the town council.

There was a meeting tonight at city hall about this very corner of town.

“As for the Historical Society, we want this building preserved, so we'll give you a lot of leeway as long as you stick to the original structure.” He tapped the canister containing the original architect's design. “Cole Danner would be excellent for this job. If you can get him to do it.”

“What about you? Could you do it?”

“Not really my bailiwick, renovations. My work calendar is full. Doing more surveying these days than construction.”

Hmmm. So that left her with Cole. She'd deal with
that
fact later. She didn't like the spark—was that the right word?—she felt between them. He was too easy to be around. Being Tammy's boyfriend and fiancé had created an easy barrier between them. But now . . .

No.
She couldn't have feelings for him. She didn't come home to fall in love. What she felt for him was pure sentiment. An affection for yesteryear.

However, if he could help her get the shop going, she could manage herself around him for the renovation duration.

The best part about meeting with Drummond was his confidence that she could convince the town council to give her the building.
Give!
With no back taxes. If she promised to restore it.
And
if she ran a successful business for the first year. They'd been burned on letting other entrepreneurs in there only to have them trash the place and bug out in six months.

Drummond also said the city might pony up some renovation cash. The last of Reclaim Downtown funds he managed were designated, but the city had some set aside for historical preservation. He also gave Haley the name of a loan officer at Downtown Mutual who liked to support small businesses.

History had it that Downtown Mutual was a throwback to Miss Cora's father, Ernest Scott, who opened Heart's Bend Mutual in the twenties.

Which brought her to this moment. Pacing the sidewalk in front of the shop waiting for Keith.
Come on, man. It's cold out
.

She'd invited Cole too—based on Drummond's recommendation—but he said he wasn't sure he'd make it.
Okay, fine
. She wasn't sure she wanted to see him. Though a ping shot through her every time he came to mind.

Anyway, last night she'd done more research on the wedding business, on how to run a wedding shop, develop a business plan, and what to expect when renovating an old building.

She mocked up a budget—stabbing in the dark on that one—and listed her assets. Which included ten thousand dollars in savings and her Harley.

She'd lived large while in the air force. Spent too much money. Another aspect of her relationship with Dax. He liked to spend money.

But that was last year.
So
last year. Time to stop blaming him and own up to her foolish decisions. This was her season to start over, build a new life, and scrub the last of Dax from her memory.

A dark-tinted Mercedes pulled up along the curb. Haley's adrenaline kicked in, like when her logistics crew had to process some top secret, classified part for a plane or tanker.
Go time.

“Haley?” A lean, dark-haired man with lots of energy jumped the curb, slipping off his gloves, offering his bare, warm hand. “Keith Niven.” He faced the redbrick structure, tucking his gloves into his pocket. “You'll be a town legend if you achieve anything with this eyesore. No one's been able to put a successful business in this place since Miss Cora closed down the shop in 1979.”

“Because no one tried to open a wedding shop.”

He glanced down at her with a glint of approval. “A woman with vision. I like it.” He held up the keys. “Let's take a look.”

Haley followed him up the walk, listening to his recitation of the shop's history. Stuff she already knew but didn't mind hearing again.

“Built in 1890 by Jane Scott, who was a real beauty, left home to be on Broadway but ended up in Paris fashion. Came home after a few years, brokenhearted, the story goes, and had an idea to bring high fashion to Heart's Bend. Her father helped her hire noted Nashville architect Hugh Cathcart Thompson, built the shop, including her own apartment on the third floor, and brought the
bridal business to Heart's Bend. She passed it on to her great-niece, Cora, who ran the shop for over fifty years.” Keith turned the lock and shoved the door open.

“Fifty-five years.” Haley remembered the details of her sixth-grade paper, which she'd typed on the kids' computer, propping the picture she'd found when she was ten, hiding from the rain in the shop, against the desk lamp.

“Perfect. You already know more than I do. The Historical Society might have some intel, but you can bet there's some little old blue hair in town who bought her wedding trousseau here.” Keith mimed sipping from a cup of tea with his pinky in the air, then stepped aside as Haley entered the foyer. “Well, what do you think?”

Haley wrinkled her nose. “What's that smell?”

She stood in the narrow foyer with Keith, pinned in by walls that hadn't been there when she was playing brides with Tammy.

“Hey, sorry I'm late.” Cole cut between them, stepping into the foyer, dusting the snow from his dark brown hair, his blue eyes bright against his red-tinged cheeks.

“This was as far as we got,” Haley said.

“Look at this place.” Cole kicked one of the dividing walls, grabbing the edge and giving it a shake. “This is not up to code. Probably wasn't permitted.”

“It's not part of the design.” Haley slipped a document from her messenger bag. “Drummond Branson gave me a copy of the original plans. He said the Historical Society would give me a lot of room as long as we stick to the main structure.”

Cole reached for it, studying the lines, then scanning the shop. “All of this should be open.”

“Exactly.” Haley cut through the doorway on her right. The walls cut off all the light coming through the front display windows. “This was the grand salon, I think. It's the biggest room. Not sure what Miss Cora did here.” She exited back into the foyer.
“This is the staircase and over here”—she slipped through the doorway on the left—“is the small salon.”

