The Wedding Dress(82)
“Really? No, I couldn’t ask you to do that, Tim. That hungry huddle over there will turn into an angry mob if you ask them to wait.”
He stepped forward. “Then I’ll wait.” He waited, breathing deep, his woodsy scent collecting in the air pocket between them.
“It’s okay. I’m going to worship, then go home and crash.”
“All right then. Guess I can’t keep a girl from her Lord.” He watched her for a long moment, then, “Oh, hey, how’s it going with the dress? What happened with Hillary?”
“Pretty amazing.” Charlotte smiled. The ends of her hair waved on the breeze at him. “She did marry Joel in the dress. When he was killed she sealed up the trunk. She also had a picture of her parents with the people they bought the house from and that led us to Mary Grace Talbot, who wore the dress in 1939.”
“Wow. Amazing is an accurate word.”
“Hillary helps at the shop all the time now. Just shows up—”
“Tim, you coming?” David called from the huddle. “Hey, Charlotte.”
She raised her hand to wave. “Hey, David.”
“Yeah, in a minute,” Tim hollered over his shoulder.
“Listen, you go with your family. I’ll see you, Tim.”
“Can I call you?”
“No, Tim, please.” Charlotte stared toward the western slope of the church grounds, hand on the sanctuary door.
“Charlotte, just so you know, friend Tim misses you.”
“Yeah, but at the moment friend Tim and fiancé Tim still look an awful lot alike to me.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Tim
One last time, Tim reviewed his plans for today’s restoration pitch. The Rose Firm got the nod last minute and he wanted to bring his A-game.
Tim paused on a picture of a chain gang, black men in leg irons, conscripted by the convict-leasing program. He liked to add sculptures of remembrance to his restoration projects. Who worked and lived here before? How did they dress? What did they look like? How can we learn from history? Not repeat the mistakes?
He’d worked with his favorite bronze artist for a memorial plan to go with the restoration of a Saltonstall mine office. His memorial sculpture would commemorate the end of the convict-leasing program in 1928.
Rehearsing his conclusion, “Freedom, at all stages and by all means, must be celebrated,” Tim surfed through his research material for the picture of the women who worked to end the program. He would hold it up and suggest an etching or bronze plaque with their image to be posted by the sculpture.
As he returned the picture to the stack, he reached for his water bottle, took a swig, and stared at the woman in the center. Emily Ludlow.
She stood out to him for some reason. Like he knew her. He certainly welcomed her passion and fire for justice.
The black-and-white image was tattered around the edges. It had been borrowed from Cleo Favorite and the Ludlow estate by his assistant, Javier. He’d promised to return it as soon as he made the presentation.
“Booyah to you, Mrs. L., for fighting injustice. When it wasn’t popular.” He swigged his water again and leaned in for a closer look. He’d been a kid when she died but all through elementary school, his teachers taught civic lessons based on Mrs. Emily Ludlow and her husband, Daniel.
Something about her expression, her celebratory smile, her eyes. Tim snatched it closer and leaned toward the light.
Expressive eyes. Bow lips. Tall and commanding. Looked as if she could lasso the moon and ride it over the horizon. She looked familiar.
Tim glanced at the time. One o’clock. He needed to get his head out of this swirl, grab some lunch, and make sure the slides were good to go for his four o’clock meeting with the downtown restoration commission.
“Tim.” Javier stuck his head through the door. “Someone to see you. Monte Fillmore?” He shrugged, making a face. “He said you’d know what it was about.”
“He’s here? Yeah, send him in.” Tim crossed the room and greeted Monte with a firm handshake. “Please, have a seat.” He offered one of the chairs around a small conference table. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Bottled water?”
“Thank you, no, I’m fine. Don’t reckon you expected to see me.” Monte stood at the fifth-floor window and peered out over the city, a shoe box tucked under his arm. “Nice setup you got here. Good view.” His strong tone reminded Tim of leaders and mentors he’d encountered in his life journey. “Used to have an office off 22nd North myself. Owned my own insurance agency for forty years.”
“I remember your radio jingle. The tune kind of stuck in a guy’s head.”
The man laughed, a spark igniting his crinkled eyes. “Yeah, well, that was my silent partner’s idea.”
“Silent partner?”
He sat up with a huff. “My wife. She wrote that little ditty you heard. Listen, after you called, it got me to thinking.” He shoved the Nine West shoe box over to Tim. “When we broke down Mom’s house, we found this in the back of her bedroom closet. It’s nothing much, just trinkets from Phoebe Malone’s office. Guess Mom was saving it for Charlotte and I meant to take it to her, but in the busyness of her funeral, dealing with her will and accounts, keeping my own family and business afloat, I never got around to it. The contents didn’t seem all that important. Mostly newspaper clippings and a few photos. I left the box on the kitchen counter for months until my wife went to bake Christmas cookies and moved it. Then we kept shoving it further and further out of sight. I thought I’d run into Charlotte one day and remember, but never did. Then you called.”