The Wedding Dress(83)

Tim lifted the lid from the box. Yellow, crackling newspaper clippings floated free. He took them out one by one, scanning the headlines.

Ludlow Foundation Offers Its First Entrepreneur Grant

Emily Ludlow Celebrates Ninety

Professor Colby Ludlow Honored at UAB Banquet

Emily Ludlow, Dead at Ninety-One

Ludlow Estate to Establish Foundation for Business and Education

“Interesting mix. Wonder why Phoebe collected Ludlow articles? Was she related?”

“Not sure, but my wife’s family came from the Canton line, Emily’s family before she became a Ludlow. She doesn’t know of any family with the Malone name. So we don’t think Phoebe and Charlotte are part of the Ludlow-Canton tree.”

Tim stacked the clippings, shoved aside pens and pencils, and found a picture of Phoebe and Charlotte. A chill ran through his chest.

Beautiful Phoebe with her long, thick, winged hair. Beautiful Charlotte, with a gapped-tooth smile, expressive eyes, and bow lips.

He looked up. The chill in his middle warming. Expanding. Tim flipped over the picture. Our First Day in Birmingham.

“Phoebe was rather eclectic. An artist. An engineer. Smart as a whip. I used to debate her politics once in a while, but it gave Mom high blood pressure, so we stopped. No flies on the woman, though.”

“They don’t dare land on her daughter either.”

“Sorry I don’t have more to give you. A name or a reason. Mom once said to me Charlotte’s father was a nonfactor.”

“Easy to say if you’re not Charlotte.” Tim studied the picture. Beneath their faces were a thousand conversations he longed to hear.

There was one more picture at the bottom of the box. A photo of a college-age Phoebe with a group of . . . friends? Fellow students?

Tim read the back. Silver Lake Summer Project ’81. FSU. Professor Ludlow’s Geniuses.

“Ludlow? Did you see this photo, Monte?”

Tim studied the image with Monte peering over his shoulder. In the center of the group was a handsome man with a cocky stance. The four-by-six picture made details hard to detect, but the man looked to be in his forties, corduroy blazer, long layered hair.

“When was this taken?” Monte said. “I see Phoebe, but I’m not familiar with the Ludlow in the picture.”

“It was taken in ’81.” Tim sprang from his chair and grabbed the research folder.

“What’d you see, Tim?” Monte angled the picture toward the light of the window.

“I see a spitting image. Tell me what you see.” Tim lined up the group picture of Emily with the group picture of the professor. “The professor here.” He tapped the man’s face. “And Emily Ludlow here.”

“Well, I’ll be. There’s a bit of a family resemblance as well as the same name. You think Colby Ludlow was related to Emily?”

“Yep. And I think Phoebe Malone might have been in love with him. Just a wild guess.” Tim collected his notes and research and closed his laptop, jamming it into the case, his blood racing. The familiar look of Emily’s eyes in the picture. He’d seen that expression a hundred times. On Charlotte.

If he hurried, he could run up the mountain, check out the Ludlow estate for more clues, and be back in time for his meeting. “Monte, thank you. But I need to go. I appreciate you coming down.” He grabbed his phone. His keys.

“Call if you find out anything,” Monte said, following Tim out the door.

“I will. I will. You’ve been a big help.” Tim knocked on David’s door as he passed his office. “David, I’ll see you at the meeting. Call my cell if you need me.”

“Tim, where are you going? Did you go over the slides?”

“Yeah, no, but I will. See you at the meeting.” Tim punched the elevator button, cutting a side glance to Monte, who was holding down a big grin. “So, what’s so funny?”

“You,” he said. “And pretty much all young men in love.”

“Love? I’m just trying to help a friend.” Tim stepped onto the elevator with Monte.

“Help a friend?” Monte punched the first-floor button. “That’s what you kids are calling it these days? In my day, it was called love. Heart-thwapping love.”



Emily

Mother set a beautiful Christmas table, with ivory china and hand-cut crystal and her own mother’s silverware, buffed and polished to mirrored perfection.

The creamy linen threads of the tablecloth hosted the lamplight and the glow of the candles. On the crimson table runner, she’d placed crisp, fragrant fir boughs.

Father sat at the head of the table, Mother the foot. Phillip and Emily sat center, with Mr. and Mrs. Saltonstall directly across from them.

Howard Jr. dined on Mrs. Saltonstall’s right. And his visiting lady friend dined on Emily’s left.

Molly and Jefferson, with two additional servants, carried Mother’s dinner of onion soup, roasted duck, mashed turnips, and gravy in and out of the kitchen. Along with Molly’s heavenly bread and jam.

But of all the delectables, Mrs. Saltonstall raved over Mother’s iced tea. “You must give me this tea recipe, Margaret. It’s divine.”

“It belonged to my grandmother.” Mother blushed with the compliment. “Since we are family”—she gazed at Emily—“or soon to be, you shall have it before you leave tonight.”