by Ashley Clark
Millie nodded. She didn’t know what else to say. Words failed the tug of gratitude she felt.
So instead, she turned to Mrs. Stevens and simply hugged the woman. Caught off guard at first, Mrs. Stevens relaxed and began to laugh softly. “You really are excited, aren’t you? I hope you can make something lovely from these old fabrics. Bring a new life to them. A new story.”
“I will,” Millie said. “I promise you, I will.”
With every seam, with every layer, with every button, for the rest of her life.
EIGHTEEN
Charleston, Modern Day
Why does a river change its course, and how do creeks turn into streams? Harper had been wondering this all day as she and Millie traveled through the Lowcountry, filled as it was with tall grasses and lazy waters and waving leaves.
A week after her phone call with Peter, Harper gripped the steering wheel and looked over at her ninety-something-year-old passenger. The other employees at the boardinghouse were looking after things, and it seemed Harper had talked Millie out of adopting the baby goat for the time being.
“Harper Rae, be a doll and mind the road.” Millie’s focus never left the path ahead.
Harper smiled and shook her head. Fields and fields of sweetgrass rustled beyond the car windows, as Lowcountry waters snaked through the mushy ground.
Though Harper was looking forward to seeing Peter again, she was no fool. The woman who’d met him just weeks ago was no longer a person she recognized. She still felt lost in many ways, like she was driving in circles. The trip would be for Millie and Peter’s sake.
And maybe a little bit because Harper couldn’t seem to get Peter out of her head. But no one needed to know that.
Harper drove over the Ashley River and into what Millie called the Holy City. It was nothing short of magical. She watched the buildings through her window—reading them, in a way, as she would read a beautiful gown. Wondering what age-old stories and secrets they had to tell.
“Are you sure you don’t want to tell him who you are when we first meet up?” Harper slowed to a stop at a light on King Street. She snuck a glance at Millie, whose wrinkled lips were pursed together as she rapped her painted fingernails against the car door.
Millie shook her head, the pearls about her neck shifting ever so slightly. She settled in her seat and locked eyes with Harper. “Dear, I just need you to mind my wishes. You won’t utter the word grandmother until I say so. Understood?”
“Understood. Just make sure you find a way to bring it up sooner rather than later. We don’t want to owe him rent on a dress store that we’re just using as a façade to soften the news.” Harper checked the light, still red. But Millie didn’t chuckle as Harper expected, so she turned her attention again to the woman. “You are still planning to return to Alabama rather than starting an actual store, right?”
Millie waved away the question. “How ridiculous you sound. Starting a shop at my age?”
Harper raised an eyebrow. Why did Millie’s tone sound less than convincing? She decided not to press the issue for the time being. She was tired and probably imagining things. “How are you feeling? About all this, I mean.”
“I’m feeling . . .” Millie’s voice warbled, and she took a deep breath. “This strange intersection between a woman in the final stages of life, and a young girl suspended by choices.” Millie sighed, straightening her pearls first, and then her pintucked blouse. “Choices that determined the course of . . . well, everything, really . . . and yet, have brought me back here again.” She looked out at King Street as a sunbeam pierced past the clouds. “Back home.”
Just for a moment, Harper recognized a different sort of Millie. A Millie who, despite this time working together, had never appeared to Harper before. A Millie who seemed the slightest bit vulnerable after all.
The light turned. Harper put both hands back on the wheel. “I never knew you had a history anywhere but Fairhope.”
“No, few people do.” Millie’s voice was stronger now.
“Why, Millie?”
The aged woman patted her curled hairdo. “I suppose you’ll know that soon enough. But for now, just mind the road.”
She had spunk. Harper would give her that.
Two blocks later, GPS directed them to a courtyard behind a stunning old building on King Street. Harper immediately recognized it from when she’d been there weeks ago.
The two-story structure boasted long windows, and a cheery awning with antique scrolls along the roofline. Though it certainly showed its age, it also showed its charm, nestled between adjacent buildings with equal amounts of character. She parked and dialed Peter’s phone number. He’d told them to call when they arrived.
“Harper,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Great timing. I’ll walk down now.”
She directed him to where they’d parked, and then it hit her. The full weight of all this. Here she was in a strange city, driving around a woman who was the picture of health, but—let’s face it—still in her nineties. If you’d told Harper several months ago that this was the direction her life would lead, she never would’ve believed it.
And now she was about to take a short-term rental from a man who was practically a stranger, and just pray he wasn’t a psychopath or one of those people who is too eco-conscious to crank up the air conditioning.
Then she saw him, climbing down the external stairs at the side of the building and heading toward their car, and in that moment, she panicked. What had she been thinking? This was real life, not a dream. Suddenly she was thirteen again, at her first boy-girl party—back when they called them boy-girl parties—hiding in the bathroom in the era before cell phones and waiting, waiting until eight thirty.
Peter was several paces away from the car when Harper opened her door and stepped toward him, jitters abounding.
His loose curls slipped just behind his ears, short enough to maintain professionalism yet long enough to stir within Harper the most ridiculous desire to touch them. His glasses gave the appearance of being bookish, though he seemed the sort to wear the style before it was trendy. The hem of his faded T-shirt skimmed just below the waist of his well-fitting jeans.
