The Wedding Dress(38)

“Treasure? That trunk is hardly treasure.” Charlotte brushed her hands over the chill building on her arms. When he said “redeeming” she felt it. “Can I ask your interest in the trunk? Was it yours? Someone in your family?”

“In a manner of speaking.” The man walked the perimeter of the shop, hands locked behind his back, inspecting the gowns along the wall. “Very unique gowns. Lovely.”

“Do you have a daughter getting married?” Charlotte crossed over to him with her business card. He glanced at it politely, then moved on without taking it. Charlotte tapped the card’s edge against her fingertips.

“I have a daughter getting married.” He peered over his shoulder at her. “It’s the season of the bride.”

“Season of the bride?” Charlotte laughed low. Such an unusual expression. “I certainly hope so. I could use the business. Tell your daughter I’d be happy to . . . what’s your name again?”

“My daughter knows about your shop. She’s quite familiar with it.”

Chills crept down her legs when he spoke. It was as if she knew him. As if he knew her. But it was impossible. “What’s your daughter’s name? Perhaps I have her on file?”

“Charlotte.” He walked toward her, hand extended. “I was just inquiring about the trunk. It was good to see you.”

His grip fit into hers as if they’d clasped hands a hundred times. The chills multiplied over Charlotte’s body while a warm splash hit her spirit. She felt . . .

Encountered.

The back door slammed and Dixie’s honey-I’m-home footsteps resonated against the hardwood. She stopped near Charlotte, who faced the windows, watching the man leave.

“Wow, can you say blinding purple?” Dixie rapped on the window. “Dude, the ’70s disco era is over.” She turned back to the shop, rustling up a flutter of sunbeams. “Who was that?”

“I’m not sure, except he was the man who sold me the trunk at the auction. But, Dix . . .” Charlotte pressed her hand over her quivering middle. “I think I may have just met my father.”



In her room, in the glow of lamplight, with music playing, Charlotte aligned her tools. The hammer and screwdriver from Dix. A saw, because Dixie insisted she might need it, and a drill.

“Dix, I don’t know how to use a drill.”

“What’s to know? You aim this rod-thingy at the welded metal and vwip, vwip, you got a hole.” Dixie mimed her instruction in a see, simple as pie manner.

“But a hole gets me nothing. I still have welded metal.” Charlotte picked up the drill and leaned to inspect the trunk’s lock.

“Well, you might have to drill a hole to get it open.”

“Jared.” Charlotte looked to the doctor sitting on the edge of her bed. “Do I need a drill?” She held up the tool to Dixie’s Dr. Hotstuff, still wearing his blue scrubs, looking like he was ready for a long winter nap.

“Char is right, Dix, she doesn’t need a drill. Sorry I can’t be more help, but I need to get back to the hospital in a few hours, and I was hoping my Dixie-babe would fix some grub while I snatch some z’s.”

Charlotte looked around at Jared. Dixie-babe. See, lovers had names of affection. She and Tim did not.

“Sure, darling.” Dixie got up off the floor. “Did I tell you Charlotte thought her father came into the shop?”

“Really?”

“I don’t know, Jared.” Charlotte rearranged the tools, large to small, small to large. “I’ve never met my father. But this old guy, the same one who sold me the trunk, came into the shop and asked if I’d opened it yet. He said he had a daughter getting married. I asked her name, and he said my name at the exact same time, so it sounded like his daughter’s name was Charlotte. But he was just saying goodbye to me. I think.” She eyed her doctor friend. What do you think?

“Wouldn’t he tell you if he was your father?”

“Would you, if you’d been out of her life for thirty years?”

“No, I guess I not. Do you think there’s a clue in the trunk?”

“I don’t know, but he piqued my curiosity. I might as well open it and find out.”

After Dixie and Jared left, Charlotte sat on the floor in front of the trunk, picturing the man in the purple shirt and the white Nikes. Was he her father? Did she even want a father?

To what end? To what benefit? Her life functioned fine, just fine, without him. Drama-free and simple. She didn’t need him now. When Mama died, she’d needed him. Where was he then?

Charlotte exhaled and took up the hammer, tapping the welded metal lightly with the blunt end.

The answer she’d invented as a girl explaining her father’s absence was the same answer she clung to as a woman.

Her daddy was a great adventurer with a wanderlust that spurred him to sail roaring seas and traverse sun-soaked terrains. His call in life demanded he break the boundaries of Birmingham, go beyond the doldrums of everyday life like marriage and raising kids.

Even his deep affection for his daughter—her, Charlotte—couldn’t contain his destiny. He must yield to the passions of his heart.

Yes, that was her father. One incredible wandering man. A regular Indiana Jones.

Charlotte lowered the hammer. Why did she care about opening this dented and dinged, scarred and rutted trunk? What exactly was she redeeming?