The Dress Shop on King Street

by Ashley Clark

Peter looked back toward the house. “As for this place, I don’t know much about its history. I inherited it from my mother.” He straightened his glasses. “But I’m going to find out.”

  A swallowtail floated effortlessly past them, swooping up and down over the weeds—rather early in the season for butterflies such as these, but in a few months, its descendants might populate the whole street.

  Harper took a step closer. The house that seemed like an eyesore from the street was quite charming up close. She studied the property. With a location just off King Street, this lot alone had to be worth . . . well, a pretty penny.

  Peter watched her. “What are you thinking?”

  “Just that I think it’s cool you invest in these properties.”

  Peter slid the key into the lock at the front door and turned the knob. He met Harper’s gaze before he opened the door. “Real estate in Charleston has been on quite an incline, and I lucked out by investing when I did. The properties I started with were small, but you could say they were big enough to matter.”

  I’ll say. Harper tried not to let the curiosity show on her face.

  “You’d be surprised the treasures that can come from saving things.” With this, Peter held the door open for her. “That’s why I invested in the old dress shop you came to see. And on that note, Harper, tell me more about yourself.”

  She followed him into the home, but before she could answer, the smell of dust hit the back of her throat, and she started coughing. Harper covered her mouth with the sleeve of her shirt and looked over at Peter.

  “Sorry, I didn’t warn you the entryway is a bit of a Roman tomb right now.” His eyes did a humored little dance at that. “I was doing some repairs to one of the bookshelves earlier. But it’s exciting, isn’t it?” Peter raised his hands in the air and took a turn around the room. “You just can’t get details like this in modern construction.”

  You also can’t get the flecks of lead paint and plaster dust from the ceiling I’m currently inhaling . . .

  But Harper just smiled.

  “You didn’t answer my question.” Peter came to a comfortable stance, arms crossed, in the living room. Standing like that, he looked as if he could withstand a hurricane wind.

  Maybe, in his own way, he had. Holding on tight to these walls, trying to preserve their structure.

  “Oh, there’s not much to tell.” Harper fumbled with her beaded coral bracelet, sliding it up and down her arm. She always fidgeted when she was the center of attention.

  “I think you underestimate yourself,” he said.

  “Well, I do have a flair for adventure, I suppose.” That was one way of putting it.

  “How’d you end up here? In Charleston? With Millie?”

  You, she wanted to say.

  But she couldn’t. Not now. Maybe never.

  So she reminded herself not to get too close to Peter. Because the clock would strike midnight eventually, as the clock was prone to doing—and in this case, sooner rather than later.

  Harper took a deep breath, directing her attention past Peter’s shoulder and toward the window at the back of the house. A mockingbird perched on the ledge, peering inside.

  “I followed my dream. Turns out, it was a dead end.” She shrugged. “Millie was there at the right place and the right time. She offered to help me out, and here I am.”

  Peter was quiet a long moment. She geared up for the inevitable advice on staying true to her dreams, from this guy who seemed to have found all his own.

  But instead, he simply watched her. “I’m really sorry.”

  Those three words—a stranger’s heartfelt apology for her own shortcomings—were enough to flip the switch of her heart back on.

  And the floodgates opened.

  Harper walked closer to where Peter stood, then sat on the couch with her feet against the old floor. Without needing any prompting, Peter sat beside her.

  Harper began to cry. Tears she had yet to shed from her last day in Savannah.

  She could almost smell the air of the consignment shop, the familiarity of the come-and-gone dream. She covered her face at first, embarrassed to be fighting tears at a place like this and with a man she barely knew.

  And yet this is what her heart had come to.

  Maybe the Fred Rogers cardigan was to blame for her sudden sense of emotional security. Or maybe . . . maybe it was Peter.

  She wiped away her tears and braved a glance straight into his eyes. She found him watching her, kindly, ready to meet her gaze whenever she offered it.

  A noise startled her from another room. A dog’s whimper? Then came a gentle scratching sound. “What’s that noise?” she asked.

