The Wedding Dress(58)

Charlotte

The clatter of teacups came from the other side of the wall. Mrs. Pettis insisted on making tea.

“Can I help you?” Charlotte called as she shifted on the edge of a worn mohair sofa. Her knee cracked the sharp-edged coffee table. Furniture was jammed in every space from one end of the room to the other. Charlotte didn’t know how the old baker got around without running into a chair or table.

The long, narrow room smelled of lemon drops. Lace curtains hung limp at the windows and grayish white doilies covered the arms of every chair and the back of the sofa.

Across from Charlotte, Tim sank down into a tired wingback. Using his city connections, he’d found out the last owner of Mrs. Lewis’s Famous Pie Company was Aleta Pettis. Tim called her Monday morning, and by Monday afternoon Charlotte was riding with him down I-20 toward Irondale.

“Sure you don’t mind me being here?” he said, pulling himself out of the soft cushion and perching on the edge of the seat.

She shrugged, taking in the pastoral pictures on the wall. She kind of minded, but . . . “You might as well see the fruit of your labor.” Charlotte peered at him. He’d practically insisted on driving her to meet Mrs. Pettis. But what was he really doing here? Was he that curious about the wedding dress?

Pieces of her lunch conversation with Dix flitted around Charlotte’s head.

“Careful, Char, you’ll start thinking he’s into you.”

“How do you know he’s not?”

Dixie lifted Charlotte’s bare ring hand. “Exhibit A.”

“I’m the one who returned the ring. He didn’t ask for it.”

“Of course not. He’s got some kind of heart. Can’t call off a wedding and ask for the ring back on the same night. Got to do it in stages.”

“Dixie, he wanted to stay engaged.”

“But not get married? Hello, Charlotte, if he’s not marrying you, he’s not into you. No man gives up a girl he really wants.”

“How do you know?”

“Jared. He spilled the guy code on our honeymoon.”

So Charlotte shifted her body at an angle, away from Tim. If he’s not marrying you, he’s not into you.

“Here we go, young people. Tea. Oh, the cookies, I forgot the cookies.” Mrs. Pettis wagged her finger in the air as she headed back to the kitchen. “They’re not homemade, sorry to say. I had to give up baking. Now where are those cookies?” Cupboard doors opened and closed.

Tim sniffed his tea. “She seems nice enough.”

“Don’t you mean safe enough?” Charlotte inhaled the hot, sweet scent of brewed tea. “Tim, there’s no way she’s going to remember a cake she made in 1968. Or ’67. Or whenever Joel Miller got married.”

“You have a name. That’ll narrow it down.”

“A name. The groom’s. You really think she’ll remember the groom? She probably never met him.”

“Let’s just ask. See what she says.”

Faith. Tenacity. Maybe that’s why he came along.

“Here we go. Cookies.” Mrs. Pettis held up a rubber-banded package of Oreos. She wobbled, reaching to hold on to a chair. “I lose my balance from time to time.” She unwrapped the green rubber band and slid the cookies onto a china plate matching the cups, both with a faded baby’s breath pattern. “So, you want to know about Mrs. Lewis’s?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Charlotte set her cup and saucer on her lap and reached for the pie company’s business card in her purse. “I found this card in an old trunk, along with a wedding dress and a set of dog tags.”

“Oh my.” Mrs. Pettis ran her finger over the raised print on the card. “Haven’t seen one of these in years.” Her gaze glistened when she looked up.

“Do you know the name Joel Miller, Mrs. Pettis? It’s the name on the dog tags I found. Is he related to you? Maybe married to your daughter?”

“I never had a daughter. And my son is a Pettis, naturally. I don’t know any Millers. At least not a Joel. ’Course, my memory ain’t what it used to be.”

“He died in 1969. Killed in Viet Nam.”

“Oh my, oh mercy, that is sad, right sad.”

“Do you think maybe you made a cake for his wedding? Based on his birthday and death, I think he might have married sometime in ’68?”

“I suppose that’s possible. I made a lot of wedding cakes in my day. First working for Mrs. Lewis, then when I owned the place. We had so many, many customers. They all knew our names, naturally, but we smiled and called everyone Jimmy. Even the ladies.” Mrs. Pettis laughed behind her hand, chewing on her cookie. “Do you know I calculated how many pies I made in my forty years as a baker. Two hundred and twenty thousand pies. My land, I about choked on my own gizzard.”

“How many wedding cakes?” Charlotte wanted to get a feel for the odds of her making Joel Miller’s cake. Maybe that would lead to finding his bride. How, Charlotte had no idea. If she fished with enough questions, maybe something would bite.

“Oh sure, about twenty thousand cakes.” She chortled. “Makes me feel kind of like I accomplished something. Didn’t feel so important doing what any woman could do in her kitchen. But I took pride. Made each pie and cake with care. I loved the bakery. It was such a sad season when all the businesses shifted away from downtown. All those great buildings, great stores like Loveman’s and Pizitz just closed up and vanished, as if they never existed.”