The Wedding Dress(18)

It was after seven when Charlotte let herself into her loft, flipping on the entry light, balancing her bring-home work and the mail as her black satchel slipped off her shoulder.

Junk mail fluttered from her fingers to the floor. Crossing the living room through the coming night shadows, Charlotte banged into the antique trunk she’d left sitting in the middle of the room. She moaned and caught the sour word forming on the edge of her tongue.

“Stupid thing.” She kicked at it before stooping to pick up the dropped mail. What was she going to do with it? The lock was still welded shut and the pale, parched wood needed a long drink of polish. Both required an effort she wasn’t willing to expend at the moment.

But never mind the trunk. She’d had a great day. Kristin Gillaspy walked out of the shop with a Bray-Lindsay of Paris purchase and an appointment next week for her first fitting and to talk about bridesmaids’ dresses.

Dixie had popped Charlotte a low five as their latest satisfied client exited the shop. “I never tire of watching you work.”

“Mama always told me to use my powers for good.”

Laughter went well at the end of a sale. However, not so much after cracking her toe against a junky ole trunk. Charlotte dropped her bag on the dining table along with her pile of catalogs and printouts from the shop to review, then bent to rub her toe. Kicking sharp wooden corners smarted.

She’d left the trunk in the living room for Tim to see. Maybe he could do something with it. After all, he loved restoring the downtown buildings and old neighborhoods of Birmingham. The trunk seemed like a small, simple project in comparison. Maybe the dry leather and thirsty wood would tug at Tim’s heartstrings. They certainly didn’t tug at Charlotte’s.

Pulling her phone from her purse, she checked to see if her man had responded to her two voice messages and three texts.

But her screen was blank. Tim’s office assistant said he’d left midmorning and not returned. Said he was “out.”

Charlotte stared out her fourth-floor window toward the amber hue rising over the city and the stream of white, bright, after-work headlights. In the quiet, she could hear her heartbeat, hear her own questions about Tim and their wedding.

Something about his afternoon silence fed her doubts. Or maybe her uneasiness was just Dixie’s probing and poking about why she hadn’t picked her own gown yet. It just didn’t seem as fun as fitting brides-to-be like Kristin.

Okay, tell the truth. Was she dragging her feet? Why didn’t she gush with excitement like her clients? Why didn’t she have her own unique set of wedding dreams?

Charlotte’s heart ached with the collision of her thoughts and feelings. Maybe Tim wasn’t truly the one? She loved him, more than she had loved anyone besides Mama—but did she gush and blush like Kristin Gillaspy did when she spoke of her Oliver?

Charlotte gazed down at Tim’s grandmother’s ring. A piece of vast Rose family history gripped her finger. Her next breath shallowed as if she’d been running for miles.

The girl with no branches on her family tree was marrying into the deep-rooted Rose clan. Charlotte’s family tree consisted of Mama as the trunk and Charlotte as the one and only sprig. No father, no siblings. No grandparents. No aunts and uncles.

“Okay, you’re depressing yourself, Charlotte.” She roused herself, unbuttoning her suit jacket and heading back to her bedroom to change into comfy jeans, her ’Bama t-shirt, and thick socks.

As she rounded the corner, she spotted her wedding invitations under the coffee table. Ah, there they were. She’d had Tim put them there to get them out of the hallway.

But tonight, Tim was coming over to address the invitations to their guests.

The ancient beams of the old-warehouse-turned-loft creaked as Charlotte moved the box out from under the table, as she changed her clothes, washed her face, and gathered her hair into a ponytail. The sounds of the loft comforted her, blanketing her heart.

Pizza sounded good for dinner. She pulled a DiGiorno’s from the freezer. Then texted Tim.

Pizza for dinner. You want salad?

Waiting for his response, Charlotte picked up the Blu-ray player remote and surfed to the Pandora station labeled “Oldies.”

She took her iPad from her satchel, swung by the fridge for a Diet Coke, and curled up on the sofa to go through e-mail. A new designer had contacted her, requesting a meeting. But her designs were vintage and Charlotte knew without looking they wouldn’t fit the Malone & Co. contemporary brand.

As the aroma of baking pizza filled the loft, her stomach rumbled, reminding her she’d skipped lunch. Reminding her Tim had yet to contact her.

Eight o’clock. Anytime now, Tim. She peeked at her phone sitting on the sofa next to her. Sometimes the signal didn’t reach the loft and she missed a call or text. But Tim’s silence was not from a cyberspace hiccup. She knew it.

In the four months she’d known him, Charlotte had learned that Tim’s afternoons took on a life of their own—client calls, city planning meetings, and consultation opportunities filled the cracks in his schedule. But he always managed a quick text or fast e-mail.

Running late.

Pandora played John Waite’s “Missing You.” Charlotte eyed the screen. A shiver crept over her scalp. I ain’t missing . . .

The oven timer buzzed and Charlotte shot off the couch, breaking away from the split moment of rising fear. She snatched up her phone on the way to the kitchen.