by Ashley Clark
“You are hoping to submit the dress to our Senior Show, yes?” The woman set the dress down.
Harper nodded feebly.
Her department chair continued. “This piece looks like the sort of thing I could get at any Anthropologie. Fine. But nothing unique.” The woman put her pencil down and lowered her purple glasses so she could look at Harper eye to eye. “I’m sorry, but I question whether you’ve got the vision for this level of competition.”
“You mean for the Senior Show?” Harper couldn’t breathe.
“The Senior Show, yes . . . but also the fashion industry. It’s a difficult business, even for someone who knows the space she wants to fill. As it stands, you’re trying too hard to be too many things. You need to pick one thing, your thing, and do it well.” The chair pointed to the multicolored embroidery and scalloped hemline of the dress. “Take this, for instance. These elements come across as if you are trying too hard. I need to see more cohesion in the piece.”
“More cohesion?” Harper’s mind spun. But the point was to evoke whimsy, opportunity. Did her department chair fail to see that, or the converse—was the woman right? Had Harper blinded herself to reality?
“You may want to consider other avenues.”
The possibility that this woman was correct in her assessment and Harper had spent the last decade of her life pursuing the wrong dream struck her with the force of an anvil, hollowing out the spaces hope had filled.
But it all made sense now. The way she had to work twice as hard and twice as long as her peers. The awe she felt when she touched a stunning gown and knew down to her bones she could never sew so beautifully. The dream that drove her had become as elusive as a rainbow and ever out of reach.
My, what a fool she had been. So cheery and naïve.
The air gushed from the room in one fell swoop. Harper didn’t know what to say, what to do. She thought she might pass out, as her vision began to blur into tiny black spots.
She reached for the dress and nodded.
A nod was enough, right? Her department chair would understand. Because words . . . well, she didn’t have any right now. She stood to go.
The woman gestured with her glasses. “Don’t take it personally. Some people just aren’t cut out for all this. Forgive me for being terse, but I don’t want you to waste your time doing something that’s not a good fit.”
No, we wouldn’t want that.
Too heartbroken to cry and too disappointed to dream, Harper found herself paying for a sandwich she didn’t really want from a quick service spot across from River Street.
She sat down on a park bench overlooking the water and unwrapped the sandwich from its paper covering. Her hands trembled, and she felt like a shell of herself—completely hollowed out.
Ten years. Ten years’ worth of taking sewing jobs and studying her craft for this.
The persistence she’d once considered an asset had kept her blind to her own humiliation. And so she had continued all this time, thinking if she just tried hard enough, if she just kept going, she could make it. Be one of those rare and few people who actually caught their dream.
Harper brushed the sandwich crumbs from her lap as a little girl began doing cartwheels through the park.
So much for Charleston. The dress shop, and Peter. All the plans she’d made for her future. All of it, that whole eggs-in-a-basket cliché, had been built on this one goal.
And the only thing she could think, the only thing that made any sense, was to get out of this place. Up and leave. Before she made an even bigger fool of herself—a failure of a girl who’d chased far too big a dream.
THREE
Charleston, 1946
“Millie, go and fetch your hat—your uncle’s gonna be here to pick us up.”
“Be there in a minute, Mama,” Millie called. She stifled a groan as she rushed to finish stitching up the tear on her dress sleeve. Then she situated her red cloche on top of her hairpins. The weather was beautiful, and sitting alongside the highway watching her aunt weave sweetgrass was the last thing she wanted to do today.
But she would do it for Mama, and she would be pleasant.
Millie took a long look at her reflection in the mirror.
This is for Mama.
Maybe if she told herself that enough times, the repetition would change her attitude. So far, it hadn’t worked.
Two honks from the driveway suggested Uncle Clyde was here. Millie pinched some color into her olive-toned cheeks, straightened the waistline of her faded day dress, and walked toward the front door, where her mother waited less than patiently.