The smaller salon had a stained carpet covering the floor replete with a near-black pathway from the front door to the back. “This is nasty.”

“Yeah, the last business in here,” Keith said, “was a computer repair shop, Microfix or something, and the guy was a slob.”

Cole disappeared into what looked like a butler's pantry, made some kind of racket, then reappeared. “The wall is wet. Probably a leak in the roof, which means mold.”

Mold? Never good. “Do you think it will take a hundred grand to fix it up?”

“At least.” Cole's flat tone said he wasn't on board with this project. “The plumbing and electricity will all have to be redone, bathrooms renovated, floors sanded and stained, not to mention what's behind the walls where we can't see. Like asbestos. Roof needs to be replaced. The windows, the light fixtures . . .” He held up his hand, running his thumb over his fingertips.
Money
.

“You know Akron Developers has offered the city a lot of money for this plot of land,” Keith said. “You might be up against it on that one, Haley.”

“I already told her.” Cole again, sounding more enthusiastic over Akron's plan than hers. “The town's sentiment toward this place has run thin. Not many women left who got their trousseaus here. On the other hand, Akron has a good reputation in town, become a part of the community, built a park for kids with special needs on the southwest side of town. People like them.”

“Though last year they tried to tear down an old wedding chapel Coach Westbrook built. Nearly ruined my reputation.” Keith huffed and puffed, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. “So, Haley, what are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking Tammy stood on these steps wearing a newspaper veil.” Haley jogged halfway up the stairs.

Cole shook his head, looking up at her. “You can't get through a renovation and establish a business on the fluffy clouds of sentiment.”

“Do you think I'm an imbecile?” She went the rest of the way to the mezzanine. “The memories are the cherries on top. Now, what do you think needs to be done up here?”

Cole followed, repeating his laundry list of electricity, plumbing, floor sanding, adding new windows this time, pausing by the door just right of the stairs. “No telling what's in here.” The knob refused to turn. “Locked.”

From his pocket, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then tucked his phone away.

“You know, now that I think about it, my grandmother bought her dress from Cora in the forties. After the war,” Keith said, trying the keys on the shop's key ring in the locked door. But none of them worked. “You're going to have to drill it open, Cole.”

“Me? I'm just here giving an estimate.”

Haley bent for a better look. “Maybe we can find the key. I'd like to keep this doorknob. It looks old.” She stood, motioning to the third-floor stairs. “Let's check out the apartment. I'd like to live in it.” Haley led the way up, landing at the top level, instantly enchanted despite the stream of cold, snowy air streaming through the high, transom windows.

Cole pointed to the damaged glass. “Add another ten grand, Haley.”

She turned to Keith. “Drummond said if I show up at the town council meeting, they might give it to me.”

“Haley, you're crazy.” Cole said.

“No, I'm not. Why does everyone think I can't know my own mind? I was sane when I went to the University of Tennessee. Sane when I majored in business. Sane—well, unless you ask my mother—when I joined the air force. Sane when I made captain. Sane when I decided to get out. And I'm sane now.”

“This place is a money pit, Haley. Even if they do give you the building, you're going to have to sink a hundred and twenty grand into it.”

Keith leaned against the brick wall of the alcove, arms folded, watching, amused. “You two fight like an old married couple.”

“Oh no, don't even go there.” Cole's heels skipped across the dull hardwood as he leaned into the torn-up bathroom and what looked to be the bedroom. White sheers swung from the window, dancing in the breeze slipping through the crack.

“We're the last two people who'd ever be a couple.” Haley peeked into what might have been the kitchen.

With her imagination, she could see beyond the barrenness, the dirt and broken windows, picturing a quaint, homey space. Even better, she could see herself here, dialing down, working with brides, putting the past behind her, and passing life as an old maid like Miss Cora.

A year or two, or a decade, without drama sounded like heaven.

“You got that right.” Cole's phone beckoned again. He frowned at the screen, then tucked it away.

“Do you need to take that?” Haley said.

“No.” He shook his head.

“Your biggest problem isn't money, Haley,” Keith said, leaning against the brick alcove. “Or how you two protest too much over being a couple. Your problem is Akron. They make a good case for their parking lot. Other than sentiment, there's no reason to keep this shop. Akron's already sold half the lofts in the old mill they're renovating, and they haven't even started construction.”

“I don't care. Heart's Bend needs this wedding shop. It's meant to be here.”

“Then you best get to the town council before they side with Akron,” Keith said.

“I'll be there tonight.” Haley turned to Cole. “It'd help if I could say you were my contractor.”

“Help? I'm not a philanthropist. I can certainly entertain a bid.” Again with his buzzing phone. He didn't even bother to pull it from his pocket. He peeled away a rotten part of the wall. “Duct work looks bad. Add another ten grand.”

“ ‘Add another ten grand.' You can have that engraved on your tombstone. Cole Danner . . . He's in heaven now, but add another ten grand.”