  Peter shook his head. “Oh, that’s just my dog. I shut him in the bedroom before I left to keep him from opening the pantry and eating crackers. He probably woke up from a nap and heard us.”

  Harper raised her eyebrows. “Your dog opens the pantry?”

  “You seem surprised.”

  Harper laughed, and he urged her to continue her story. With a surprisingly steady voice, she spoke the words she’d been avoiding. “When I was studying dress design in Savannah, I actually thought I had a chance of being represented in a very prestigious show.”

  “That’s right. I remember the dress you were wearing at the party.” Peter absently rubbed his jawline with his thumb as he waited for more.

  Harper looked at him. He remembered the dress?

  “I take it things didn’t go well the next day?”

  “The woman told me I don’t have what it takes to be successful. That I’m wasting my time, and that she was doing me a favor by helping me see this now rather than later.” Harper shuffled her feet. “Totally blindsided me.”

  “And do you agree with her?” His words were the furthest thing from patronizing.

  But Harper was so caught off guard, she stared straight into his eyes. “I mean, she’s the department chair. She’s had designs in major fashion outlets. Even magazines you’d recognize.”

  “Sure.” He rubbed his lips together. “But that’s not the question, is it?”

  Harper shook her head. “Doesn’t matter if I agree or not. I don’t mean to complain—truly. I’m healthy and have a wonderful life. But I don’t want to keep embarrassing myself. She was right.” Harper nodded, hoping to convince herself by saying it aloud. “Better that I change course now before I humiliate myself even more than I already have.”

  “I don’t think chasing a dream is ever a reason for humiliation,” Peter said. “Dreams are hard to catch. For anybody.”

  “Well, the rest of the world wouldn’t agree, Peter Perkins. I’ve got plenty of humiliation under my belt, and I’m only twenty-six. I don’t think I could survive two, three, or no telling how many more decades of rejection and disappointment when my heart is so invested. And that’s the thing. I had the dream right in the palms of my hands for a few months. I know how it felt to design those gowns alongside the best of the best. I just couldn’t hold onto it.” Her pulse quickened as she realized how close his fingers were to her own. “Sometimes, we have to do the hard thing and let go when passions turn to ashes and dust. Don’t you agree?”

  When she finished the question, Harper looked down, at the gashes and the scrapes time had worn into the floor of the old house.

  But despite herself, she looked right back into Peter’s eyes.

  “Maybe,” he murmured. “But maybe sometimes we don’t.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Fairhope, 1948

  Wind whistled through the cracks in the shutters and slapped the handmade wreath against the front door. Plenty of sunlight shone through the blinds, though the rain fell and the wind kicked up. Mama always said that meant the devil was beatin’ his wife.

  Sometimes weather like this meant rainbows. But sometimes weather like this meant trouble. Which was headed her way this afternoon?

  Millie and Franklin were a mere six months into being the new owners and operators of the board
inghouse—ever since Mrs. Stevens fell and her kin decided she was better off living in their home. But Millie still couldn’t shake the feeling she was staying here for just a spell. The thought of owning the place seemed too good to be true. To think she and Franklin were business owners. Franklin, a hobo, and she . . .

  Well, she probably should’ve told him the truth by now. Lord knew she’d thought about it plenty of times. But how was a man with one whole heritage supposed to understand a wife with two half ones? She couldn’t imagine Franklin would ever turn mean, but he might think of her as a liar or a runaway or maybe just as someone different from the woman he knew. She didn’t want any of those things, not from Franklin. The truth was probably that a little part of her—okay, a big part of her—was absolutely terrified of what might happen to this beautiful life should anyone find out she’d also kept a beautiful secret.

  And so she’d made excuses. Kept to the inn as much as possible. Franklin had begun to assume he’d married a shy woman who did plenty fine welcoming inn guests but preferred to spend most her time behind a sewing machine, alone.

