The Dress Shop on King Street

by Ashley Clark

  That was the price of this life, wasn’t it? Opportunities in exchange for an ever-guarded heart. Funny how lately, all she’d done to protect her secret felt a lot less like wisdom and a lot more like fear. But what choice did she have? She was too far in this thing now to turn back.

  Franklin fiddled with the hook clasp at the back of her dress. “All set.”

  She shifted toward him and smiled. “Thanks.”

  He cleared his throat. “Really nice dress, Millie.”

  Millie stepped over to their dresser set where she kept her pearls, and fastened her earrings while she talked. “You think so?” She glanced at herself in the mirror above the dresser. The dress was a new favorite of hers. The creamy hue complemented her skin tone, and an everyday sort of lace ran along the neckline and waist. Her favorite part, though, was the three-quarter sleeves.

  “Absolutely.” He didn’t know Millie could see him in the dresser mirror or that she noticed the way he looked at her. Her breath caught a moment, both from that look and the thought of them driving to the dress store. “You ready to head downtown?” he asked.

  Millie adjusted the pearls around her neck. “Sure am.” But the truth was, she wasn’t really. Because there was only one dress store in downtown Fairhope. And if she jeopardized this opportunity, she could jeopardize the whole shebang. What then?

  Franklin seemed to sense her nerves. “Remember, it’s not an interview or anything like that. She just wants to meet you, is all.”

  Millie wiggled her toes inside her black leather heels. “Tell me again—how did I even come up?”

  “Her son needed a ride over to her shop, and I was with him and talking about you.”

  Millie’s heart warmed at the thought of having been talked about.

  “Now, come on. Let’s knock ’em dead.” Franklin walked over toward the bedroom door and held it open as she stepped through, toward whatever might be coming.

  Franklin and Millie strolled past the streetlamps and colorful flowerbeds in downtown Fairhope until they came to the dress shop.

  The sign outside the store was hand-painted in cursive letters, McAdam’s Gowns. Millie would just have to look past the misplaced apostrophe. The bell above the door chimed as she and Franklin walked through.

  The wood floors had been recently polished, for they shone so clearly you could see your face in the reflection. Racks of beautiful dresses that looked like something Grace Kelly would wear lined the walls, and the smell of Chanel No. 5 floated around. Even the air the fragrance clung to was expensive.

  A woman wearing a deep-purple dress appeared, her hair styled into a beehive. “You must be Franklin and Millie. I am Helen McAdams.” She extended her gloved hand, which Millie and Franklin took turns shaking. “I’m so glad to have you in the shop.”

  She leaned closer, looking Millie up and down. Millie’s heart quickened as she wondered—what did Mrs. McAdams find? Was she simply studying the homemade dress, or were there other answers she sought?

  After a long moment, the woman crossed her arms. “Well, I have to say, Millie, Franklin wasn’t exaggerating.”

  “You can tell all that just from looking at my dress?” Millie fussed over a wrinkle at the waistline.

  “Your dress?” Mrs. McAdams frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “Perhaps I misunderstood. Are we not meeting because you’re in need of a seamstress?” Millie asked.

  Slowly, the woman mouthed oh in the daintiest way as understanding dawned. “It’s true, the other day I did mention I’m in need of a seamstress. But I thought we were meeting on account of my need for a model.”

  Millie’s eyes widened. Panic shot through her veins. “A model?” she gulped. As in, for the eyes of everybody to look at?

  “Yes, dear. Truly, you could stop a passerby in her tracks.” The woman smiled. “Why, Millie, with your deep-olive complexion and green eyes, you’re a knockout. I’d even venture that many a young woman would buy my dresses for the prospect of looking like you.”

  “Looking like . . . me?” But all this time, Millie had been trying to look like somebody else. If Mrs. McAdams only knew . . . half of that me wasn’t legally allowed to enter the doors of this dress shop.

