by Ashley Clark
Harry chuckled, then locked eyes with her. “Oh, you were serious.”
“I was, and I am.”
“Then I would say I admire your ambition.” He hesitated a long moment. “But I would remind you that such idealism is precisely why we can’t have women prancing around, running businesses. The idea may be alluring, but it will never happen in American society.”
Millie clenched her teeth but managed a tight-lipped smile. Should’ve known better than to test him. She was normally not so foolish. Long ago, her mama explained why certain dreams and certain people were just not worth her time.
Millie took another bite of her ice cream, then mixed the chocolate fudge into the melting vanilla with her spoon. Blending the two together like a milkshake was her favorite part of a sundae—the hot and the cool, the rich and the sweet. Opposites blended deliciously.
“Tell me more about yourself. What brings you here this afternoon?”
Harry swept his blond hair back with his hand. “I’m studying at the College of Charleston so I can take on the family business someday. But with the pleasant weather today, I skipped class and took a walk down King Street. Perhaps it was fate that led to us meeting.” He took a bite of his ice cream. “Do you live nearby?” he asked.
“Radcliffeborough.”
“Really?” Harry sat up straighter.
“You sound surprised.” Millie swallowed another bite of her sundae, determined not to let one drop go to waste. She ran her thumb beneath her lower lip to remove any traces of chocolate.
“I am, to be honest.” Harry pivoted his stool to face her more directly. “I guess I just assumed you lived on Middleton Plantation or South of Broad. I’m surprised to hear you live uptown.”
Oh, Millie. Why did you have to go and rattle that off?
“Despite that”—Harry inched ever so slightly closer—“I’d really like to see you again. Can I take you to dinner sometime?”
Millie frowned. “Did you just say despite that?”
“Did you not hear me say I’d like to take you to dinner?”
Millie simply stared at him. The clock had struck midnight, and it was time for Cinderella to leave.
“Thank you for the sundae, Harry.” Millie stood from the stool and brushed the hem of her dress back into place.
“I . . . I don’t understand.” Harry dropped coins on the counter for the sundaes. In an instant, he was standing beside her, grabbing her arm, and turning her to face him. “I thought things were going well. Was I wrong?”
Heels planted firmly against the checkered tile, Millie raised her chin. “If you don’t like persons from uptown, and you don’t believe a woman can run a business, then I can tell you truthfully, Harry, you are not going to like me. Because you don’t know the half of it if you find those things off-putting.”
The ceiling fan above them pushed the air into a swirl.
“What does that mean, Millie?” Harry shook his head. “Are you trying to keep me guessing?”
Millie reached toward the door, but Harry wouldn’t let go.
“Please, just tell me.”
Millie’s gaze scanned the pharmacy—the girls wearing beautiful dresses and the boys trying to impress them and the artwork that just moments ago, she’d studied so intently.
She’d never come here again. So what was the point of keeping it a secret, anyway?
She lowered her voice so as not to cause a scene. At least now, she might let go of the breath she’d been holding.
“Middleton was my great-grandmother’s name. She was born a slave and had no other surname.”
Harry blinked. Millie watched as realization slowly changed his expression from pleasantry to disgust.
He let go of his hold on her arm then, wiping his hand on the leg of his trousers. “Get away from me, you filthy girl,” he hissed.
No one was watching them. No one was listening. Millie had made sure of it.
So no one saw when he pushed her on his way out the door, or when she righted her balance with her foot to keep from falling down onto the tile.
No one saw the tear on her sleeve from Harry’s grip, the turmoil in her heart, or the resolve on her face as she left the pharmacy a wiser woman than when she’d come.
But most of all, no one knew Millie was a Black girl pretending to be white.
TWO
Charleston, Modern Day
Harper glanced up at the brick building on King Street and imagined what it must’ve looked like back in its prime. Streetlights cast a glow down the quiet end of the street as she took in the disrepair of the building.
Lucy looped her arm around Harper’s elbow and nudged her toward the door. “Come on,” her friend urged. “I know it’s pretty, but the party’s inside. You act like you’ve never been to Charleston before.”
“I haven’t,” Harper admitted. Though now she wondered why she’d taken so long to make the drive.
“What? But it’s right up your alley. A city that sings with beauty of all things restored.” Lucy’s long blond curls fell over the shoulders of her knee-length, open cardigan. She wore the cranberry sweater over a fitted floral pencil skirt and the lace-lined camisole that Harper had sewed for her from vintage fabrics.
Harper laughed. “You sound like a poet.”
“I am an artist, and artists see magic wherever they go. Besides, it was Savannah College of Art and Design or Harvard, and who can resist pralines?” Lucy brushed her curls from her shoulders and reached for the door handle. “Now, are we ready?”
“Yeah, let’s go inside.” Harper grinned. “And you’re right about the pralines.” Though, pralines or not, Savannah was indeed a city for dreamers, and SCAD was their school. She would like to think that in between the years of studying stitching and design and cultural trends, she had finally earned the tools to transition her own dreams from the realm of fantasy to reality.
She was ready to open her own dress store as soon as she graduated and her designs made Senior Show. She needed to attract some attention to be taken seriously as a newcomer in the industry and finally get her career going.
