The Wedding Dress(90)
“Yeah, that’s too bad. And the heirs? To the Ludlow estate?” Tim inched toward the door.
“All gone. Colby was the last.” Cleo cat-walked after him. “The foundation is the heir.”
“He never married?”
“He did. Married a Woodward girl but they didn’t have children. In the late nineties they divorced and she moved to Florence to be near her sister’s family. Colby hired me to manage the estate after his grandmother died. Our mothers were friends,” Cleo said. “When Colby died, a board of trustees took over but kept me on to oversee the day-to-day operations and administer the foundation.”
“What if an heir showed up?” Tim landed his hand on the doorknob.
“Like fell out of the sky? Or emerged from the woodwork?” Cleo cradled the picture against her chest and snorted. “There is no heir, Tim. I don’t know what you’re up to with this inquiry, but we searched for an heir after Colby died. Even if one did pop up, the estate is in the hands of the trustees. Besides, Tim, the Ludlow history isn’t of biblical proportions. There are people alive in this city who knew Daniel and Emily and Colby. Trust me, if there was an heir, we’d know about it. The Ludlow line has ended, sadly.” Cleo marched to the closet, her footsteps confirming her assertion—there is no heir—and returned the framed newspaper image to the dark shelves.
“What happened to Colby?” Tim said. Maybe he was imagining it, but every time he looked at the picture with Phoebe and Professor Ludlow, he saw Charlotte. “He retired from UAB and what?”
“Played a lot of golf. He lived the life he wanted.”
“Was he a good man?”
“As good as any man can be. He was generous, kind, decent,” Cleo said. “You know, Tim, if Charlotte has the gown Emily was wearing on the back of the horse, it belongs to the Ludlow Foundation. It also belongs to the city and the civil rights museum. Emily wore the first wedding dress in the south made by a black designer. Got herself arrested for it too. We’ll need it returned.”
“Arrested over needle and thread and a few yards of fabric?”
“Hard for us to imagine, but yes, back then they took the separate but equal law seriously. So if you know where the gown is . . . you best do right by me and bring it back.”
“Thanks again for your help, Cleo.” Tim headed for the door, regretting his decision to come here. “I need to get to my meeting. I’ll let myself out.”
The last person he needed to do right by was Cleo Favorite. The first person Tim Rose needed to do right by was Charlotte Malone. And figure a way to prove Colby Ludlow was her father.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Charlotte
Charlotte rounded the corner from her office into the showroom, the Lifestyle section of the News in her hand. “Dix, we’re at the tipping point. The article on Tawny’s wedding is fantastic.”
But instead of finding Dixie in the middle of the shop, she found the man in purple.
“Hello.” Charlotte stopped. “You again.”
“The dress is yours, you know,” he said without so much as batting an eye.
Charlotte folded the paper and walked to the sales counter. “Why don’t you just tell me who you are and your connection to the dress?”
“Have you tried it on?”
“No, and frankly I don’t intend to try it on. I’m not getting married. But I’ll find the right bride for it. Not that it’s any of your business.” The sales counter created the perfect barrier.
“But you are my business, you see.” His gaze, the same intense polished blue, seemed to root around in her heart, turning over her foundation stones.
The ones that said Charlotte Is All-Sufficient. Charlotte Doesn’t Need Anyone. Charlotte Is Immune from a Broken Heart.
She couldn’t look at him. Not long anyway. She felt restless, like she was standing in the midst of holiness, and if she stood for one second longer, she’d implode.
Or worse, break down in tears.
Yet, in the midst of the swirl of heat and chills expanding in her chest, she was profoundly at peace.
“How can I be your business? You don’t know me. I think you should leave.”
“All right, I’ll go.” He backed toward the door. “Just remember, the dress is yours.”
“I don’t think anyone is going to sue me for it.”
“The dress is yours.”
The shop phone rang, a soft, muted melody. When Charlotte answered, a sharp voice hit her ear.
“This is Cleo Favorite from the Ludlow Foundation.”
“Cleo, how are you?” Charlotte glanced back at the purple man. But the spot where he stood was empty. Now where did he go? How did he enter and exit without a sound?
“I want to see the dress.”
“What dress?” Charlotte scanned the room and carried the portable phone with her as she moved up the stairs. He was gone.
“The dress you found in the trunk you purchased at our auction in April.”
“How did you know I found—”
“Is it at your shop?”
“No, my loft. Cleo, how did you know I found a dress?”
“Does seven o’clock work for you?”