The Wedding Shop (9 page)

“Hey, I'm not the one who wants to flush money down this toilet.”

Why was she battling Cole? This was going nowhere. She'd learned from supervising logistics teams that a soft answer worked way better than a harsh one.

She faced him, smiling. “I'll formally ask you for a bid. Name your price.”

“We'll see. If you get the place.” He started down the stairs, his phone buzzing and beckoning again. “I need to run.”

“Thanks for coming.”

Keith leaned on the banister, peering down the stairs. “Yeah, you two would make the perfect couple.”

“Stop. He was engaged to my best friend.” Haley started down to the mezzanine. “Will I see you tonight?”

“Wouldn't miss it. You came back to Heart's Bend just in time. A day or two later and Akron would've had this place razed to the ground.”

C
ORA

June 1930

M
ail call! Cora, you here? Got a boatload for you today. Literally. The mail packet nearly sank from all your orders.”

“What?” Cora angled over the mezzanine rail, peering down into the foyer as Morris came through the front door. “That's impossible.” But there he stood with a sack of letters at his feet. Cora scurried down the steps. “Are you sure they're all for me?”

She dropped to one knee, burying her hands in the bag, gripping a stack of letters with both hands. “Wowzer, Odelia is going to faint away, I tell you. Faint away.”

Morris had exaggerated, of course. There wasn't enough to sink a canoe, let alone a packet, but mercy, there were a lot of letters sent to her P.O. box.

“Where did all this come from? You got a lot of pen pals or something?”

“Last fall I scheduled an ad in
Modern Priscilla
's April and May issue. I thought we'd try to sell some of Odelia's services. Some gals don't live near a city and need a wedding gown or a suit for the honeymoon. Mercy! I never thought we'd have this kind of response.” She shoved the letters in her right hand at Morris. “I'm not sure we can handle all of this.”

“Well, goodness girl, you only advertised to nine hundred thousand women.”

She laughed softly, flipping her gaze up at him. “And how do you know how many read
Modern Priscilla
?”

“I read the cover when I delivered it. What do you think? I have my own subscription?” He harrumphed, feigning offense.

“Look at these return addresses. Oregon. California. New Mexico. Louisiana. Vermont. They're from all over.” Her little wedding shop had reached the nation. With one little ad.

Wait until she wrote Rufus tonight.

“Does this mean money for Odelia?” Morris knew just about everything about everyone in town. “She and Lloyd could use it. Taxes are killing them out on the farm.”

“Yes, it means money, and taxes are killing us all.” Cora picked up the sack to carry it upstairs, but Morris took it from her shoulder.

“Let a man do his job, now.”

On the mezzanine level, Cora instructed Morris to store the bag of mail in the alcove.

“I'll get the bag from you when you're done. Don't go throwing it away.” He started for the stairs, stopped short, and swerved around. “Oh, I darn near forgot. Got these for you too, Cora.” He handed over letters from his pouch. “A few letters addressed to the shop, not the P.O. box.”

“Thank you.” Cora reached for the small stack of letters. With the wellspring of ad orders, she was feeling, well, lucky. Today she'd receive a letter from Rufus.

“All righty, I'll be off. See you at the dance over at the VFW? I believe your mama is on the planning committee.”

Cora shuffled quickly through the letters, her pulse thick in her ears. “What? The dance? Oh—” Cora faced Morris, with his mop of red hair and scattering of freckles. “Of course.”

She'd written Rufus about it in May, asking him to come. He pledged to make every effort. But his work had him on the Colorado for the spring. He wrote her lovely letters describing the
Rocky Mountains and how he'd take her there one day. Oh, how she'd love to go. “What about you and Gena?”

“Us? No, she's expecting number six any day now.” Morris scratched his head and in that moment looked much older to Cora than his thirty-five years. “I tell you, I can't hardly touch her and she don't end up with a little one growing in her belly.”

“Morris!” She touched her hands to her flushed cheeks.

He angled toward Cora. “She's as amorous as they come, let me tell you.” He winked and deepened her embarrassment.

“I don't think this is an altogether appropriate conversation.”