Yes, the plan—the glorious plan that began as a dream in the heart of a girl taking sewing lessons from the old woman at the boardinghouse—was finally coming to fruition. And it felt good.
Harper followed her roommate into a large, open space that had been transformed for the wedding shower. Twinkle lights hung from the ceiling among a host of shiny balloons, and a banner that read Mr. and Mrs. was draped across the gift table. Gallon-sized mason jars held tea and punch, and the flower arrangements on the tables were mixed with palmetto roses for a touch that was uniquely Charlestonian.
The hosts had outdone themselves.
Of course, Harper didn’t know any of them except the bride, Lucy’s sister. Though they’d only met a few times, Harper had always found her to be a kindred spirit, so she took extra care with the gift—a sweet little vintage cardigan she had found at a consignment shop and repaired so the ivory flowers looked as good as new. She wasn’t so brazen as to expect the woman to wear it on her wedding day, but perhaps the sweater would be the perfect bridal touch for their honeymoon.
Harper loved finding little gems like that, on the brink of disappearing into a landfill, and giving them new life. A second story.
She set her paper-and-twine-wrapped gift on the gift table and was scanning the twenty or so guests already in the room when Lucy leaned over. “Don’t look now, but Mr. Darcy is standing over there.”
Harper casually glanced toward the other side of the table and immediately spotted him. His dark, wavy hair and a button-down-with-khakis combo looked like it’d come from a Saks Fifth Avenue advertisement. “Whoa. You aren’t kidding.”
“Right? You should say hello. He looks fancy.” Lucy grinned.
“You know I don’t care about money,” Harper said. And she meant it. She’d be happier in a one-bedroom apartment with fabric piled from here to high heaven than in a mansion with the
wrong person.
“Okay. How about the fact he looks like the lead on that BBC show you like so much?”
Harper laughed. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you talk to him?” She gently pressed the embroidered sleeves of her dress. She’d hesitated to wear it, but tomorrow she would take the dress for her department chair to judge whether or not the design deserved representation at SCAD’s Senior Show. After months of watching Gilmore Girls reruns through the night, pulling out stitches to get the embroidery just so, wearing the dress tonight seemed appropriate. Like Cinderella’s big moment. Still, she would be careful with it and stay away from all things chocolate.
“Maybe I will.” Lucy straightened her crystal necklace and tucked her hair behind her ears. “How do I look? Any lipstick on my teeth? And by the way, you’re coming with me.”
Harper glanced toward Mr. Darcy and noticed for the first time that he was talking to someone else—a man wearing glasses and a tie that looked like it should’ve sunk with the Titanic.
She didn’t mean to be ugly. He had a warm smile, and that was something. At least she didn’t have to worry about him getting the wrong impression of why she was headed over there. “All right. Let’s go make you sound enchanting.”
“And what about the lipstick?” Lucy widened her grin for inspection.
“Not a speck.” Harper gently pushed her friend onward. “Come on. Before you lose your opportunity.”
Within moments, they had rounded the corner of the gift table. Harper took the liberty of starting the conversation before Lucy’s nerves got the best of her. “Either of you know the story of this space? The building sure is beautiful.” Slightly dilapidated, but beautiful.
Mr. Darcy grinned at his nerdy friend. “My cousin Peter can answer that one.” His gaze moved to Lucy, and he held out his hand. “I’m Declan.”
Lucy took his hand, then tucked her long curls behind her ear in one graceful movement that seemed to have Declan immediately entranced. Harper was always amazed at how she did that. After a moment’s hesitation, Declan shifted his attention to Harper, and the round of introductions was made.
“I got suckered into buying the place.” Peter took off his glasses and cleaned them with the hem of his shirt, then repositioned them back at the bridge of his nose. The frames were tortoiseshell, and though Harper was fairly confident the trendy flair was completely unintentional, still, she felt an unexpected wave of attraction toward him as she looked into his blue-green eyes for the first time. “And by suckered, I mean I’m a hopeless sentimentalist,” he added.
And articulate to boot.
Lucy could have the handsome one. Harper was more interested in an interesting conversation. A completely platonic conversation.
“Decades ago, it was a dress store,” Declan said. “Isn’t that right, Peter?”
Harper’s heart quickened. An old dress shop?
Peter nodded. “I’ll need to find a tenant within the next few months. Maybe even weeks. But in the meantime, it seemed like a perfect place to have their wedding shower. What, with the romantic history and all.”
The Lord couldn’t have been clearer had He opened up the heavens and dropped a banner straight from the clouds. This was Harper’s next step. She could feel it down to her bones. Coming to Charleston tonight, getting that invitation from Lucy’s sister—it was all for a reason, a purpose.
By the time Peter got the space rental-ready, she would have all her proverbial ducks in a row. She would make Senior Show and get a little more money saved and graduate and get some inventory. . . .
Harper glanced over toward Lucy to see if she, too, recognized how perfectly this property aligned with Harper’s long-term plans. But Lucy was too busy swooning to pay any mind. Harper would fill her in later.
