The Wedding Dress(39)

“This trunk belongs to you,” the auctioneer, the purple man, had declared.

Charlotte ran her palm over the lid, the wood and leather smoother than she expected. She picked up the screwdriver and tried to find a soft spot in the melted metal that had once been a lock.

She hammered against the head of the screwdriver, trying to create a wedge where there wasn’t one. The weld refused to give, and Charlotte was relieved. Like she told Dix before, if she could break a weld with a hammer and screwdriver, then what was she doing driving over a bridge?

She picked up the saw. Ridiculous. How was she going to saw metal? But she aimed, settling the saw teeth beneath the lock. After a couple of times back and forth, Charlotte gave up. At least she’d tried.

Whoever wanted this trunk sealed forever was serious about it. Charlotte rocked back, arms around her raised knees. Maybe this trunk shouldn’t be opened. Maybe Purple Man didn’t know what he was talking about. Maybe she should haul this thing out to the Dumpster before whatever lived inside came alive and crawled into her bed one night.

Or worse, her heart.

Charlotte jumped to her feet. Craziness. The trunk was probably empty. What she needed was to get the thing open and prove to herself all was well. No evidence of her father. No evidence of anything to be redeemed.

What cut through metal? Charlotte glanced around the room. Some kind of power tool. None of which she had in her room or in her loft.

But Charlotte knew who did have the right tools. She dove onto the bed, reaching for her phone on the nightstand, and dialed Tim.

Then hung up, sat forward on her bed, legs crossed. After the exchange in the parking lot last Thursday, she couldn’t very well call him for help. Could she?

Friend Tim? Yes. Not fiancé Tim. But she’d told him there was no separation between friend and fiancée. Okay, well, maybe she changed her mind.

Charlotte dialed Tim again, bracing to hear his voice, her heart drumming. As soon as he answered, Charlotte began talking, avoiding conversation and weighty seconds of silence.

“Friend Tim? This is friend Charlotte. I want to open the trunk but I need some kind of power tool. This man came into the shop today and well, it’s a long, weird story, but he sparked my curiosity. I thought I’d end up just chucking it, you know, but sometimes old ugly things get to you and you can’t bear to get rid of them. Like a security blanket. If you’re busy or have a date—do you have a date? I’m sorry. Is Kim there? Don’t worry, we can, you know”—Charlotte picked at her quilt, losing her breath and nerve—“do this another time or I can wait for Jared to come home. But he only has a hammer, screwdriver, and a fork in his toolbox. And a drill, but that’s only good for making holes. I’d bring the trunk to you, but it won’t fit in my car, small convertible and all—”

“Charlotte. Breathe.”

She exhaled. “Thank you.”

“I’m in the truck. I’ll be there in ten.”



“So, the man who sold you the trunk showed up at the shop?” Tim snapped a saw blade into place and studied the hasp, pressing on the metal, finding a place to start.

“Yeah, it was creepy, but cool at the same time.” Charlotte sat on the floor next to him. “He’d say certain things and chills would run over me. When he left, I got this odd sense he might have been my father.”

Tim stopped working. “What do you mean? Like your dad came into the shop? After mysteriously selling you this trunk at the Ludlow auction?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds completely weird. There was just this odd moment . . . So, do you think you can get this open?”

“I can, but, Charlotte, what made you think he might have been your dad?”

“I don’t know.” She told him about their conversation clash—when he answered her question with her name. “It just made me wonder. Crazy? Yeah, crazy. He was only saying goodbye.”

“Charlotte.” Tim set the tool down, facing her. “If your father walked up to you right now, are you saying you wouldn’t recognize him?”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’ve never met him, Tim.”

“Not even a picture?”

Even on the verge of marriage, Charlotte had never had this conversation with Tim. More proof she held back from him.

“Not one.” She picked at a piece of pile rising from the area rug. “Mom met him when she was at FSU, fell in love, got pregnant with me, and when she told him, he bolted. I don’t even know his name.” Charlotte pressed her fingers to her eyes, then raked them through her hair. “Hey, I didn’t drag you all the way over here to talk about my daddy or lack thereof. Fire up that saw, Tim.” Charlotte patted the top of the trunk. “Open this baby.”

“Not even his name?” Tim insisted on sawing open her closed emotions instead of the closed trunk.

“Well, a few slang names not fit for Christian company. I asked Mama about him once, when I was ten. But she said if he didn’t want to give me his name or love, she wasn’t going to tell me about him. On my birth certificate, ‘father’s name’ is a big fat ba-lank.”

Charlotte swiped the air with her hand.

“I feel sorry for him.” Tim swiveled around to the trunk, picking up the power saw. “He gave up something pretty incredible.”