Mama took in the sight of her. “Slow as molasses, but at least you look the part.” She winked in that uniquely mama way and all but pushed Millie out the door.
An hour later, Uncle Clyde’s car rumbled down the highway toward the stands set up at the edge of folks’ properties. When he reached Aunt Bea’s house, he pulled into the dirt driveway, careful not to run clear over her. She’d set up her stand so darn close to the road.
Mama doesn’t like you using words like “darn”—
But thinking ain’t the same as saying. Restraint had to count for something, right?
Uncle Clyde straightened his suspenders, slammed his own door, and reached for the handle of Millie’s. Always so mannerly. No wonder he was Grandma Ashley’s favorite. Well, that and the fact he was born in her youth. Grandma was always talkin’ about how Mama had been a surprise baby, and when Millie asked how old she was when she fell pregnant, Grandma just said she could be her great-grandma but to hush up and stop asking questions. “You get old enough and you don’t need reminding how great you could be,” she said.
Oh, her grandma never would’ve admitted liking Clyde the best. But Millie expressly remembered. On her deathbed a few years back, Grandma Ashley went on and on ’bout how Uncle Clyde had become the spitting image of her own mama, Rose, inside and out. And what could be a greater compliment than that?
Plus, she always snuck Uncle Clyde the extra benne wafers. She thought no one noticed, but Millie did.
Millie climbed out of the car and smoothed her dress with her hands.
“Millicent! Get over here, baby.”
Aunt Bea was always saying that kind of stuff.
Millie was sixteen, for crying out loud. Old enough to marry, should the situation warrant it. Not that she had any solid prospects, nor that she was entirely sure she wanted prospects, but the point being, she was hardly anyone’s baby anymore.
Nevertheless, Millie did as she was told. She linked arms with Mama and headed toward the little booth Aunt Bea had set up along the side of the road while Uncle Clyde—wise man that he was—headed toward the house.
Aunt Bea clutched an unfinished sweetgrass basket in one hand and managed to “hug” the living daylights out of Millie with the other. Millie had half a mind to think Aunt Bea could read her rebellious thoughts.
“Sit, sit.” Aunt Bea pointed toward the wooden chairs she’d drug out to the edge of her property line. The little stand was crammed top to bottom with Aunt Bea’s coin purses, fanners, Moses baskets, and every size basket in between.
Aunt Bea had a gift for sewing fibers together and seeing something when other folks saw nothing. She’d weave that sweetgrass with the longleaf pine needles to create the most intricate, beautiful patterns.
Millie and Mama took the two empty chairs at the back of the stand.
“Just you two wait and see what I’ve been working on. Finished it yesterday.” Aunt Bea pulled a large woven box from underneath the table at the front of her stand and had to use both hands to pick it up.
Mama reached for it. When Aunt Bea lifted off the top, Mama gasped. Surprise flickered in her eyes.
Millie stood from her chair to get a better look inside.
Hmm. A little girl’s dress?
Mama raised the tiny day dress out from the basket as if she were hanging her best linens on the line to dry. Her hands began to shake as Aun
t Bea cried, and Millie frowned. She didn’t know why Aunt Bea was crying.
Mama stroked the fabric for a while, then turned to Millie. “This dress once belonged to your grandma Ashley. It’s a family heirloom. Her own mother gave it to her. . . .” Mama’s words stuck like glue to her memory. She looked to Aunt Bea, unable to get the rest out herself.
Aunt Bea settled into her own chair, then jabbed the wooden handle of her spoon into the coil she was making. “The morning she was sold. Grandmama Rose never saw Ashley again, bless her soul.”
Millie stilled. She’d heard this story about her grandma Ashley and Rose before, but seeing the dress . . .
Well, that was something else. The fabric of it carried a history, not unlike the baskets.
Millie imagined what her grandmother must have looked like, wearing that dress and weaving as a child. Imagined her grandma’s grandma before that. Did they use old spoons for their sweetgrass sewing like Aunt Bea always had? Did their fingers callus from the sharp edges of the grass?
