The Wedding Dress(50)

“Maybe, but if he was in Nam as a young man, that’d make him a groom in the sixties and that gown is not a sixties gown. I’ve been Googling wedding dresses all morning, and I can’t make out the style or era of the gown from the trunk. Doesn’t match the style from 1912. In the teens the women wore ornate, lacy, high-collar dresses with long court trains. Others wore more simple dresses with hems to the top of their shoes and long tulle veils. The twenties was the distinctive drop waist. After Bethany and I found the tags this afternoon, I looked at dresses from the forties to the sixties and my gown is way too . . . too . . .” Charlotte ran her thumb over her fingers. “Rich? I can’t find another word.” She gazed at her friend. “Dix, it’s such a gorgeous gown. Wait until you see it.”

“Brides after World War I didn’t carry sachets either. I remember a few things from my textiles class at Ohio State. And most women of common lineage didn’t wear a gown of silk or satin. They wore muslin or cotton, even cashmere. Not until the fifties maybe, after World War II, do you see silk and satin becoming common for weddings.” Dixie popped her head out Charlotte’s office door to check on the shop. “Hey, Bethany. Bye, Bethany. That girl is like the wind, sneaking in and out of here.”

“She’s going to make sachets for us to pitch with the dresses.”

“Brilliant, boss. So, did you try it on?”

“The dress? No. And I’m not going to either.”

“You’re kidding me. Really? How can you resist? I’m itching to try it, and I’m already married.” Dixie reached for Charlotte’s water, but Charlotte grabbed the bottle and tipped her head toward the minifridge in the office corner.

“You do know we have a whole fridge of water, right?”

With a sigh and eye roll, Dixie stooped to open the minifridge. “Why won’t you try it on?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

Charlotte turned the tags over and over in her hand, tears blurring her eyes for a moment. “I’m just not. What if it’s never been worn? What if it’s made for that one special bride? I’m not going to ruin it.”

“Certainly someone has tried it on, especially if the dang thing is ninety or a hundred years old.”

“My job is to find the woman that dress is looking for.” Charlotte couldn’t explain the special, hallowed reverence she had for the gown. It deserved her respect. It deserved more than an immature bride trying it on with a curled lip and a disdaining, “No, not for me.” No, Charlotte’s instincts would lead her to the right bride.

“It’ll be like finding a needle in a haystack, but if anyone can find that wedding frock a bride, it’s you.” Dixie squeezed Charlotte’s shoulder, then twisted open her water bottle. “In the meantime, what can we find out about the dog tags?”

“Back to Google,” Charlotte said.

The search engine provided a quick answer. The tags were definitely not World War I. Nor from the Second World War—those tags were notched.

“The last notched dog tags were issued in 1964. Joel Miller’s don’t have the notch so they might be from the last years of Nam?”

Charlotte typed “Joel Miller” in the search bar. It was a start. A list of names splashed to the screen. Charlotte scrolled past a New York lawyer, a politician, an actor. But who or what was she looking for, expecting to find?

The front bells chimed and Dixie moved toward the door. “Keep looking,” she said. “I’ll take care of the customer.”

Charlotte detailed her search. “Joel Miller+Birmingham.” A list of names returned. After scrolling through a few pages, she refined her query just a little bit more.

Joel Miller+USMC+Viet Nam+Birmingham

The discovery of the dog tags generated a lot of questions. How did the tags get stuffed into a bridal sachet? Did Joel dump his bride before the wedding? Charlotte envisioned an angry, wounded bride taking a blowtorch to the trunk lock.

If so, then was the dress ever worn? And how had the dog tags been sealed inside?

Google’s first hit brought up The Wall, a memorial site dedicated to Viet Nam veterans. Oh, Joel Miller, are you in here?

Charlotte entered the site, her fingers stumbling over the keyboard as she typed in Joel’s name and serial number and state. An icy sensation swirled around her heart and down to her belly.

Holding her breath, fingers pressed lightly to her lips, she waited for the search to return. When it did, her eyes misted.

Joel C. Miller, Marine Corps, 1LT, 02, age 22, born September 4, 1946, in Birmingham, AL. Casualty date April 14, 1969.

Oh, Joel Miller.

And he was . . .

Married.

The words on the screen blurred together. Charlotte’s heart kicked into high gear as she clicked on his info tab. His tour began on September 11, 1968. On April 14, 1969, in Quang Tri, South Viet Nam, he died from hostile fire . . . ground casualty, body not recovered.

Not recovered. Not. Recovered. What did that mean? Was he lost, left to die alone? Blown to pieces, so it was impossible to—

Mercy, mercy, Lord have mercy.

Another button took her to a bevy of postings to Joel C. Miller from friends and family and fellow marines.

“I was there the day you died. I’ll always remember you, JC. Semper Fi.”