The Wedding Dress(91)

“Um . . . yeah, I think.” Talk about being bulldozed. “No, wait, Cleo. Eight is better. What is this about? Who told you I found a dress in the trunk?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you. What’s your address? I’ll Google the directions.”

When Charlotte hung up, her emotions were taut and torqued. What was going on? First, the weird little purple man appears. “The dress is yours.” On the heels of him vanishing, literally, Cleo calls demanding to see the dress.

Charlotte came around the sales counter. “Sir? Little man?” She walked the shop. He wasn’t in the fitting salon or the storeroom. Not in the kitchen or her office. “Sir? Man in purple . . .” He wasn’t upstairs. He wasn’t in the bathroom.

Out the front door, Charlotte stared down the sidewalk and across the street. Not a sign of him anywhere. The wind whistled down the lane and gooseflesh raised on her arms. Crossing the showroom, she stood where he’d stood and breathed the air he’d breathed. A soft, subtle but distinct spice hung in the air just above her nose.

“Char, I’m back.” Dixie emerged from the kitchen, her thick heels clomping, her Dolce & Gabbana swinging from her elbow. She unwrapped a Tootsie Pop and shoved it in her mouth.

“That weird man was here. The one with the purple shirt and the Nikes.” Charlotte raised a foot, motioning with her fingers.

“This is getting creepy. What’d he want?” Dixie disappeared into the storeroom and emerged wearing her Malone & Co. suit jacket. “Did you see the paper? The reporter did a great job on the story. The picture of Tawny is so good. You’re a genius at dressing brides, Char.” Dixie stopped behind the sales counter and picked up the newspaper Charlotte left there.

“He said the dress is mine.”

“Who? The reporter?” Dixie popped open the paper, the lollipop jammed into the side of her mouth, her cheek puffed into a perfect round ball.

“No, Dix, stay with me.” Charlotte popped her hands together. “The man, the weird one. Purple dude. He said the dress in the trunk was mine.”

Dix made a face. “Of course it’s yours. When was that a question?”

“I don’t know, but he didn’t say it like, ‘Hey, the dress you found in the trunk is yours.’ Of course it is. I bought the trunk. But he said it like, it’s yours.” Charlotte lowered and dragged out her voice. “Then about a minute after he said that, Cleo Favorite from the Ludlow Foundation called asking about the trunk and the dress.” She held up the portable phone. “She wants to come over at eight o’clock tonight.”

“How’d she find out there was a dress?”

“That, my friend, is a good question.” Charlotte reached under the sales counter to place the phone on the receiver. “But the weird little man insisted on one thing. The dress is mine.”

The last word of her sentence sent a hot tingle over her heart.



At five ’til eight, Charlotte let herself into her loft, fumbling to juggle her purse, iPad, a bag of groceries, and the key. The bag of groceries hit the floor, spilling bread, apples, oranges, and a bag of baked Goldfish over the tile.

“Need some help?” Tim slid past her, stooping to gather the fruit, tucking it into his arms, a folder jutted between his fingers. His chestnut-blond hair hung long and loose about his face. A light beard dusted his chiseled cheeks.

“What are you doing here?” What was with today—July 19—Charlotte woke up an ordinary girl in an ordinary day. Just the way she liked it. But ever since Purple Man appeared, she felt a shift in her spirit. Like the morning she went up to the mountain to pray.

“I was wondering if you’d care to grab a bite of dinner?” Tim dropped the apples and oranges one by one into Charlotte’s fruit bowl on the counter. When he turned to her, he raked his hair away from his face.

“I can’t.” Charlotte averted her gaze. She loved Tim’s hair and the fullness of his lips. If she looked at him too long, her heart would start to pound, and she’d get all breathless and girlie. “Someone’s stopping by.” Charlotte opened her pantry and set the torn bag on the shelf. Didn’t even bother to take the items out. She shoved the door closed. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

“Don’t have a girlfriend.” He hopped up on the counter, setting the folder beside him. It was his thing, sitting on her counter. He had a way of just making himself at home.

“Ah. Well, these things happen.” When Charlotte looked at him, he flashed his pearly whites.

“How about dinner after your company?” He shrugged, holding up his hands. “Before your company?”

“Can’t. Don’t know how long he’ll be here.”

Tim’s confidence faded a bit. “Do you have a date?” He slid off the counter.

“No, but it was worth faking it to see your face.” Charlotte crossed the kitchen, heading for her room. “It doesn’t feel good, does it?”

“I never went out on you, Charlotte.” Tim reached for her as she walked by. “Hey, where are you going?”

“My room. To change. Do you mind?” Charlotte headed down the hall. When she closed the door, she fell against it, expelling the air from her lungs.

A smile pinged her lips. He was jealous, wasn’t he? When he thought she had a date. So Mr. Cool and Confident wrestled with the green-eyed monster.