“So you like old buildings?” Harper crossed her arms, careful not to pull any of the delicate stitching of the dress. Lucy and Declan were in the middle of a conversation about the bride and groom, so she’d give them a chance to chat.
Peter’s eyes flickered with interest. “I’ve always been interested in the stories behind the walls. I think a large part of it comes from my own family history. My mom, she . . . uh . . . ” With two fingers, he rubbed his temple where it met his forehead. “She passed away nine years ago. When she did, my stepfather gave away some things that didn’t belong to him. Heirlooms that were once my mom’s.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Harper sighed. Should she tell him she, too, knew the grief of losing her own mother?
Peter met her eyes. “Thank you.”
“So I take it you’re looking for these family heirlooms?” Harper absentmindedly ran her thumb along the embroidery of her dress.
“I am. The difficult part is, I don’t know what I’m looking for. They were in a box she kept, and I never paid it much mind until the box was gone.”
Harper started to lean against the gift table, but one of the petite gift tags caught the side of her dress.
Panic rushed through her veins. She could not tear this dress . . . she could not tear this dress . . . she could not—
Peter closed the space between them and reached out to help.
Her desperate gaze met his and settled there. She took a deep breath. “I never should’ve worn this dress anyway. It’s a showpiece I’m being graded on tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, huh? Sounds intense.” Peter held the tag steady for her as Harper gently eased the embroidery free. For a brief moment, their fingers touched, and a flutter of magic traveled all the way down to her heart.
Such a strange emotion, almost like the feeling of coming home.
He leaned closer to study the fabric. “I don’t see any damage done.”
Harper freed the final stitch and sighed her relief. “I go to Savannah College of Art and Design and have this dream of owning my own dress shop.”
“Really? That sounds interesting,” Peter said. He secured the tag back on the gift and took a step back, but he was still standing closer than he had been before, and his nearness caused a whirl in her heart. He was tall—taller than she’d noticed before.
Harper didn’t look away from his eyes. “Yeah, it’s kind of a ridiculous dream, I guess. In the sense that most people say it’s nearly impossible.” She pressed the stitching of her dress. “But what fun is it to merely do the possible?”
A slow grin rose from the corners of Peter’s lips. “I would have to agree.”
From the other side of the room, the maid of honor clanked a glass and made an announcement. But all Harper could hear was the sound of her pulse and the echo of Peter’s words in her mind: “I’ve always been interested in the stories behind the walls.”
Yes, Peter. So have I.
When this space was ready for rental and she was done with her final push for the Senior Show, she would call him. Charleston wasn’t so far from Savannah and might be a perfect spot to set up her store.
And after that . . . well, who knew what might happen.
Harper shifted her weight from one kitten heel to the other and waited outside her department chair’s office. Daddy’s words years ago still held just as much power as they did the night she confessed she wanted to attend Savannah College of Art and Design. Even though the two of them didn’t have the money or the means.
“No matter how long it takes, Harper Rae, when your Jubilee tide comes in, make sure your nets are good and ready.”
And look at her now. All the obstacles she’d overcome. Daddy would be so proud when she called him in a few hours and told him she’d officially passed this course and made it into the Senior Show. Her first several grades in the capstone class had been rough, but she’d done a slew of calculations and was confident that this dress was A-level work, which meant she could still get out with a B average. The start of the semester might have been grueling, but the challenge pushed her work to another level.
A soft sigh escaped her lips as Harper clutched the intricate gown in her arms. Yes, everything
was redeemable. She had done the work and was now about to see the proof.
She traced the embroidery around the collar of the dress with her thumb—embroidery she had ripped out again and again because the stitches were never quite good enough. She had re-stitched it all so many times.
A student she recognized from her fashion aesthetics class stepped through the doorway and shook her head toward Harper.
“Not good?” Harper whispered.
The young woman paled, holding a garment bag closer to her chest as she hurried off toward the stairs.
Harper took a deep breath. Everything was going to be okay. She had worked years for this moment. Taken jobs making coffee and spent hours watching YouTube tutorials. Not to mention all the handsome men she had turned down as distractions.
Okay, so there weren’t that many of them, and they weren’t that handsome. But still. She knew what she was doing. She had more than enough experience, both knowledge-based and otherwise.
She was a confident person. A confident artist.
Yet her stomach turned this way and that, like the tide just before a storm. She swallowed hard, held the dress a little tighter with her sweaty palms, and stepped into the office before her nerves could take a stronger hold than they already had.
Her department chair glanced up. She wore a chunky pearl necklace that had to be heavy. “Harper.” The woman nodded and used her pencil to scan a list of students’ names, then checked a box. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Harper gently set her dress down on the desk. Months of work—years, really—ready to be evaluated in seconds.
The woman reached for the dress, taking in the embroidery and the organza layer of the skirt and inspecting the seams. All the while, Harper’s fingers fidgeted, ready to get the dress back in her own hands.
What if . . .
Do not think about the implications. You are going to get into the Senior Show. This will be your big break. You’re finally going to get your dress shop, maybe sometime next year. All Daddy’s sacrifices to help pay for college will be worth it, and you’ll never doubt your abilities again because you’ll have a SCAD degree to your name—