And what happened when Grandma Ashley outgrew the dress?
Aunt Bea was always sayin’ how children needed to learn weaving because the baskets told an important story of the past. When the road was paved in front of her house, you would’ve thought Christmas came early for the way Aunt Bea was acting. She was sure this would mean more tourists, which would mean more customers, which—of course—would mean more sweetgrass baskets.
And as much as Millie begrudged giving up her Saturday afternoon to sit on the side of the road, she was transfixed watching her aunt. In and out, Aunt Bea wove the fibers, filling the spaces between the sweetgrass with a quality of workmanship that would cause her baskets to last for many generations.
Making baskets that would hold food and plants and dresses—stories, when it really came down to it—for the next hundred years or longer.
Mama set the little dress back into the basket and closed the lid, as though unable to look at it anymore.
Aunt Bea gave Mama’s hand a long squeeze before picking up the large basket she’d been holding when they arrived.
“Want to give it a try?” she asked Millie. “You remember how I taught you, right?”
Millie reached out for the basket. She’d forgotten the pleasant smell of sweetgrass. Long blades stuck up sharply from the top, and Millie pushed the handle of the spoon right through the opening where the fibers needed to pass.
Not entirely different from dressmaking.
She heard the car approach but paid no mind. A customer, no doubt, passing through. Aunt Bea would tell the story behind each basket as Aunt Bea always did, and the customer would purchase something, enchanted as she inevitably was by the stories, and together they would share that history.
“See the way it works, yes?” Aunt Bea had pointed out to Millie time and time again.
Millie heard footsteps but didn’t look up from the basket she was weaving. She knew Aunt Bea could do a far better job telling the story.
Only, the footsteps stopped short.
“Millicent.” His voice sent tremors down her spine.
Millie looked up. Harry wore that same confident smirk—or was it cocky?—only this time, his smile was ghost-like as he watched her and took it all in.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” he said.
Even without glancing at her, Millie felt her mama stiffen.
Harry reached out to touch the sharp tip of the sweetgrass sticking out from Millie’s basket. He nodded back toward the car. “My mother is looking for a new bread basket and insists upon finding one like my grandmother used to own. Before the Late Unpleasantness, that is.” Harry cleared his throat and raised the tip of his nose as he looked around the shop. He lifted a lid here and touched a handle there with no regard for the time or the heart Aunt Bea had invested in her craft.
Millie had half a mind to punch him square in the jaw. And if Mama hadn’t been standing there, watching . . .
Harry crossed his arms over his chest and squared his shoulders. “Nothing here will meet my needs.” His gaze, straight at Millie, violently turned her stomach. “But Millicent, it’s good to see you’ve found a place where you belong.”
He walked back toward the automobile, his frame growing smaller and smaller.
And Millie swore to herself in that moment, if it meant screaming or running or moving to Harlem, she would never lay eyes on the likes of Harry again.
FOUR
Charleston, Modern Day
The next morning, Harper hesitated on the step outside her favorite consignment store in downtown Savannah. She held the dress over her arm and stood beside two window boxes full of flowers whose once-dormant roots had survived the winter chill to nourish new blooms. Spanish moss dripped down onto the sidewalk from the oaks above.
Her heart had begun its prickly sting like a foot that’s fallen asleep.
Did she really want to do this? Did she really want to sell the gown that represented all that work and all those dreams—the dress her department chair had called “fine” without so much as a blink?
Fine. The word settled down into her gut like a cup of tea that had been brewed too long.
Harper started to reach for the door handle, then hesitated. The chair’s words echoed inside her mind with a haunting murmur. She straightened the hem of her favorite sweater, hidden by the dress she carried—the knitted cardigan was the dusty blue of clouds just before a good rain.
She stepped toward the door once more and lifted her chin slightly before entering the store, careful not to snag her dress against the old brick building.