Something about him drew her, and she found herself insensibly attracted to him. Harper had never made a habit of being attracted to strangers, especially not strangers she was supposed to be keeping secrets from.
The sunlight softened, the colors of the sky deepened, and Peter closed the space between them by holding out his hand. His smile, framed by that well-trimmed beard, bewitched her. His hold on her hand was gentle, and she allowed her fingers to linger a moment longer than she normally would’ve. Did he notice?
“Harper. Pleasure to see you again.”
“And the same goes for you.” She returned his grin, wondering what might be going through his own thoughts.
“Don’t mind the old woman in the car.” Millie opened the passenger side door. Peter chuckled, his laugh warm and almost familiar, like the aroma of a coffee-scented candle that instantly takes a person back home.
He stepped toward Millie, and his grin widened as he engulfed her in his arms. “My dear Millie.”
“My dear boy.” She looked up at him and returned his affection with her own radiant grin. “Our bags are in the back. You can manage them both, can you not?”
Harper cleared her throat. “That won’t be necessary, Millie. I can carry my own.”
“Nonsense, sugar.” She waved away the notion. “None of that feminist rubbish. The man has offered to host. Let him host us.”
Peter met Harper’s gaze, sending a current of anticipation through her. “The luggage is really no trouble.”
“If you’re sure.” Harper smiled, eager to see the space where they would be staying. Equally eager to talk with him more. Reflections of the setting sun lit the clouds every shade of pink, and Harper breathed a thank You, God because after years of professional and relational disappointment, the tide finally seemed to be tur
ning, here in the Lowcountry.
This night, as it turned out, had already far exceeded her first party at the age of thirteen.
Later that evening, after leaving Millie and Harper to settle into the loft rental, Peter met up with Declan and Sullivan for a few games of scrimmage. He would show Millie and Harper the storefront in the morning.
When Harper mentioned how much she liked the vintage aesthetic, Peter was glad he’d decided to go ahead and furnish the short-term rental, as he typically did with these types of properties. But he was surprised to hear that she’d told Lucy to sell the little amount of furniture she still had in the Savannah apartment they shared. Why did she seem to be running away and cutting ties, when back at the engagement party, she was so hopeful? Maybe in time she would tell him.
“Sounds like the tie was not enough to deter her. Dude, you must’ve had some kind of a conversation with that woman.” Declan’s shot swooshed through the net.
Sullivan went after the ball and dribbled it several times, dodging his way around Peter. “I’m really going to have to see this tie.”
Peter stole the ball and took his own shot. Three points.
Declan and Peter shook their heads. “Going to silence us with your signature three-pointer?” Declan took the ball and started dribbling.
“Whatever works.” Peter lifted the hem of his shirt to rub the sweat from his forehead and crouched lower to get in position for defensive coverage.
Declan took a shot, but the ball bounced against the rim. “Can you start from the beginning with all this stuff? I’m getting confused. I mean, obviously I’m not confused about Harper. Or Lucy . . . unfortunately . . . but that’s a story for another day. But you two lost me with all this satchel, wedding dress stuff.”
Sullivan grabbed the ball and started dribbling. “We found those in an old house, and Peter thinks they might’ve belonged to his mother. Well, the dress definitely did, because she’s wearing it in her wedding photos. But Peter says it’s an antique, and there may be a reason his mother had it. Something we don’t know about.”
Declan stole the ball. “No way. So these could actually be the heirlooms in her box that went missing?”
Peter rolled his eyes. “I’m standing right here, guys.”
Declan took the ball in both hands and grounded his feet. “You’re right. So give us the scoop.”
Peter recognized that look and knew their game had just come to a mutually acknowledged time-out. So he continued, eager to get the attention off himself. Talking about his stepfather and all that happened years ago wasn’t exactly his favorite thing to do.
Peter raked his hand through his hair to push it away from his face. “You both know about my stepfather giving away my mom’s stuff right after she died, right?”
They nodded.
“So those are the heirlooms I’ve been looking for. And obviously I found her dress, which was old when she wore it.”
“You think the satchel is connected?” Declan passed the ball between his right and left hands as if trying on the idea. “That does seem to make sense.” He hesitated, looking straight at Peter. “Here’s one thing I’ve long wondered, though. How do you know the box of your mom’s was important? I mean, obviously it was important because it belonged to her—but beyond that.”
“Yeah, sure.” Peter rubbed both eyes with his hands. The truth was, he didn’t know. He’d been operating off hunches for years. “Isn’t that the way with history? You’re always trying to put together these leftover fragments in hopes they’ll tell the full story that was actually lived. So I guess, even with my mother’s history, I don’t know for certain. But I do have this memory from when I was just a kid.”
Sullivan unscrewed the lid of his water bottle. “You never told me this.”
“Me neither,” Declan said.
