The Wedding Dress(103)

“Then I’ll pay you back.” Now that Charlotte knew where the money originated, the sheen was off the prize.

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“I don’t want your guilt money.”

“It’s not guilt, Charlotte. I could hardly spend away my guilt, or even pretend to buy affection from a girl who didn’t even know me. It was a gift. Hardly enough to compensate growing up without Colby.” She smiled. “He’d have liked you.”

Charlotte stared out the window, over a lush summer lawn, a heaviness rising in her chest. A hundred thousand dollars. A gift from her father’s wife. She’d trade it all for a chance to have met the man face-to-face.



On the edge of the manicured grounds of the Ludlow Estate, Charlotte paused for a pure, deep breath. Blue sky, summer trees, sunlight bouncing off the sparkling windows.

Three months ago she’d driven up here to think, to feel closer to heaven. To Mama. Little did she know the ridge was burdened with secrets.

The mountain was quiet except for the wind. Charlotte made her way up the walk to the house and let herself in, standing in the expanse of the house her great grandparents built. The house where Emily had raised her grandfather.

The house where her father had played.

“Charlotte, what are you doing here? Did you bring my dress?” Cleo’s walk hammered across the gleaming, spotless foyer hardwood.

“I’d like to see the library.”

“All right.” Cleo eyed her for a lingering moment before turning with a quick motion. “I’m working on the subpoena for the dress.”

“What’s the delay?”

“The judge wants more proof.” She ruffled. “Seems just a picture isn’t enough.”

Charlotte pulled two photos from her purse as she broke into the bright, white library, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing a breathtaking view of the valley.

“I thought you’d like to see these.” She offered the pictures of Mary Grace and Hillary in the gown. “Emily gave the gown to Mary Grace, who left it for Hillary. If a picture is proof of ownership, what are you going to do with these?” She pulled out Mama’s letter to Colby. “And this certified letter from my mother to Colby asking for child support? His wife gave it to me.”

“Oh mercy, what in the world . . .” Cleo walked to the window, reading the letter in the light. When she finished she turned to Charlotte. “So you’re going to take this beautiful estate from the city? Claim your inheritance? It’s probably too late. Besides, you can’t manage this place, Charlotte. Once it becomes private, the public funds go away.”

Charlotte laughed low. Poor Cleo. She had too much of her identity in her job. “I don’t want this place, Cleo. All I want is the dress. The legend is that—”

“What legend?”

“The legend that the dress fits every bride who is supposed to wear it. It’s never been altered.” Charlotte walked along the wall of pictures, trying to grasp the faces and names that somehow belonged to her.

She paused in front of Colby. An image from his professor days. She could see something of herself in his eyes. “Do you think he’s rolling over in his grave because his daughter didn’t go to college?”

“Most likely . . . Charlotte, Noelia said you are Colby’s daughter?”

“Yes, she did.” Charlotte stopped in front of the picture of Emily in her wedding gown. “This is the one she was going to wear?”

“When she was to marry Phillip Saltonstall.”

Charlotte turned to Cleo. “Did you know Hillary Saltonstall wore the dress in 1968? Phillip was her great-uncle.”

Cleo buttoned her lip, her chest deflating. Her fight waning. Charlotte smiled. God had a way of weaving a lovely tapestry.

“Well then. What are you going to do with the dress, Charlotte? Sell it? You can’t do that . . . it’s . . . it’s not right.”

“Sell it? No, Cleo, no. I’m not going to sell it. I’m going to wear it.”



Tim

Tim swept the last of the dust and grime from his garage. The hollow emptiness of the three-car space made him feel a bit empty. Out of sorts, maybe. But unbelievably free.

He leaned on the broom handle, peering toward the sunset that ribboned through the trees. With or without Charlotte, it was time to grow up. Maybe when and if he had kids, he could take up moto-cross again.

When he’d loaded his last bike into the truck bed of his final customer, the tightness in his chest released and he understood how long he’d been hanging on to something God had asked him to surrender.

He was free. He thought racing made him free, took the edge off, allowed him to burn off stress and energy, be adventurous. No. Racing kept him in bondage. He couldn’t not race. Other factors in his life had gone cold, waiting on back burners, for him to get around to them.

Like taking up his guitar again. Giving more attention to his career. Settling down. Marriage. Time with his friend, Jesus.

A truck motor hummed in the driveway. Tim looked up as David cut the engine and stepped out.

“How’s it feel?” he asked, making his way toward the garage.

“Like I lost fifteen hundred pounds.”

“I can’t believe you did it.” David smacked Tim on the shoulder. “Good news. The downtown commission loved your designs for the remodel of the old Saltonstall offices and furnace, including the bronze memorial to convict labor.”