The Wedding Dress(62)

“It’s different with death. I’ve lost my memories of her, Tim. I wonder if what I remember about her is just some picture or ideal I’ve made up. I’m trying to see something clearly from my past and I just can’t. There’s no sense of her.”

“Maybe that’s a blessing.” The heavy clap of the truck door closing warned Charlotte the call would end soon.

“But memories are all I have. For all practical purposes, they are my family.”

“You’ll make new memories. Have a new family . . . someday.” His words tumbled a bit. Friend Tim wrestling with fiancé Tim.

“Hey, you need to get going and so do I. Thanks for answering.”

“Yeah, Charlotte . . . any . . . anytime.”

“Have fun. Be safe, okay? Now that you’re my friend and not my fiancé, I don’t mind telling you I hate your passion for racing those bikes over dirt tracks. It’s so dangerous.”

He laughed and the tenor of it boosted her courage. “Now you tell me. So you were going to let fiancé Tim risk his neck but tell husband Tim, ‘No way, bubba’?”

“I hadn’t gotten that far. But, yeah, probably. Something like that.”

“You should’ve told me.” The humor in his voice sobered. “Those are things a girl should tell her guy.”

“When would I have done that? We met, we talked, we kissed, we were engaged.”

“Don’t look now, Charlotte, but I think you’re making my point about postponing our wedding.”

“I’m hanging up now. But, Tim, be careful.” The sun’s yellow hue paled as a gray cloud drifted by and marred the blue sky.

“Good luck with Hillary. Just be yourself. She’ll love you.”

Charlotte tapped End and tucked her phone into her purse. When she turned around, a tall, slender woman with salt-and-pepper hair was watching her from the edge of the lawn.

“Are you Charlotte?”

“Yes, and you’re Mrs. Warner?” Charlotte moved to shake her hand, surprised by the sheen of tears in the woman’s eyes.

“Please, call me Hillary.” She wore jeans and a blouse and white canvas sneakers. Her short hair blew free in the wind and curled about her face. Kindness radiated from her brown eyes. “Can I ask what’s so interesting down the street?”

Memories. “I lived in the white house down on the right—the one with the bricks—when I was a girl.” The sun’s golden rays fought back the drifting rain cloud.

“Did you, now?” Hillary stepped into the street, leaning to see around the trees and a passing car. “Greg and I moved in twenty years ago, and there were a lot of children running around these streets, riding bikes. They’re all gone now. In fact”—she pressed her fingertips against her lips—“there was a skinny dark-haired girl who used to ride a purple bike around the neighborhood. She peddled zip-zoop.” Hillary smacked and slid her palms. “I used to tell my husband if we had a girl—”

“I had a purple bike,” Charlotte said. “And long dark hair.”

“Down to your waist. Never could keep it in a ponytail.” Hillary peered at her.

“Never.”

“Well, now”—her gaze narrowed—“so that was you. How do—”

“Small world.” Charlotte’s pulse raced.

“I told Greg, if we ever have a baby, I’d want her to be a girl like that one. On the purple bike.”

Charlotte warmed at the idea. “I remember in the summer the smell of barbecue coming from your backyard. And at Christmas, your house had the prettiest decorations and the most lights.”

“My husband loved to cook out on the grill. I wasn’t much of a cook myself, so it was a win-win. But Christmas, that was all me.” Hillary motioned toward the house and started walking. “Your mother died, didn’t she?”

“When I was twelve. In a car accident.”

Hillary stopped in the shade of the front walk. “I’m sorry. What about your father?”

“Never knew him. Still don’t. I went to live with Mama’s friend Gert.”

“I had no idea.” Hillary hesitated, staring out over the lawn. “I had no . . . idea.” She peered at Charlotte for a long moment, then turned for the house. “I baked cinnamon muffins.”

The inside of the house matched the outside. Neat, inviting, homey. The carpet was new and thick, the furniture modern. The air was tinged with the scent of fresh paint with a touch of cinnamon. Hillary crossed the living room to a bright enclosed sunporch.

“Sit here,” she said, patting the top of a burgundy rocker. The matching one sat on the other side of the end table. Both faced the windows and the yard. A bird book and pair of binoculars sat on the table.

Charlotte tucked her purse beside her in the chair. She’d seen this room many times from the outside. So Hillary had watched her ride her bike. It was her last big gift from Mama. A year later Charlotte was an orphan living with Gert—who backed over Charlotte’s bike the week she moved in.

“Here we go.” Hillary set a white plate with steaming muffins on the table. “What’s your pleasure? Milk, coffee, tea, water, Coke. No diet. Drink the real stuff ’round here.”