The Wedding Dress(59)

“Would you like to keep this card, Mrs. Pettis?” Charlotte offered the woman a remnant from her glory days.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the card and her eyes glistened. “Now, what can I do for you young people? Are you getting married?”

“No, no,” Charlotte said, “we’re just friends.”

“We were going to get married, but—”

“We’re just friends.” Charlotte shot Tim a look.

“Did he cheat on you, sugar?” Mrs. Pettis reached for another Oreo. “I’m sorry, son, but you seem like the cheating kind. Handsome men with long hair usually are, you know.”

Charlotte wanted to laugh, but Tim seemed rather taken aback. Served him right. “He didn’t cheat, Mrs. Pettis. Just decided he wasn’t ready for marriage. He’s only thirty-two.” Those Oreos were looking better all the time. Charlotte reached for one. “He waited a full twenty-four hours after he broke my heart to go on a date.”

“It wasn’t a date. Just a friend dining with a friend.”

“My,” said Mrs. Pettis.

“His ex-fiancée.” Charlotte wrinkled her nose at the older woman as if they shared something in common, something womanly. And she liked watching Tim squirm.

“My, my.” She waved her half-eaten cookie at Charlotte. “It’s the good-looking ones with the hair you got to watch, I’m telling you. It was the same in my day.”

“Can we please just get to the business at hand?” Tim ran his palms over his hair, picked up his petite teacup with his large hand, then put it down. “Mrs. Pettis, is there any way we could find out about Joel Miller? Who he might have married? Do you remember him? He was a soldier, a marine.”

“You say he died in the war? So many good men lost in wars. My own brother died in the war. The big one. My father was never the same afterward. He’d come home from the steel mill, sit in his chair and read the paper, then he’d go out to the front porch, lean against the post, and stare beyond the neighbor’s yard like he was waiting for his son to come home. Sometimes I think he longed to be with him, away from the stinking mill. He died himself about ten years later. Consumption got him like so many of the mining men. There used to be a ring of smog hovering over the city. Do you kids remember? I suppose you’re too young. My mother couldn’t even hang out her clothes on the line without getting them smudged.”

“Mrs. Pettis.” Tim stood. “Thank you for your time. Charlotte, I need to get back to the office.”

What office? Charlotte gave him the sit-down eye.

“My old bakery is an office space now, you know.”

“Yes, and loft living on the second floor,” Tim said, sinking back down to his chair.

“Well now.” Mrs. Pettis sniffed the air, wrinkling her nose. “I wonder if folks can still smell the baking pies in the old bricks. We used to say baking was the aroma of heaven.” She laughed, strolling down her private memory lane, consorting with people alive only in her heart. “We used to do it up for Christmas too. Decorations and candies. We had a little contest with Newberry’s and Mary Ball Candies. Downtown was the happening place. ’Course, in the days you’re talking about, racial tension was mighty high. Downtown became right scary what with the church bombing and police dogs being let loose on folks. But those days are behind us now. Hallelujah.”

Charlotte peered at Tim. Mrs. Pettis wasn’t going to help them, was she? “Thank you again, Mrs. Pettis.” She carried their teacups to the kitchen. When she came out, she joined Tim near the door. “We enjoyed meeting you.” Her heart sank a bit. Now what? Where could she find Joel Miller? Hire a detective? She hadn’t even done that to find her own father.

“Mrs. Pettis, we need to get going.” Tim twisted the door knob. Charlotte slung her handbag under her arm with a final glance at the old baker.

“Too bad. I got a whole attic of bakery records going back to 1939. Your Joel Miller and his bride most likely will be in there.”



“How’d you like that routine?” Tim said when they landed at the top of the attic’s narrow staircase. He shoved boxes aside to make a path. “‘Oh, you kids, I don’t remember any of my customers, called everyone Jimmy. By the way, I have sixty years’ worth of records in my attic.’”

“Stop. You’re just sore because she said men like you are unfaithful.”

“She said men who look like me are unfaithful.” Tim kicked a box out of the way.

“That’s it, take it out on the box.”

“It’s hot up here. Can we just find the”—he moved to the wall shelves loaded with boxes—“whatever we’re looking for and go?”

“Hey, you’re free to go anytime, Tim. I’m going to look for the invoice or something with the name Joel Miller and his bride. Go if you have to go.”

“And how will you get back?”

“Bus. Cab.” Charlotte surveyed the room under the warm eaves. Small sailors’ windows on either side of the attic let in enough light for them to see. Tim was working his way through the furniture to turn on a Tiffany-looking floor lamp by a wide-seat willow rocking chair.

“Look to your left, Tim. Isn’t that a Victrola? And a Westinghouse radio.”