The Wedding Dress(60)

“My grandpa had one of these in his garage.” Tim absently turned the radio knobs.

Old suits, faded dresses, and a coat with the scarf and gloves stuffed in the pockets hung on a line strung from one pitched corner to the other.

“And people wonder if time travel is possible. They should come here.” Charlotte unbuttoned her Malone & Co. jacket and slipped it off, draping it over the stair rail. “I think what we want is on those shelves, Tim.” She pointed to the far wall. When she looked around, he was watching her. “What?” She nudged aside a box of folded clothes.

“When I told Mrs. Pettis we were going to get married, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Can we just find the bakery records?” Charlotte motioned again to the shelves. “These boxes look official, don’t they?”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Tim crossed over and pulled out the first box from the bottom shelf. “Yep, bakery records and they’re dated. The box is marked 1959.” He pulled the lid off and took out an invoice. “December 1959. All of these are 1959.”

“Okay, so let’s find ’67, ’68, and ’69 and see if we can find Joel Miller.” Charlotte reached for a box on her far right, two shelves up from the bottom.

It was marked 1967. She dropped it to the floor and knelt beside it.

“Man, she made a lot of pies and cakes.” Tim checked over his shoulder from his spot by the shelves. “Did you find something?”

“Maybe,” Charlotte said, her fingers flying through the invoices. “She separated them by months.”

Tim reached for the box marked 1968. “It feels so normal with you. I forget we’re . . . you know. Broken up.”

“Try to remember, will you?” On top of filing the invoices by month, Mrs. Pettis had alphabetized them. “Looks like she filed wedding cake orders by the bride’s last names.”

“But we don’t know the bride’s last name.”

Charlotte looked up, smiling. “But we know the groom’s, and Mrs. Pettis wrote the groom’s name below the bride’s.”

“Jackpot. Now, if we can find Joel Miller . . . Charlotte, what if Mrs. Pettis didn’t make their cake?”

“Shh, don’t say that out loud. You’ll jinx us.” Charlotte fingered through July and August of ’67. Nothing. “Is it because of her?” she braved to ask, but without looking at Tim.

“Her? What are you talking about?”

Charlotte sighed. Loud.

“Kim? No, I didn’t postpone our wedding because of her.” He mimicked Charlotte’s inflection. “I told you she didn’t call until after we . . . talked. I just need to sort some things out, Char.”

She turned her face to him. His blue eyes peered at her from under his dark brows and seemed to gaze straight into her heart. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I really am.”

“I believe you.” Charlotte went back to her box, flipping through the invoices. “But we’re over. Moving on. Better to find out we’re not right for each other before the wedding than after.” Why couldn’t she be mad at him? At least keep a wall built between them. Instead, he melted her resolve at the very hint of his sweetness.

Tim took the top off his box. “I never said we weren’t right for each other. I think we fit pretty good. I just—”

“Tim, we came here to find out who Joel Miller married. Let’s just do that.” Charlotte went back to the invoices. As if she could read the handwriting through her watering eyes.

In contemplative silence they worked through the boxes. Then the crackle of thin paper suddenly ceased from Tim’s box.

“Hello, pot-o-gold.” He held up an invoice to the hot, hazy light fitting through the small windows.

“You found it? Really?” Charlotte stooped to see over his shoulder. His cologne seeped through the oxford threads of his shirt as she rested her palm on the familiar muscled curve of his arm.

She let her hand fall away. Breaking up had ended her time with Tim, but not the longings of her heart.

“Here we go,” Tim said, looking up at her, his eyes full of comfort. Charlotte dug her fingers into her knees. If she wasn’t careful, she’d trip and fall in love. “Bride. Hillary Saltonstall. Groom. Joel Miller. They ordered a coconut cake with lots of icing. Look, lots is underlined three times.” Tim tapped the paper, his smile a white beam. “Pick up the morning of the wedding. September 8, 1968.” He stood, slinging his arm around her and kissing her forehead. “We found our bride.”

Then he realized what he’d done and released her with a sheepish, “Sorry,” and offered Charlotte the invoice.

“No . . . no worries.” She rubbed the fiery burn of his lips from her skin. But nothing could remove it from her heart. Stop. Focus. Think. The dress. This is about the dress. “Joel Miller, Hillary Saltonstall. Here’s a note at the bottom. ‘Rush order, groom leaving for Viet Nam.’”

That moved her heart away from Tim. Joel Miller rushed to his wedding before going off to war.

“When did you say he died?” Tim asked.

“April ’69.”

“Six months later.” His eyes remained fixed on the invoice as if it could somehow show him the past. “Do you think they actually got married? You said the dress didn’t look worn.”