The Wedding Dress(75)

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry.” Mary Grace worked her way forward, out of her chair. She reached for her cane, steadied herself, and moved to the small breakfront drawer. When she worked her way back to her chair, she held a photo.

Through the reflective light, Charlotte could see the smiling, newly married Talbots.

“This is Tommy and me on our wedding day.”

Charlotte held the picture, a touched-up black-and-white. An artist had brushed a pink hue on Mary Grace’s cheeks. Reddened both of their lips a bit. But there was no mistaking her beauty and his handsome youth. And she was wearing the dress.

“We met in elementary school. I fell in love with him on the playground.”

“She was the preacher’s daughter and I wanted nothing to do with her.”

Thomas rocked in his chair and Mary Grace’s eyes had closed again. Charlotte glanced at Hillary. If they didn’t find out about the dress in the next few minutes, they might not find out at all. At least not today.

“Mary Grace.” Hillary moved to kneel by her chair, squeezing her hand. Charlotte guessed she was half checking to see if she was awake and half checking her pulse. “How did you get the dress? Was it made for you?”

The older woman sat forward a bit. Her shaking hand reached for her coffee. “I was given it by the woman who wore it first.”

Her statement, so profound and clear, opened the door to a bevy of questions. Charlotte’s nerves prickled and she scooted forward with a glance at Hillary, who was frowning.

“So why did you leave it at the house?”

Okay, good question, but not the one Charlotte would’ve asked. Who gave the dress to Mary Grace? Who was the first woman to wear it? But today seemed to be about Hillary’s journey. Charlotte sat back and sipped her water.

“We sold the house to your mama and daddy, and when we were all packed up, ready to go, the trunk with the gown was one of the last items to be loaded.”

“I was about to carry it out to the moving truck,” Thomas said from his reclining position, eyelids at half-mast, “when Gracie told me, ‘Tommy, leave it. For that young girl.’”

“So you really left the trunk just for me?” Hillary’s voice trembled. Her countenance wavered.

“I felt I was to leave it for you.”

“She loved that dress too. But when the Lord gives Gracie a nudge, she responds.”

Hillary stood. “God told you to leave that trunk in the basement for me?” Incredulous. Doubt. Awe.

“I think He did. I believe He did. And you found it. And you wore it.”

“Yes, yes, I did. On the happiest day of my life. Which led to the worst. I wore it for a groom who was killed six months later.” Hillary was up and out the door before anyone could say another word. No excuse me, no thank-you, or good-bye.

“Hillary.” Charlotte stepped out the door into the hall. But her new friend was gone. “Mary Grace, Thomas, I’m so sorry.” Charlotte gathered her purse and Hillary’s. “She’s just working through old memories. Thank you for your time. May I come again?”

“Please, come and see us. Don’t worry about Hillary. She’ll fare all right. She’ll fare all right.”

From Mary Grace’s lips to God’s ears. Charlotte caught Hillary just as she got to the car.

“Hey, you run fast for an old lady.” Charlotte worked up a laugh, aiming her remote entry key at her car. Hillary stood by the passenger door with a stone expression. Charlotte slid in behind the wheel, dumping their purses in the backseat. “What’s going on?”

“Just drive.” An ashen-faced Hillary rolled down her window and hung her head out. Her left hand crossed her body and white-knuckled the door handle. “So God set me up in 1957 to be a widow? To marry a man six months before his end-of-life number was called?” She smashed the door with her right fist. “I am never going to step inside a church again.”

“You think God only hangs out in church? He was in that room with us five minutes ago. He’s everywhere.” She’d learned of His every presence that summer at youth camp. And dozens of times since. Charlotte backed out of the parking spot but stopped the car in the middle of the lane. “Are you okay?”

“He knew, He knew Joel was going to die.” Tears slithered down Hillary’s high, pink cheeks. She gulped the fresh air out her window. “And He let me marry him.”

Charlotte sighed. God, help me. What do I say? “Hillary, maybe God—”

“Is there a reason we’re stopped here in the middle of the parking lot?”

“Hillary.” Charlotte gazed out her window. The wind raced through the trees. Her thoughts raced through her mind. “What if marrying Joel wasn’t about you? What if marrying Joel was about him?”

“Getting married was about both of us.”

“But only one of you, using your theory, was slated to end his life in six months. What if marrying Joel was about sending a young man off to war, loved, happy, comforted by the idea of warm fires and a beautiful wife waiting for him at home? What if thinking of you, remembering your wedding, making love, your friendship and laughter”—Charlotte’s thoughts formed words faster than she could speak them—“were the only things that kept Joel going on those nights he was scared and lonely, cold and hungry, miserable as I’m sure only a man at war can be?