  Mrs. McAdams nodded. “It’s common for women of your beauty not to realize how stunning they are. I’m opening a new line of dresses in two weeks, and I want to display them on a real, live model during a little fashion show I’ll be hosting here at the store. Get women’s attention with the next big styles, yes? Tell me you’ll consider it.”

  No one had ever called Millie beautiful before. Well, except for Mama, but that hardly counted. She’d always felt as though the two sides of her heritage were warring with one another, and she couldn’t fully fit in, much less be admired. Yet here, in this moment, Mrs. McAdams seemed to imply that the blending created a unique kind of beauty . . . whether Mrs. McAdams realized she was implying that or not.

  But Millie didn’t need to consider the woman’s proposal to know her answer.

  “So gracious of you to ask.” Millie gently shook her head. “But no, ma’am, I’m not comfortable modeling the dresses.” She smiled, hoping the clarity of her next words would resonate rather than sound ridiculous. “You see, I’m a seamstress. And I’m far more comfortable behind a sewing machine than in front of a crowd, pretending to be something I’m not.” There was no need to publicize the war going on inside her. And what if the wrong pair of eyes happened to see past the show she was putting on?

  Mrs. McAdams folded her lips in the most serious expression Millie had seen on her yet. She looked Millie up and down again, only this time, she stepped closer to examine the seams of Millie’s sleeves. Millie was silent, waiting.

  “You made this?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Out of old curtains, but Mrs. McAdams didn’t need to know that part.

  Franklin squeezed Millie’s shoulder, and a rush of encouragement flooded her at his touch. “I’m going to get some fresh air while you two ladies do business.” Millie grinned at him, and he returned her smile as he pushed open the door.

  “He’s a doll.” Mrs. McAdams looked back toward Millie. “How long have you been sewing?”

  Oh goodness. How long had she been breathing? “Long as I can remember. I was just a child when my mama taught me with a needle and thread.”

  Mrs. McAdams made a clicking noise with her tongue as if she were thinking. Hope rose up within Millie like a cloud floating along, and she was glad she’d turned down that modeling offer or else this conversation never would have happened.

  “Your experience shows.” Mrs. McAdams lifted her chin. “In addition to the dresses I design for the store, we also make custom gowns and offer dress repairs. It’s in the latter two categories I need help. We have some high-end clients, Millie. Actresses and musicians and the like. So I will need you to be efficient and make no errors. Do you feel yourself capable?”

  “Quite.” Millie touched the pearls at her neck.

  The woman leaned closer, looking around to see if anyone might be in earshot. “We also have some . . . delicate . . . situations we must work around. I’ve recently been contacted to design a dress for a famous scat singer.”

  Millie’s eyes widened.

  “A colored scat singer.” Mrs. McAdams whispered the word. “Now, I don’t know how you feel about segregation. It’s my belief we ought to have the same schools and stores and all, but not everybody thinks like me, and the law’s the law.”

  Millie’s stomach turned as her stomach often did when white people who thought she was white too talked about Black ones. And though it was true she didn’t know to whom she belonged, she found herself at times like this belonging in two spaces, pulled by the two opposing sides. When really, why did they have to oppose at all?

  “What I’m saying is,” the woman continued, “I need a seamstress who will not alienate my clients. Who is flexible and sensitive to the needs of customers and will put th
ose above any personal beliefs on the matter. Can you handle that part as well? Because I would love to have your help on the gown.”

  “I can assure you, ma’am, blending in to address each client’s needs will not be a problem.”

  After all, blending in was one thing Millie did well. So well, in fact, that sometimes she woke at night with dreams of sweetgrass baskets and Mama’s recipes, and she would miss that part of her heritage so fiercely that she would get up, go to the kitchen, and make a big pot of red rice, Gullah style. And she wondered in those moments—was she ever really meant to blend in?

  “Very well. Though the position is part-time, I hope to make it long-lasting,” Mrs. McAdams added.

