The Wedding Dress(92)

Charlotte changed into jeans and a pullover, then wriggled her toes into her favorite worn flip-flops.

As she went to her bathroom, a wave of gold light caught her attention. The dress. Still displayed in the corner. The silk skirt shimmered with light and the gold threads beamed. The waistband of pearls flowed around the gown like an incandescent river.

Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed. “Hey, magic dress. Cleo’s coming to see you. What does she know that I don’t? And who’s your friend, the man in purple?” Charlotte leaned to listen. “Hmm . . . well, maybe you don’t know either. After all, Hillary barricaded you in the trunk for forty years. And oh, Tim’s here. I know. What’s that about? You remember him, don’t you? He helped redeem you from the trunk.” She slicked her fingers along the creamy folds of the skirt. “Can you keep a secret?” Charlotte laughed low. “Of course you can, look who, rather what, I’m talking to. I’m in love with Tim. I shouldn’t be, but I am.” She flopped back on the bed. “With just about every part of my being.”

For a long moment, Charlotte stared at the ceiling. Then at the dress. Why couldn’t she be over Tim? And why did inanimate objects have stories they can’t tell?

She pulled her hair back, then flipped off her bedroom light and went back to the kitchen and to Tim. It was after eight and Cleo would be here any moment.

“So, what else is going on, bubba?” Charlotte clicked on the dining area lamp, then went for her iPad. Friend, treat Tim as a friend. As a bubba. “How’s the firm? You and David doing well?”

“The firm’s fine.” Tim slid down from the counter. “David is fine. So, who’s coming over here?”

“If you’re here when she comes, I’ll introduce you.” Charlotte flipped Tim a faux smile and set her iPad on the table. “Or maybe you already know her.”

“Cleo Favorite is coming here, isn’t she?” Tim propped his hands on his belt with an exhale.

“How did you know? Tim, what’s going on?”

“She wants to see the dress. Man, she’s a crafty one.”

“Tim?” Charlotte regarded him, bells clanging, whistles blowing. “Did you tell her about the dress?”

“Sort of. I went up there today. Boy, she works fast.” He smoothed back his hair.

Charlotte walked around to the pencil jar by the phone and dug around until her fingers found a rubber hair tie.

“What were you doing up there?” She passed him the tie.

“Investigating.” He twisted back his hair.

Charlotte sighed. With his hair away from his face, his eyes were blue quicksand. “Investigating what? Are they bidding for jobs? When I was there in April, the estate looked immaculate.”

“I found a picture of Emily Ludlow while I was doing research for a project downtown.” Tim angled back for the folder he’d carried in and removed a picture, offering it to Charlotte.

She glanced. The woman stood in the midst of other ’20s women in big hats and baggy dresses. “What were they thinking with that drop-waist style? But after nearly a century of corsets, I suppose loose and baggy was the way to go.”

“Emily’s in the middle.” Tim tapped the picture.

“I know what she looks like, Tim.” Charlotte frowned. “Why are you showing me this?”

“Did you ever meet her?”

“Emily Ludlow? She was an old lady when I was born.” Charlotte tugged open the fridge for a soda. She handed one to Tim, then took one for herself. “Where would I meet her? Why would I meet her?”

The doorbell rang. Charlotte returned her coke to the fridge. “There’s Cleo.”

“I’m staying.” Tim locked his position in the dining area. “Okay?”

“Suit yourself.” Charlotte cut him a glance, then opened the door. “Hey, Cleo, come on in.”

“Sorry I’m late. My husband insisted on a bite to eat before I came here. I’m full as a tick.” Dressed in a suit and heels, she looked composed and perfect, nothing like a full tick. A black attaché swung from her shoulder. “Hello, Tim. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Didn’t expect to see you either.”

“Must be a lucky day for both of you.” Charlotte stood between them. “The dress is in the bedroom, Cleo. I’ll go get it.”

Just inside the bedroom door, Charlotte paused, listening. What was going on between them? But Tim and Cleo exchanged no words. Gently, she moved the gown and the dress form around her bed and out the door toward the living room.

Cleo gasped the moment Charlotte came into view. “That’s the dress. Tim, you said you didn’t know. My stars, it’s so obvious.” Cleo hovered around the gown as Charlotte set it by the sofa. “It’s like time has never passed. It’s . . . it’s perfect.”

“What are you talking about?” Charlotte looked at Tim. He shook his head slightly, eyes narrowed, as if trying to tell Charlotte something. “Do you know this dress, Cleo?”

“I most certainly do. It belonged to Emily Ludlow.” She unsnapped her attaché and removed a picture frame. Beneath the glass was a yellow, faded, grainy newsprint photograph of Emily Ludlow, head back, laughing, her arm linked with a dark-suited elbow.