by Ashley Clark
Harper took her tea mug between her hands. “No offense, but I’ve had my fill of old houses for the week.”
Peter set his water bottle down on the counter. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“Hmm?” She took a tiny sip of her steaming tea.
“This one provides some rather different scenery.” He stepped closer to the sitting area beside the door, then grabbed his wallet and keys from the coffee table and pocketed both. “I’ve got to do a reclamation pickup this morning and afternoon, but I’ll be done around six. Think about it, and if you want to come along, you’re welcome. You can see how the experts do it.” He grinned at her, then opened the door and took the steps two at a time.
Six o’clock finally came. To say Peter was surprised to see her ready and waiting at his house would be an understatement.
He’d given her declaration about old houses some thought and realized he needed to do better about remembering that few people shared his passion for old stuff. Harper had her own thing going on, and that was fine. Not everyone wanted to listen to him drone on and on about earthquake bolts and why Spanish moss didn’t grow along the Battery.
Yet here she was.
Looking beautiful. Her hair fell in loose curls, and she had this natural grace that could make even a T-shirt and jeans memorable. He had no doubt she could run a dress shop if she wanted. She had an eye for fashion and putting unlikely pieces together. Why had she believed there was nothing special about her? If only he could help her realize what a lie that was. Peter walked over to the closet opposite the kitchen and slid out a heavy box of antique tiles.
“You’re here.”
“I am.” Harper walked over and bent to help him. Without a word, she took the opposite side of the box, and together they lifted it. The extra pair of arms made for lighter work. He nodded toward the door and started walking backward. She followed him.
Together, they carried the box of tile toward the driveway. “So, we’re delivering these tiles to a home on the Battery, and I’m also taking some measurements while there. I don’t think the owners will be home. The two of them are in this ridiculous reality TV show.”
“Really?” Harper laughed.
“Wish I was kidding.” The people were embarrassing themselves and the great city of Charleston with their pseudosignificant weekly scandals. The ancestors whose last names they were capitalizing on would call that kind of behavior shameful.
“How are we getting inside, then?”
“I have a code.”
They reached the bed of his truck and set the box down.
“A code? What kind of place is this?”
Peter smiled. “My old neighbor’s house.”
THIRTY
Fairhope, 1952
A room full of boardinghouse guests sat on the green floral furniture—ladies with their legs crossed at the ankles and men with elbows perched on their knees—all leaning toward the television set and watching a new episode of I Love Lucy. Millie grabbed the wall for a moment of relief until the gripping feeling in her gut settled enough that she could keep walking.
The picture came in and out, so Franklin stood to adjust the knobs.
Millie patted the pin curls escaping her red cloche. She had recently added a strand of velvet ribbon—one of the most precious items she’d inherited from Mrs. Stevens, who’d worn the ribbon on her own little hat every day for years.
When she and Franklin had shown up so young, fresh off that train, Mrs. Stevens must’ve wondered what in tarnation they were thinking. But she never let on. Not once. She did for them what she did for everyone, just brought them right inside.
Even then, Franklin was stately, in his own way, with his charm and those fetching eyes, always looking for adventure.
The roundness of Millie’s belly had far surpassed her ability to hide her condition with a wrap dress. Typically, of course, women in her state had long been tucked away at home, outside the public eye. But Millie’s home was the boardinghouse.
The wind brought a slight breeze and the smell of Confederate jasmine through the open window, and Millie breathed an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. For that moment, for that one moment, she could breathe.
Such injustice, such a crying injustice, that at seven months, Millie’s stomach was already the size of a full moon. And to think, she’d even forgone her slice of pie each night while Franklin snacked away blissfully. Yet somehow, she’d still all but lost her former figure.
While the rest of the room laughed at Lucille Ball and passed around the new Peanuts comic strip, Millie could think of only one thing: the pain. The intense pain that was altogether and unexpectedly familiar. She knew it was false labor, but it sure didn’t seem false when it doubled her over.
Clemence turned the corner into the sitting room, carrying a tray filled with teacups and cookies. The young woman’s eyes rounded, the color of chestnuts and nearly as wide too. “Millie,” she whispered, clutching the tray. “You’re unwell.”
Was she? Come to think of it, Millie was unsteady on her feet. The pains had been coming more regularly, but she still had so much time left in her pregnancy. She’d never considered the contractions might be productive.
Clemence set the tray of tea and cookies on the table and hurried to Millie. “Let’s get you to your room now, Mrs. Millie.”
Millie wished the girl would stop with the Mrs. business—the only thing worse was being called ma’am. What was so wrong with using peoples’ names, anyway? But Clemence wouldn’t hear of it. And when Millie tried to insist there was no sense in it whatsoever, all Clemence said was, “There’s sense enough—don’t be ugly.” So for some reason, Millie listened.
She stuck by Millie’s side as if half scared that Millie might fall and be unable to get back up. Together they walked slowly through the hallway.