“Welcome!” The woman working the shop busied herself arranging a row of gemstone necklaces. Olivia was her name, if Harper remembered correctly. “Oh, I love those shoes.” She pointed toward the ribbon bow of Harper’s closed-toe, rosy heels.
“Thanks.” Harper hugged the dress closer to her body. She’d paired the cardigan and heels with a floral-print skirt, hoping that wearing some of her favorite things would cheer her up. Vintage shoes were Harper’s version of ice cream.
Olivia leaned down to straighten a stack of faded graphic tees before heading toward the counter. “Bring in an item to consign?”
Harper set the dress on the counter. A snag of thread from the dress caught against the button of her sweater. Harper tugged on it, but the thread just didn’t want to let go. She had to loosen the button of her cardigan to detach herself.
“This is beautiful.” Olivia reached out for the dress. “What’s the label?”
“Doesn’t have one.” Harper looked around at the racks of dresses repurposed from vintage and antique fabrics, at the candles flickering. The scent of the place—the ever-so-slight dust of the old building, the espresso wafting from the coffee shop next door, and the from-the-box smell of new shoes, all mixed together. At once, Harper felt both settled and elated by the terribly deceptive feeling of belonging.
She always had been a fool for that feeling.
“Someone made it,” Harper added.
Olivia held the dress up higher. “Truly, it’s stunning. Why are you selling such a rare piece?”
Harper slid her hands into the pockets of her skirt and took a deep breath. “It doesn’t fit me anymore.”
She thought of the dresses all around, of the women who had worn these fabrics and sewed these seams. She thought of their stories and wondered why these dresses no longer fit them, either. Where had they gone, and what had happened to drive them away?
“I can give you eighty dollars of in-store credit—how does that sound?”
Harper nodded. “Works for me.”
She swiveled on her heels and reached for a plum velvet dress that looked to be from the 1940s. Her fingers grazed the fabric, and she wondered for a moment if the department chair had been Mitchum-Huntzberger-level wrong in her assessment.
Because she did know fabric and she did know stitching, and she had spent years of her life practicing. She had drawn and studied eve
ry fashion trend in the last century, from Audrey’s little black dress to Coco’s pleated trousers. Whenever she got the chance and the fabric, she set to work practicing. Creating.
And her heart hummed to the tune of her sewing machine.
Harper pulled the hanger from the rack to get a better look at the dress.
“Stunning, isn’t it?” Olivia crouched down to arrange more necklaces in a case on the bottom shelf. She gestured toward the velvet gown, several emerald necklaces swinging from her hand. “That one’s from the forties. I actually kept the structure of the original dress—the shape of it still seemed relevant, you know? Just reinforced the ruching around the bust and sleeves.”
“Timeless.” Harper brushed the velvet with her thumb, then wiggled the dress hanger back onto the rack. The last thing she needed was to drop three hundred dollars on a dress. Especially today.
Who was she kidding? She would never make dresses as beautiful as these.
Olivia stood, then marched in place. Her thighs had to be burning after squatting so long. She wore fitted black leggings under an asymmetrical tunic, her hair pinned into a messy bun. “We’ve got some clearance shoes in the back. There’s a pair you might like, actually. Navy with rhinestones. They’re true vintage too.”
“Say no more.” Harper tugged the scarf at her neck and headed toward the back of the store.
When she found the shoes, it was love at first sight. She grabbed the shoebox before she could think better of it—clearance, right?—and headed to the register.
Olivia scanned the box, then looked through the windows as the register lagged. “Beautiful day outside, isn’t it? Do you live nearby? I feel like I see you in here fairly regularly.”
Harper took a glance over her shoulder as the sunlight scattered rays over the tree limbs, over the sidewalk, over the children laughing across the way.
“I used to.” She slid her card into the chip reader and waited, tapping the toe of her shoe against the tile. “I’m actually moving today.”
“Oh?” Olivia took a paper bag by both hands and waved it open. “Where to?”