Peter leaned his head back, looking upward to the evening sky. “I remember she hung up the phone with somebody . . . back whenever people had landlines. My stepfather walked in upset, saying he didn’t want my mother talking to that woman anymore and he wouldn’t have his reputation compromised by somebody of her class. Mom was crying. I had no idea what any of it meant—just that I knew well enough to stay hidden in the hallway. When he walked off, I asked my mom what happened.” Declan and Sullivan watched him intently, neither of them moving an inch. Peter continued. “She said she had a box of things that belonged to the woman on the phone and someday, when I was older, she would tell me the rest of the story.”
Sullivan blew out a deep sigh. “Then the boating accident . . .”
“Exactly.” Peter swallowed. Sometimes he could talk about her sudden death with ease. Other times, the grief pierced him with a fresh sting. This was a case of the latter.
Declan shifted his weight back and forth, a clear sign the game would start again soon. Peter was relieved to see it.
“You think it was your grandmother on the phone that day, don’t you?” Sullivan took one more swig from his water bottle before replacing the cap.
Peter nodded slowly. “I always have. A hunch, I guess. I had no good reason to think that, except who else would it be? But then I found the satchel right there with the wedding dress.” He glanced over toward Sullivan. “I didn’t tell you this part earlier because I wanted to be sure. But when I got that satchel home and studied it, the colors of the thread were like this faint memory. Faded by time—sort of the way you remember little grooves in the wall from when you were a kid or your favorite television characters. A shadow of what used to be.”
“Don’t forget about the button,” Sullivan added.
Peter pointed toward Sullivan, thankful he was here to get Declan up to speed. “Yeah, that’s important. So the satchel described how its original owner, a young girl sold as a slave, was given two matching buttons by her mother when she was sold. I found one of the buttons on the wedding dress.”
“Ah,” Declan said. “And that’s how you’re hoping to find the rest of the story. Through the matching button.”
“Improbable as that sounds, yes.” Just hearing the words come out of his own mouth reminded Peter how small a button could be—and how often we pass them every day without so much as blinking. The very thing that might hold together the fiber of a long-sought-after story.
“Sounds like you’re confident about it.” Declan hit the basketball with his hand. “That these are the missing heirlooms.”
Peter rubbed his hands together, ready to intercept the ball. “I just keep wondering if maybe my grandmother is still living.”
Declan began dribbling. “Wouldn’t that be something? She could be anyone. Just think.”
Anyone, indeed.
NINETEEN
Fairhope, 1947
Rain fell in gentle sheets on the pier outside the boardinghouse on the day Franklin married Millie. And the whole earth, of course, waves at the start of a rain. The hem of her long, airy gown floated up like a cloud as the sunlight cast a glow like magic through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the boardinghouse.
The holiday magic—the garland and ornaments and the candles—had been swept into boxes where they would remain until the following Christmas, and now a new year had begun. One that Millie hoped might bring its own sort of magic in its own sort of way.
Mrs. Stevens had given Franklin a Sunday suit that once belonged to her late husband and bought him a real nice hat and razor. Truthfully, Millie sort of missed the beard around his lips, but cleanly shaven, he was handsome enough to turn heads.
Millie wore a spritz of rosewater perfume, a wedding gift from Mrs. Stevens, and her hair was coaxed into rolled curls at the nape of her neck. The curls brushed Mama’s butterfly buttons, and a trail of other buttons fell in place down her back.
Of course, Millie couldn’t manage all these buttons herself, so Mrs. Stevens had helped with that too.
The woman had set to work getting the minister and making a little tea cake, even lending Millie her own pearls.
/> Millie felt as if she were a princess in a fairy tale. She clutched a small bouquet of pink and peach roses, and snuck a glance around the corner of the wall.
Franklin stood there beside the pastor and fussed with his bow tie.
Her heart tumbled down a meadow at the sight of him. Marriage for friendship—marriage to her only friend—was a prospect that she looked forward to. Sure, she had once fancied herself wearing one of those gowns she’d spied through the window of the Charleston shop and marrying for romance. What young woman doesn’t?
But Millie was no fool. Franklin cared about her, would care for her, and she felt the same way. That was far more than many marriages ever managed, romance or none. Franklin would help her find a way to her dreams, and she would do the same for him.
One of the guests at the boardinghouse had offered to play the piano Mrs. Stevens kept in the lobby, and Millie clutched her flowers a little tighter as the “Wedding March” began.
Without hesitation, she stepped toward him. Franklin’s expression washed with contentment, and for a moment, she wondered if he truly admired her. Love, of course, was out of the question.
But admiration—a cousin to love, perhaps—was something wholly desirable. As Millie took several steps to close the space between them, her stomach somersaulted, and she couldn’t look away.
Franklin edged up on the toes of his loafers almost imperceptibly and willed her closer with his gaze.
What did he truly think of their marriage? Was he any less sure than she?
If she hadn’t known any better, by looking at him now, Millie never would’ve guessed he was once a train jumper. Actually, looking at him now, he’d make for an honest-to-goodness husband—the kind you kissed before bed at night.
Franklin was a fool.
He’d known Millie such a short time, yet already, her every move captured him. She was grace upon grace in her movements, in her laughter, in the way she watched the stars come out at twilight.
The pianist led the group of five in a rendition of “Amazing Grace” and everyone else bowed their heads to pray, but all Franklin could think to himself was, Dear God, how did I get so lucky?