  But really, Millie hated being alone. And she sure wasn’t shy. The fear of being recognized by the texture of her hair or the darkening of her skin in the summertime was just too much to risk. So instead of romping around Fairhope with Franklin, Millie busied herself with the customers at the inn. People who would come and go, taking any possible questions with them.

  Regardless, on this particular late afternoon, Millie couldn’t shake the feeling that this pop-up storm spelled trouble. But maybe that was just her imagination. After all, Mama always used to say Millie had an imagination that ran wild.

  Three gentle but audible knocks sounded at the door. Millie put her patchwork down on the velvet settee and stood, straightening her cloche.

  She rubbed her dry lips together and made an effort to smile despite the fear tightening her chest. She’d spent too much time thinking about her past, that was all. But she had a job to do now, so she would put that aside and be in the here and now as much as possible.

  Millie opened the front door and then the screen door, which responded with a screech. A smart-looking woman fifteen, maybe twenty years her senior, stood at the doorway, with a little girl propped up on her hip. The two of them huddled together, protected from the rain by the porch.

  The toddler looked up at her mother, as the woman eased a few stray onyx-colored hairs back into her own wavy hairstyle. She had the slightest bags beneath her green eyes, and Millie’s heart pricked when she noticed something else there too—a tiredness beyond what sleep could heal. She recognized that look. She’d seen it in her own mirror many times.

  If there was one thing she’d learned from Mrs. Stevens, it was that people often came to boardinghouses when they had something to hide. Question was, were these two running from something or toward it?

  It was a question Millie often asked herself. If she was being honest, she still hadn’t found the answer. Maybe that’s why she enjoyed trying to sort through other folks’ stories. Distracted her from her own.

  The woman held out her hand toward Millie. “I’m Eliza, and this is my daughter. By chance,” the woman said, “is this Franklin’s place?” She moved her gaze around the doorstep, looking for him.

  Millie’s breath caught as she took the woman’s hand. What was she needing with Franklin? The two of them were well-dressed, and Millie imagined they were probably fairly rich back wherever they came from. How did they know her husband? Would they see straight through the different identity she had created for herself?

  But maybe the answer was simpler than that. Maybe Franklin met these people somewhere and told them about the boardinghouse. Wherever he went, Franklin was always making friends with the folks around him.

  Millie did her best to hide her hesitation as the woman released her hand, waving them into the boardinghouse. “Please, come inside. I’ll fetch Franklin for you.”

  “Thank you.” Eliza brushed scattered raindrops from the sleeves of her jacket before crossing the threshold. Most of the inn’s guests wouldn’t think twice about coming inside as a dripping mess. Then, of course, the water warped the floors, and once the floors were warped, trying to get them lookin’ nice again was an absolute disaster.

  Millie’s heels clacked against the hardwood as she hurried toward the kitchen, where Franklin was in the middle of eating a cookie. Half of it fell toward the floor, and he reached to catch the crumbs but wasn’t fast enough. He started laughing, and Millie swatted at him, then crouched to brush up the pieces.

  Franklin took her by the arm and pulled her up to standing. “I’ll get that. My mess. Though we really should think about getting a dog.”

  Millie righted her shoulders. “Oh yes, I’m sure the guests would love having a dog licking their plates.”

  “Hmm.” Franklin carried the crumbs toward the trash can. “Perhaps a cat then.”

  “No time for nonsense, Franklin—it’ll be a fine day when inns let animals roam freely through their doors. Now, there’s a woman here to see you.”

  “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t love keeping livestock in the sitting room if you had your way.” Franklin kissed the side of her hair as he passed—the closest he ever came to a real kiss, yet he did this often. Millie didn’t mind. In fact, it had become somewhat of a secret code between the two of them. Two people, married—more than friends but never more than whatever came beyond.

  Okay, so she had a weakness for baby goats. Didn’t mean she was about to let Franklin adopt all the strays in town.

  “Here to see me, you say?” Franklin straightened his hat and new suspenders. “Give you a name, by chance?”

  “Eliza.” Millie dropped the cookie crumbs into the trash.