Morris snapped back as if suddenly aware of his intimate confession. He marched for the stairs. “So, the dance? You'll be there? My cousin Bert is coming over from Knoxville. Said he'd like to take a turn on the dance floor with you.”

“Your cousin Bert?” The letters burned in her hand. One of them had to be from Rufus. She could feel it.

“The one you met at the Christmas dance. You did the two-step with him.”

“Right, Bert, I remember.” A real corn shredder that one. Cora's feet practically throbbed at the thought of dancing with him again.

“Good. Be looking for him, now.”

“You bet.” When she spotted Bert, she'd duck the other way. Not that she meant any rudeness. It's just she'd prefer not to be in any man's arms but Rufus's. And if it was all the same to Daddy and Mama, Morris, Bert, and the people of Heart's Bend, she'd like to keep it that way.

As Morris went down the stairs, Odelia came up, stopping dead cold by the alcove. “What in tarnation is all this?” She pointed to the small mailbag overflowing with white envelopes.

“Orders.”

“Orders!” Odelia slumped down in the chair against the wall, pulling the bag to her. “From that little ad you put in
Modern Pricilla
? There must be a couple hundred. How're we going to fill
all of these?” Panic spiked her voice. “I'm gonna have to hire help, Cora. You know I'm
going
to have to hire help.”

“Then hire help.” Aunt Jane's money sat in the bank, waiting to be put to good use. Even more since the lawyer released the rest of her trust into Cora's account.

She spent as little as possible. Besides salaries, inventory, and repairs for the shop, she rarely touched the shop's money. She could afford a few hundred dollars for materials and labor.

Though lately, she'd had an itching to tuck a few dollars under the mattress. Mama kept a couple of twenties in a tin can under the back porch.

Daddy thought she was crazy, but Mama said, “You just never know.”

“Cora, look at this one. Sent the money along with the order. Thirty dollars cash for a leaving suit. Trusting fool.”

“Odelia, now wait.” Cora reached for the clipboard and ledger on the desk. “Don't go getting them all mixed up. We won't know who ordered what and who paid.”

“Ain't they ever heard of COD? Cash on delivery. How do they know we're not running a con? Cora, why in the world did you go putting an ad in a magazine?”

“Because it's good business. An alternate source of income. We're helping girls who might not otherwise have a chance at a nice dress. I think Aunt Jane would've liked it. She always believed every woman deserved a lovely wedding gown and leaving suit. No matter how poor or how remotely she lived. This ad allows us to do what we do right here in Heart's Bend for women across the country. Think of it, Odelia. You'll be sewing for . . .” Cora snagged up one of the letters. “Martha Snodgrass from Stow, Vermont.”

“Like I don't have enough sewing to do round here.” Odelia reached for the garment bag. “I got Miss Dunlap's evening gown right here.”

From below came a sweet, lilting, “Hello? Cora?”

“Speaking of . . .” Cora rose for the stairs. The Dunlaps returned today for a final fitting. The wedding was in two weeks. Cora leaned over the mezzanine rail. “Mrs. Dunlap, Ruth, ladies, welcome. I'll be along.”

The Dunlaps came with the usual crowd—grandmothers, aunts, sisters, cousins, and friends. But something Morris said stuck with her. “Odelia, is everything all right at home? With Lloyd?”

“Oh, law, not you too. We're fine. I wish everyone would quit pestering me.” She dumped the orders back in the mail sack and disappeared into the long, narrow storeroom, shoving between the clothing racks, flipping on the light in back. “I'll work on pulling together Ruth's trousseau items. Sorry I were late.”

“You'd tell me if you needed help, wouldn't you?”

“Yes. Now, leave me be. Don't keep the customer waiting.”

Cora's eyes met Odelia's where a sad shadow dimmed her soul's light. “Whatever it is, Odelia, I can help.”

“You can help by getting out of my workspace. Scoot. Scat.”

“Have it your way, but—”

“Of course I'll have it my way.”

Cora greeted the Dunlap party, her heart a swirl of Morris, Odelia, the bag of orders, and a handful of letters she had yet to inspect, one of which might be from her true love.

“Let's get settled.” Cora moved the party into the main salon. “Ruthie, go on up to the mezzanine. Odelia is waiting for you.”

