The Wedding Dress(71)

Hillary got up from the table for her black bag and pulled a picture from the front pouch. “I found this when I was going through all the photos.” She offered Charlotte a black-and-white image. “That’s my mama and daddy, and next to them, the previous owners of our house.”

“The one where you found the trunk?” The woman, perhaps in her midthirties, was beautiful in her Sunday suit. “Do you think they’re connected to the dress?”

“I have no idea. Their names are on the back. Thomas and Mary Grace Talbot. That’s my mama’s handwriting. Darn near perfect, isn’t it? I remember Thomas was a preacher, and they’d just purchased a big tent to hold revival meetings across the country. He told Mama he had the gift of healing. I thought he was the weirdest man I’d ever met.”

“Really? Because of the healing thing?”

“I was a future nurse, so yes, even at ten, I didn’t believe any man could heal.” Hillary arched her eyebrows. “What do you think?”

“I think God uses imperfect people to do whatever He wants. He uses me to help brides get ready.” Charlotte gazed at the picture again, touching their faces with the tip of her finger. “Thomas and Mary Grace Talbot. Where did you wander to?”

“I guess they’d be in their late eighties or early nineties now.”

“If they’re alive.”

Hillary took up a piece of pizza. “They’re alive.” She grinned. “And I think I can find out where they live.”





Chapter Eighteen



Charlotte unpacked a new shipment of dresses Wednesday after lunch. The winter gowns she’d ordered were beautiful. Dealing in her treasured merchandise always righted her tilted emotions.

Jesus Culture played from her iPad dock, and on days like today, Charlotte believed the storeroom of her shop was her most holy sanctuary.

Footsteps echoed over the shop’s hardwood floor. “I’m here.” Dixie. “Your relief.” She came into the storeroom and sat on the old wooden packing and shipping desk, gathering her hair into a ponytail. “Jared said Tim is doing well, by the way. He’ll probably go home today.”

“Good, I’m glad.” Monday, over a two-hour lunch, Charlotte had delivered the weekend details to Dixie—who demanded to know everything, starting with the first H in “Hey” to the trailing “e” in “Good-bye.”

“Jared said Tim’s blond restaurant girl has been there every day.”

“It’s nice to have someone care for you when you’re hurting.”

Dixie slammed her hand on the desk. “Would you stop being so nice? Get angry. Blow up. Shake your fist. ‘I’ll never go hungry again.’” She put on her best Southern-belle tone. “Fight for him, fight for what’s yours.”

Charlotte smirked, rolling her eyes. “Very dramatic, Miss O’Hara. Where would shaking my fists get me? Just riled up about something I can’t change.” She’d done her share of fist waving, and it only made her more mad and more sad. She had peace at the moment, and she’d kind of like to ride that river for a while. “I can’t fight for a man who doesn’t want me.”

“But you said he—”

“Yes, he said some stuff. But when she walked in it was like I faded into the shadows.” Charlotte held up a new Bray-Lindsay. “How do you like the dresses? I love every Bray-Lindsay gown.” She wanted to hold it to her and meld with the silky threads and pure, creamy whiteness.

“They do exquisite work. Don’t let Tawny see them. She’ll change her mind.”

Charlotte shook out the next gown, a new one from a local designer, Heidi Elnora.

The front chimes pealed through the shop followed by a high pitched, “Hello?”

“I got it.” Dixie stepped out of the room, returning a few moments later with Hillary.

Charlotte hung the gown on the rack. “Hillary, hey, what are you doing here?” She motioned for her to come in. “Dixie, this is Hillary.”

“I know. We just met.” Dixie slid back onto her perch, the old desk. “So you’re the Hillary who wore the dress? Who sealed it in the trunk?”

“Guilty. But I’m indebted to this woman, who redeemed it. Redeemed me.” Redeemed. The purple man’s word. For a moment it reverberated in Charlotte’s soul. “Charlotte, are you free for a few hours?” Hillary asked.

“I could be if you need me. Is everything okay?” She checked with Dix, who nodded. She’d cover the afternoon.

“I called Thomas and Mary Grace Talbot. They’re up for an afternoon visit if you’re game to go.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Whoa, back up, y’all. Explain to ole Dixie what’s going on. How did you get in touch with the Talbots?” She wagged her finger at Charlotte. “You didn’t give me this piece of the story.”

“I didn’t know it myself until yesterday.” Charlotte gave Dixie the Twitter version. “Hillary worked with a doctor at St. Vincent’s named Talbot. When she came across Thomas and Mary Grace’s name, she called him on the chance there might be a connection.”

“And?” Dix said, rotating toward Hillary.