The Wedding Dress(35)

“Yes, Father.” She started for the door. “Thank you.”

“Emily,” Father called. “All brides get nervous. Rest assured, I didn’t steer your brother wrong by sending him to Harvard. I’ve not steered you wrong either.”



From atop Red Mountain, overlooking Jones Valley and the flickering lights of the Magic City, Emily was a princess for the night. A hundred guests dined on roasted quail and creamed potatoes, with chocolate mousse for dessert. All in her and Phillip’s honor.

Phillip looped his arm through hers as they gathered on the perimeter of the Saltonstall’s grand ballroom. The butler shoved open the terrace doors and a cool breeze swept up from the valley. On the far side of the room, a small orchestra tuned, drawing bows over strings, creating a dissonant melody.

“It was a fine dinner, Saltonstall.” Powell Jamison, one of Phillip’s oldest friends, joined Phillip and Emily in the center of the room and turned in a slow circle, facing the guests. “Ladies and gentleman, as my good friend Phillip’s best man, may I offer a toast.” He raised a glass of golden champagne. Around the room servants distributed bubbling crystal flutes to the guests. “To Phillip and his lovely bride-to-be, Emily.” The guests raised their glasses. “Best wishes for a long and happy marriage. Emily, later you can tell me what the lousy cad did to persuade you to marry him.”

Laughter flowed about the room. Phillip anchored his arm around Emily’s waist just as she caught Father’s eye. He nodded to her with a wink. Did I not tell you . . .

Emily raised her glass to him. To you, wise Father.

“Thank you all for coming and celebrating with Emily and me.” Phillip held her closer as he addressed the ballroom. “How did I win this fine creature as my bride, Powell? Naturally, I wooed her with my charms.” Phillip bowed to the room, which rippled with applause and laughter.

“I daresay it’s the large ring you gave her.” Cornelia Weinberg took a bold step forward, distinguishing herself from the other guests. At thirty-four, she was a widow already, her husband passing three years ago from heart failure at sixty-five. “I tell you it would’ve wooed my affections.”

“Ah, but I believe I’m too young for you, Cornie,” Phillip teased. “You like your men more . . . shall we say . . . seasoned?”

Emily leaned against her man, letting all her doubts fade away with the lively banter of friends and the elation of being celebrated for the night. Cornie was becoming a dear friend and Emily admired her resilience.

Mostly Emily relished moments like these when friendship and camaraderie extinguished all social decorum and folks felt free to laugh.

“If I’d set my sights on you, Phillip Saltonstall, I’d not have missed.” Cornie squared off with him in the middle of the floor. Phillip kept Emily tucked in close.

“You’re not that good of a shot, Cornie.” He lowered his chin but raised his brow.

“I suppose now you’ll never know.” No other Birmingham belle could jest like Cornie. She had a way of making it all seem so innocent.

“All right, you two.” Powell stepped in between them. “The orchestra is ready. Cornie, you can take the first dance with me.” He was a confirmed bachelor, and Cornie’s husband-hunting tactics didn’t scare him.

The guests gathered in small pockets, waiting for the dance to begin. Women chatted about the upcoming debutante season. The men discussed the Barons and Alabama football.

“Phillip, lovely party.” Herschel Wainscot shook his hand. “Emily, lovely as always. Do you mind if your intended and I talk business, just for a moment?”

“Only a moment, Mr. Wainscot. This is my engagement party and I won’t have it spoiled.” Emily gave him a scolding look, but only a quick one. She was too happy.

“I promise not to keep him long, but for some reason I can’t seem to track Phillip down during business hours. He’s very busy.”

“I’m always available to you, Hersh.”

“Then stay in the office once in a while. I’ll telephone you.”

A willowy woman appeared next to Mr. Wainscot. Emily straightened when a flutter zipped between her ribs. The woman from the street . . . outside Loveman’s. Her legs trembled beneath her full, taffeta skirt.

“Introduce me, Herschel.”

“Emmeline Graves, this is Mr. Phillip Saltonstall and his bride-to-be, Miss Emily Canton.”

“Lovely to meet you, Mr. Saltonstall.” She offered her hand to Phillip but kept her eyes averted. “Miss Canton, your gown is quite lovely.”

“Thank you.” Emily braced as she peered up at Phillip. Would he be drinking in the sight of this slender woman? The one Emily saw laughing with him on 19th Street? She had the same thin frame and thick golden hair.

But Phillip barely shook her hand and instead fixed his attention on the bandstand and the orchestra. “How long does it take them to tune, for Pete’s sake?” he said. “I’m ready to twirl around the floor with this gorgeous creature in my arms.” He peered down at Emily, lifting her chin with a slight touch of his finger.

Mr. Wainscot chuckled. “Well, while we’re waiting, let me have a word with you. Phillip, how’s the convict-leasing program working for you and Saltonstall mines? We’ve been thinking of using them to work on the city roads. Save some money on labor. Slag is a bit more expensive than concrete.”