  Franklin frowned, the sort of frown one gives when trying to make sense of a tricky puzzle piece. “Eliza, huh?”

  Millie followed on his heels as he headed toward the entryway. “You know her, don’t you?” She wanted more information and wished Franklin would fill her in privately. That way she wouldn’t have to guess at the gaps. But Franklin wasn’t the type to think like that, secrets and all.

  Millie liked it about him. Usually. But not at the moment.

  “Franklin,” she whispered as he started turning the corner into the foyer. “Who is—”

  “As I live and breathe,” he said, addressing Eliza. The man had the focus of a fox and probably hadn’t even heard Millie’s last-ditch attempt at getting more information.

  Eliza embraced Franklin, still holding her daughter on her hip. Unsure what to make of all this, Millie offered Eliza a smile.

  She was surprised—unnerved, even—to find Eliza studying her. Intently. Chills ran down Millie’s arms. What if this woman knew something?

  “Please forgive me, but your hat . . .” Eliza began.

  Millie’s heart thudded in anticipation of what the woman might say next. Franklin, why couldn’t you have filled me in while we were in the kitchen? A wave of fears tugged hard against Millie’s calm demeanor and threatened to spill forth in a flood of emotion. What about her hat? How much did Eliza know? Did she recognize Millie from Charleston?

  “Yes?” Millie asked, her fingers ambling upward on their own accord to take hold of the red wool.

  “I believe I’ve seen it before,” Eliza said.

  Millie’s mouth went dry. She darted a glance toward Franklin, who was too immersed in his own conversation with the child to have any idea what was going on between her and Eliza.

  “I . . .” Millie took a deep breath, unsure what to say. What would Mama tell her if she were here right now?

  “Now, you be careful. Mind for strangers, and keep your talkin’ brief. We don’t want nobody asking questions.”

  Avoid the question. That’s what she would do.

  “I doubt that,” Millie said, “but thank you for noticing. I do enjoy wearing it.”

  And then—she didn’t know why the next words left her mouth,
maybe nerves or maybe fear or maybe something else—she added, “It was a gift. The hat, I mean. When I was a little girl.”

  Eliza’s eyes softened, her grin widening. Her voice was gentle as she replied, “I know.” And the unexpected response shook Millie down to her toes.

  What does she mean, she knows?

  Eliza watched her for a long moment, still with that steady smile, and then took a step closer toward the child and Franklin. Was that to be the end of the conversation, then?

  Franklin turned to Millie and waved her closer. She hurried to his side, relieved to feel the warmth of him as he rested his arm over her shoulders. “Millie, I’m so happy to introduce you to . . . well, I guess I should start calling you Aunt Eliza.”

  “Aunt?” Millie looked up at him, bewildered. “But I thought you said your mother was your only kin.” She drew in a deep breath, allowing her hand to rest against the banded waistline of her dress as her chest rose and fell. She was going to be all right. These people were not a threat.

  Franklin bit down on his bottom lip. “I did say that, didn’t I? It’s . . . well, it’s complicated. You catch my drift?”

  Oh yes. Millie knew all about complicated.

  Franklin glanced over toward the little girl, who was sucking her thumb. Did he know her as well?

  “What the boy means to say is we’ve gotten into a pinch of trouble, and I was hoping you two could help us,” Eliza said.

  Millie eyes widened. “Trouble? Do you mean with the law?” She couldn’t help but blurt it out. She glanced toward Franklin. She was going to need more information before agreeing to this, no matter how charming and no matter how close of kin.

  Franklin—bless it—finally seemed to read her mind. He cleared his throat. “When I was just a baby, my mother and I fell on hard times. My family was known for having a good reputation in Charleston, but the truth was all of our wealth crumbled after the war. My uncle took care of us. Made sure we never went without.” Franklin and Eliza shared such a poignant almost-smile that the emotion that passed between them passed through Millie as well. “His methods may at times have been a bit unorthodox, but he never hurt anybody.”