“I can't tell you how excited I am.” The young bride with the flushed pink cheeks ran up the stairs.

Mrs. Dunlap sat on the sofa with an exaggerated sigh, her posture stiff, barely glancing at the others—her youngest daughter, her two nieces, her mother, along with the groom's mother and grandmother.

“Are we ready for Ruth's big day?” Mama entered wearing a sheer lace apron over her starched and pressed blue dress, looking
regal and thin, like a real Hollywood beauty. “She's going to be a beautiful bride. Would anyone care for iced tea?”

Stony silence. No one raised their hands.

“Ladies, it's a beautiful day. We're going to see Ruth in her wedding dress. Is everything all right?” Cora scanned their faces, trying to discern the source of the trouble. She paused on Mrs. Welker, the groom's mother. “Mrs. Welker?”

Light glinted off the mother-in-law-to-be's pale brown hair, a product of L'Oreal, Cora was certain.

“I'll just say it.” Mrs. Welker raised her chin, brushing her hand over her skirt.

Mrs. Dunlap sighed. “Must you, Fleming?”

“Laurel, I'm sorry you have to hear it, but it's true.” Mrs. Welker stood. “Recent news came to light, and we now know what I suspected all along. Ruth is not good enough for my boy.” She turned to Cora. “Don't bother with a white gown for this girl. She is no virgin.”

“Fleming!” Mrs. Dunlap shot from her perch so fast her hat toppled forward on her head. “How dare you?”

“I'm sorry if the truth hurts. But if you think she was sitting in her room at night saying her prayers while off at that Yankee college, then I've got a swamp to sell you down in the bayou.”

“Fleming Welker, stop right there. You'll not sully my daughter's good reputation with your lies.”

“Lies? You just refuse to hear the truth, Laurel.”

“Mrs. Welker . . . Mama . . . W-what's going on?” Ruth hovered on the bottom step, so demure and refined in a dove-colored going-away dress with princess sleeves, belted neatly at her trim waist.

“N-nothing, sweetheart.” Mrs. Dunlap moved to the stairs. “Oh my, don't you look beautiful. The suit brings out the color in your eyes.”

“Now, don't lie to her, Laurel. I was telling your mother what a modern flapper you were at Wellesley.”

Ruth's fine complexion flushed white. “I don't know what you mean.” She glanced between her mother and future mother-in-law.

“You know precisely what I mean.”

“Fleming, will you
please
be quiet?” Mrs. Dunlap said. “Ruth, darling, is that your going-away dress? It's exquisite.”

“Mama, hush. Mrs. Welker, what is it you think I've done?”

Mrs. Dunlap stepped in between her daughter and her attacker, looking like a well-coiffed mother bear. “She claims you were . . . Goodness, I can hardly speak the word.”

“Claims I was what?”

“Promiscuous. In college.”

“And where did you hear this?” Ruth stepped around her mother, holding her chin high.

Cora grabbed Mama and shoved her toward the small salon while cheering the young bride on in her heart.

“Wait, what are you doing? I want to hear this,” she whispered.

“Mama, shh.” Cora tucked against the wall. “We can listen on this side.”

“I have my sources,” Mrs. Welker said.

“Well.” Ruth's speech was slow, deliberate. “Did your source tell you your son got a young woman pregnant?”

The room gasped, quite literally. Cora sensed the air leaving the room, and for a vast moment she couldn't catch her own breath. Every woman, every nook and cranny, every beam, and every strip of hardwood exhaled.

“How dare you—”

“Doesn't feel so good, does it, Fleming?” Mrs. Dunlap's highbrow tone took control.

“Ruth Dunlap, I'll not have you denigrate my son in such a manner.”

“He confessed to me after he proposed. His conscience wouldn't leave him alone.”

Mama gripped Cora's hand. “I've worked in this shop for over twenty years with Jane, and you, and I never . . . simply never.”

“Mama, come on.” Cora grabbed her hand, trying to pull her into the pantry. “We shouldn't be eavesdropping.”

“Eavesdropping? You can practically hear them from the street. We've already heard the worst. Let's see where they go from here.”

Cora sighed, started to protest, but hovered against the wall with Mama, quiet as mice. She did want to see how this drama turned out.