  As she reached to shake Mrs. McAdams’s gloved hand knowing she was one step closer to her dream of dressmaking, Millie couldn’t get the thought of Mama’s red rice out of her mind.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Charleston, Modern Day

  Harper watched Millie hover over the wedding dress and wondered what the shop must’ve looked like back in its heyday—what it must look like through Millie’s eyes even now. Were wealthy patrons buzzing about, wearing expensive hats and fiddling with their kidskin gloves? Were the lace and the silk and the rows and rows of gowns as enchanting in their prime as Harper found them in their maturity?

  Millie reached to touch the fabric of the other gowns on the rack.

  Peter walked over to her. “Are you feeling all right?”

  Millie patted him on the shoulder. “Just fine. It’s strange, you know.” She looked up at him. “Being in this space again, only this time, from the other side of the glass. Never thought I’d see the day.” She warmed them both with one of her winsome smiles.

  Harper knew the feeling of a love affair with dresses, and she knew what it was to lose that love too. Well, maybe not lose it, exactly, because you never really lose your dreams. But over time, maybe a person grows more realistic or just more discouraged, and the dream that should inch closer and closer actually blasts out of reach. Harper’s heart ached for Millie.

  Perhaps, at least, the nostalgia would be enough to tug Millie toward telling Peter the truth. Then they could have the conversation they all so desperately needed without actually leasing Peter’s space. What a ridiculous thought.

  Why was Millie so comfortable with secret keeping? The band of Harper’s skirt felt tight. All the secrecy was suffocating her.

  “Let’s sit, shall we?” Millie started toward the center of the room where Peter had opened three folding chairs for them in a little circle, reminding Harper of the musical chairs game she’d played as a child.

  Peter and Harper both followed Millie and sat, as the breeze sent a flurry of leaves outside the window scurrying down the sidewalk.

  Here they came—the words that would change everything.

  Millie folded her hands. “I’ve decided I want to rent the property. It’s perfect for my needs.”

  Harper blinked. So not the words she was expecting.

  She glared a hole through Millie, daring the woman to break eye contact with Peter and instead glance her way.

  Millie didn’t.

  Harper wanted to groan. Wanted to run outside and grab a gelato from the place down the street and bury her sorrows in a rack of cheap sunglasses at Forever 21. She didn’t care if she was past twenty-one—that was the point of the store, wasn’t it? Better yet, she’d turn to Etsy. She would hurry upstairs and cover herself with blankets and hide away from the world, save her phone and the lovely portal it offered into the world of cyber consignment.

  But instead, she was brave. Or maybe just in shock. Either way, she stayed and confronted the thing. She said the words that would be equally surprising. “Sounds great, Millie. Why don’t you go ahead and give him the first payment?”

  Millie’s eyes widened, as she finally turned her attention to Harper.

  Sweet victory. That did the trick, all right. Harper looked back at her. Want to call an audible? I can do that too.

  She needed to get out of here sooner rather than later. Before the history of the place and the romance of the gowns and the whole silly dream of a dress store got to her. Again.

  “Sounds lovely.” Millie’s grin all but glowed. “Harper Rae, be a dear and fetch my pen.”

  Un-be-lievable.

  “Oh, there’s really no hurry.” Peter stood. Harper did too. Meanwhile, Millie—bless it—Millie just sat there, still grinning. “So long as I get the money within the next week. I know you’re good for your word.”

  Oh. My.

  Harper held the palm of her hand to her forehead. What in high heaven was Millie thinking?

  Neither of them had discussed this as an option. It was too outlandish. Too impulsive. But something had shifted in Millie roughly fifteen minutes ago. Around the time she first saw . . .

  The dress! Of course. The dress Peter found must be connected to Millie. Why hadn’t Harper put the pieces together before now?

  Harper had been fortunate to land this job with Millie. She truly enjoyed helping, even traveling, despite all the Broadway soundtracks Millie had insisted they listen to on the drive over in between audiobooks.

  But this was something else entirely. Millie was getting far too close to the fence Harper had used to secure her old dreams.

  Harper needed that part of herself contained. Off-limits. Bygones and past failures from which she had learned. She was moving on with her new life.

