The Wedding Dress(2)
Charlotte stepped under the tent’s shade. “Actually, Cleo,”—I came up here to think—“my bridal shop is strictly contemporary.” Charlotte rolled the catalog in her hand. “But I guess browsing is always fun.” She could walk the aisles to think and pray, right?
“Why sure it is. You’re bound to find something you like as you . . . browse.” Cleo winked. “It works best if you go ahead and give yourself permission to spend some of your hard-earned money.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Cleo trotted off and Charlotte picked a side aisle to wander, examining the pieces as if the answer she longed for might be lurking among the ancients and the antiques.
Maybe she’d hear, He’s the one, as she passed a twentieth-century breakfront or a nineteenth-century wardrobe.
But probably not. Answers didn’t often just appear to her out of the ethereal realm. Or drop on her suddenly. She worked for her life answers. Just rolled up her sleeves, evaluated the situation, calculated costs, and decided. She’d have never opened Malone & Co. otherwise.
Charlotte paused in front of a dark wood foyer table and traced her fingers over the surface. Gert had one like this in her foyer. Wonder what ever happened to it? Charlotte bent to see if the underside had been marked with a red magic marker.
It hadn’t. Charlotte moved on. That table wasn’t Gert’s. Oh, she’d been so mad when she discovered her niece had run amuck with that red pen.
At the end of the aisle, Charlotte halted with a sigh. She should head back down to the city. Her hair appointment was in a few hours anyway.
Instead, she started down the next aisle, let her thoughts wander to Tim and the struggle in her heart.
Four months ago she’d been perfectly ensconced in her steady, predictable, comfortable day-to-day life. Then the contractor who remodeled her shop harangued her into accepting his Christmas dinner invitation. He seated her next to Tim Rose and changed Charlotte’s life.
A dull, tired rolltop desk caught her eye. Charlotte stopped in front of it and smoothed her hand along the surface. If the grain could talk, what stories would it tell?
Of a husband figuring the family finances? Or of a child working through a homework problem? Of a mama writing a letter to the folks back home?
How many men and women sat at this desk? One or hundreds? What were their hopes and dreams?
One piece of furniture surviving time. Was that what she wanted? To survive, to be a part of something important?
She wanted to feel like she belonged to the Rose family. Katherine certainly didn’t make Charlotte feel like a part of the gregarious collection of siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, and lifelong friends.
On their first date when Tim told Charlotte he had four brothers, she couldn’t even imagine what that felt like. It sounded thrilling. She drilled him with question after question. Charlotte only had Mama. Then old Gert when Mama died.
She’d never lived with a sibling, let alone four of them. Let alone a boy.
Was that why she accepted Tim Rose’s proposal after two months? Fascination? At the moment, she wasn’t sure her reason was love. She wasn’t even sure it was to be part of a big family.
Charlotte glanced down at the one-carat diamond filigree and platinum engagement ring that had belonged to Tim’s grandmother.
But the ring had no answers. She had no answers.
“Charlotte Malone?” A round, pleasant-looking woman approached her from the other side of a dining table. “I read about you in Southern Weddings. You look like your picture.”
“I hope that’s a good thing.” Charlotte smiled.
“Oh, it is. Your shop sounds magical. Made me wish I was getting married again.”
“We hit a lucky break with that piece.” When the editor called last fall, it was the last in a wash of fortunate waves breaking Charlotte’s way.
“I’ve been married thirty-two years and I read Southern Weddings about as religiously as the Good Book. I just love weddings, don’t you?”
“I certainly love wedding dresses,” Charlotte said.
“I suppose you do.” The woman’s laugh lingered in the air as she said good-bye and moved on, touching Charlotte’s arm gently as she passed.
She did love wedding dresses. Since she was a girl, the satin and sheen of white gowns practically made her giddy. She loved the way a bride’s face changed when she slipped on the perfect gown, the way her hopes and dreams swam in her eyes.
In fact, she was on the verge of her own transformation—slipping on the perfect gown, hopes and dreams swimming in her eyes.
So what was the problem? Why the holdout? She’d considered fifteen dresses, tried on none. June 23 would be here before she knew it.
A year ago February, she was barely getting by, investing all her capital in inventory while duct-taping her shop—a 1920s Mountain Brook cottage—together.
Then an anonymous bank check to the tune of a hundred thousand dollars landed in her account. After weeks of panicked elation trying to find out who would give her so much money, Charlotte redeemed her gift and finally, finally remodeled her shop. And everything changed.
Tawny Boswell, Miss Alabama, became a client and put her on the map. Southern Weddings called. Then, as if to put a bow on the year, Charlotte attended the Christmas dinner and sat next to a handsome man who charmed everyone in the room. By the time she’d finished her first course of oyster soup, Tim Rose had captured her heart too.