The Wedding Dress(48)

Chapter Twelve



Charlotte





Charlotte woke from a sound sleep. Kicking off the covers, she wandered to the kitchen for a glass of water. When she returned to her room, she crawled onto the bed, cupping her glass in her hands, and stared at the dress hanging in the corner.

She batted her eyes, clearing away her dreamless sleep, and squinted across her dark room. The glow of the city lights burned between the edges of the blinds, framing the bedroom window with gold.

But the dress appeared, in some odd way, to have its own luminous energy. Charlotte plumped her pillows behind her back and stared at the dress. She had to be imagining the gown’s light. Perhaps it was bouncing off of her mirror and onto the dress.

But the gown hung on the dress form in the corner, away from the window. Away from any mirror or any other light.

Charlotte sipped her water. Tim sure looked like a kid caught breaking the neighbor’s window with his bat and ball when Charlotte lifted the dress from the bag.

A wash of emotion hit her eyes. He really didn’t want to marry her. But now Charlotte had a purpose. Find out who belonged to this dress.

The next time the man in purple walked into her shop, if he walked into her shop, Charlotte planned to pounce.

“What’s your story, dress?” Charlotte whispered. “Where’d you come from and why’d you come looking for me? One orphaned girl seeking another?” She crawled off the bed and sat on the floor, running her fingers over the silky fabric, feeling like she’d met a new friend.

Old trunk, purple man, magic gold gown. Something was up. But what?

“Help me find your bride.”

Charlotte rested against the foot of her bed. Tim’s fragrance lingered in the room. She tipped her head back for a long inhale, but the thick floral spice wasn’t Tim’s. It wasn’t lingering in the room. It hovered right in front of her nose. Heavy. Oily. Unadulterated.

“Okay, God, what’s up?” Charlotte drew her knees to her chest and waited.

She’d first heard God was her heavenly Father at a church youth rally when she was sixteen, four years after Mama died. Having grown up without a daddy, she thought it impossible and improbable she’d ever have someone to call Father.

But the last night of the rally when the youth speaker referred to God as Father, something changed in Charlotte’s heart. And she smelled the same fragrance that now hovered in her room.

Only then, the scent was thicker, weightier, and nearly pressed her to the ground. She clung to the girl beside her to keep from crumbling. When she could think clearly, she understood God as her Father and believed. She couldn’t have dreamed up a cooler dad.

But then, the next youth speaker hit the stage and said the only way to get to the Father was by believing in Jesus and the Cross. No man comes to the Father but by Me.

That option didn’t thrill Charlotte at all. Jesus? Cross? Blood and dying? Sacrifice? Not for her.

A blast of cold air from the AC vent jolted Charlotte back into the present. She flipped on the bedside light and set her water on the nightstand. She hadn’t thought of that youth rally evening in a long time. But it was a worthy memory.

By the time the youth pastor, Tony, finished his “Love of Jesus” message and asked if anyone wanted to know Him, Charlotte bolted down the aisle. Just closed her eyes, shut off her mind, and ran, listening to nothing but her heartbeat.

She had no idea what saved meant. She didn’t care. All she knew was the thundering passion in her chest, the wild tremble in her legs, and that God was her Father. Hello, Jesus, show me the way.

That salvation summer she drank up, devoured, lived the reality of God’s love and desire for her. She had a Father.

And the Cross she’d once disdained was exhibit A of Jesus’s fierce love for her.

“Hey, dress, do you know God?” She laughed softly, stretching her legs over the edge of the bed so the tips of her toes touched the silky sheen of the dress. “No, I reckon you don’t.”

But the gown felt alive to her. She loved it already, even though she didn’t understand why the gown had fallen into her hands. Or why the purple man handed her a bill of sale stamped REDEEMED.



Wednesday the shop fell quiet after a noontime rush and an appointment with a new bride-to-be and her maid of honor on lunch break. Charlotte ate half a sandwich at her desk, paying bills online and checking e-mail.

The kitchen door slammed. Charlotte looked up, listening. “It’s just me.” The soft lilt of Bethany. “Bringing back dresses.” The seamstress angled around Charlotte’s office door. “Tawny’s dress is done, plus two of her bridesmaids’.”

“You’re the best, Beth.” Charlotte smiled. “Say, what are the odds of a dress fitting without being altered?”

“It’s possible. But in the bridal world, something will change. The bodice, the hem, adding padding. You know the score. Why do you ask?”

“What about a dress remaining in perfect condition for something like a hundred years? Does that ever happen?”

Bethany leaned against the door frame and laughed. “What are you up to, Char? A hundred years?” She arched her brow. “For real? Depends on how it was stored, but even if it was stored well, there’s a good chance something would be tattered or yellowed.”