  Running a dress store with someone as gifted as Millie wasn’t exactly the easiest way to leave past dreams in the dust where they belonged. Maybe working for Millie wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  Just as Harper opened her mouth to say something, she caught Millie’s gaze drifting to the dress rack—to the peach silk little number that must’ve stunned in its day, because it certainly stunned on this one.

  The look on Millie’s face could’ve stopped a train in its tracks.

  And Harper knew then she would do it. She would do whatever Millie asked.

  Not because this was her dream, but because it was still Millie’s.

  Harper used to lie in bed at night, eyes open, dreaming new dreams. Windows cracked to hear the crickets, and the whip-poor-will if she was lucky. Whip-poor-wills were funny about comin’ and goin’ as seasons changed—no way to tell when, but one night once the weather warmed, you’d hear them singing.

  She was oh so tired of the dreaming. It was an awful thing to think, when this dream had made her heart leap in the way that only sheer and perfect hope could. But it was the truth.

  And yet, even still, she saw dresses when she closed her eyes in the evening. And she knew she had to get them out on paper if she was ever going to get a wink of sleep.

  So later that night, Harper cradled her sketchbook in her arms and tiptoed into the living area, ready to make a pot of tea for her own company.

  She had decided she would tell Millie she’d stay on board to help with the dress shop only until Millie could find a reliable manager. Then she would head back home. Whatever home might mean.

  A hiss of steam came from the kitchen. The kettle was already brewing.

  “Millie?” She kept her voice low and walked over to where the woman sat by the window that overlooked King Street.

  No response.

  “Millie?” Harper tried again. Panic began to stir. In the lamplight, it was nearly impossible to see. Was Millie . . .

  The woman turned. Harper breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You’d think I was dead or something with that sort of reaction. Calm yourself, child.”

  “I thought we agreed you’d call me ‘sugar.’” Harper set her sketchbook down, then stepped over to flip on the light near the refrigerator and busied herself removing the pot from the stove. She poured the water from the kettle into teacups, then dunked a decaf tea bag into each.

  Charleston Tea Plantation. Hmm. Millie had done some shopping, probably while she was supposed to be “resting” during
the walking tour. But Harper wasn’t complaining, not after the undrinkable beverage Peter tried to pass off this morning as coffee.

  She put a spoonful of sugar into her own and half a spoonful into Millie’s. Hadn’t taken long to learn how Millie liked things. Her pillows, her slippers, her tea . . .

  “Millie, what are you doing? It’s well after midnight.” Harper took a seat across from Millie, just a coffee table between them. She held out the cup toward her.

  “Oh, confounded.” Millie tossed her hands in the air, completely ignoring the tea. “I may as well tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” Harper set both cups down on the little table.

  Millie took her time leaning forward. “You’ve got to swear to me you won’t tell a soul.”

  Wonderful. Another secret to keep from Peter.

  Harper frowned. “Millie, you know I don’t like swearing.”

  “Then give me your word.”

  Harper cleared her throat. In this case, she didn’t want to give that, either. But Millie seemed like she really needed to talk to somebody. And to be honest, Harper was curious. “You’ve got my word.”

  Content with that, Millie took her teacup from the table and rested back in her chair. “That wedding dress this afternoon—”

  “The one with the beautiful button?” Harper tried sipping her tea. Still way too hot. So she wrapped her hands around the mug and blew to cool it.

  Millie hesitated, then sighed.

  Harper’s eyes were adjusting to the dim lighting, and she watched as Millie’s gaze trailed out the window onto the street below. She blew on her drink and tried another sip.

  “It’s mine.” Millie gripped the plush blue armrest of the chair with her free hand. The memory, whatever it was, seized her. Millie turned her head away from the window so she looked straight at Harper. It was a look that arrested attention. A motherly sort of look from which you dare not look away.

  “I know.” Harper offered a gentle smile. “I put the pieces together. Did you sew it yourself?”

  “I did.” Millie set her cup down and folded her hands in her lap. “I wore it on my wedding day.”