The hallway. That’s where it happened. That’s where the water began to pool under Millie’s feet. And a familiar question returned with force—would the baby look like Mama, or like Franklin? Truth be told, Millie wasn’t even sure what she hoped for.
Maybe she hoped for both.
Clemence clutched Millie’s arm. “I’ll tell Mr. Franklin to phone the doctor.”
But Millie grasped her like a falcon. “You’ll do no such thing.”
The two stood there, both holding onto one another but both for different reasons, except one commonality. Utter fear.
Not panic, mind you, for Millie prided herself in having a steady head about her. But something altogether deeper, something that couldn’t be brushed away as nerves or the hormones of maternity.
Millie tried to swallow, even as the tightening around her belly came again, and she couldn’t breathe.
“Ma’am, you need a doctor.”
As if Millie didn’t know such a thing.
But it was a risk she simply couldn’t afford. Millie herself had no idea about the life growing inside her own body, whether her future would look like the past she missed dearly or the other heritage she’d stepped into, which she loved too. How was a doctor to understand?
She wasn’t even sure Franklin could. Or would.
Or that she’d find the courage to give him the chance, if circumstances led.
She tried to breathe in the moments between the pains, the moments when breathing was easy. “You’ve delivered children before,” she whispered—half question, half statement.
“Yes. Four of my siblings,” Clemence said. “But never a white baby.”
“Very well.” Millie steadied herself by the frame of the bedroom door. “Then I have every confidence in you.”
Clemence simply stared. The poor girl, scared silly.
“Clemence, you promise me one thing.”
“Ma’am?”
“Promise me,” Millie grimaced as another contraction grew in strength, “that no matter what happens with this baby, you’ll say nothing.”
“What does that mean?” Clemence’s tone was sharp, sharper tha
n she had used in this home before, and secretly, Millie was glad for the display of strength. Millie needed to summon someone else’s strength, for a little while at least.
Millie slipped off her shoes and leaned her arms, palms out, against the bed as another contraction came.
She wiped the sweat from her own forehead and forced herself to breathe deeply. “We will see.”
The baby’s cry pierced heaven and earth, and for that miraculous and wondrous moment, all the space in between filled with the fullness of every good thing.
You know, the type of moment that inevitably leads to grief, because life this side of heaven cannot stay so full or perfect or so entrenched with meaning. And no matter how hard you try to grasp at it, those glorious, almost golden moments turn to dust as soon as they hit your fingers.
“Millie, wait.” Clemence’s voice grew troubled.
Coldness settled into Millie’s veins, chilling her blood.
“What’s wrong with the baby?” Her voice was a rasp.
“Nothing.” Clemence swiftly placed the beautiful baby in Millie’s arms. “But I’m going to need you to push again.”
Millie cradled her innocent babe. The little girl’s dark hair framed milky skin and beautiful green eyes. Millie gently rocked her back and forth, entranced by the newness of her child’s first moments.
Sharp pains brought her back to reality.
She felt as if she were being stabbed in half, or worse, dying.
So she pushed. Out of instinct. Out of fear.
Why it took until that moment for Millie to put the pieces together, she didn’t know. But the sudden emptiness of her womb, the sudden relief of pressure, sent the fiery sensation spreading.
Another baby.
All this time.
There was another baby.
“Heavens, Millicent!” Clemence shrieked.
Something was wrong.
Millie’s breath grew shallow.
“One last push, Mrs. Millie. Make it a good one.” Clemence’s tone grew clipped.
Millie clutched the daughter in her arms as tightly, as gently, as could be.
“You’re bleeding. Awful badly. Stay with me. Millie?”
It was the last thing Millie heard before the room began spinning.
THIRTY-ONE
Charleston, Modern Day
Peter’s story was surprising, to say the least. Raised in a mansion along the Battery? No knowledge of his charming grandmother? And to think that he left all the opulence to reclaim that old house where he was living, that he made such a heroic choice without even seeing the connection to Millie.
Harper couldn’t get the gaps in his family history out of her mind, and she was beginning to realize why Peter found history as a whole so fascinating. She wished it were as simple as telling him what she knew. But she’d promised Millie.
The slightest sea breeze clung to the air as Peter and Harper walked the pathway along Charleston Harbor. A few dolphins played in the not-so-distant waves, and sunlight fell like glitter in shades of orange and pink against the water. And this—this—was Charleston.
All they needed was a front porch painted haint blue and a proverbial glass of sweet tea.
Harper crossed her arms over her middle, wishing she’d slipped on a light sweater now that she felt the subtle chill of the breeze. The ends of her hair whipped this way and that as she faced the water.
“Windy day.” Peter laughed. A labradoodle tugged his owner down the sidewalk, and Peter reached to pet the dog’s head as they passed.
“So, where is the house?” Harper shifted her body to face Peter. “Much further?”
He turned and pointed. “Past this green space, see the pink three-story with black shutters?”
“You’re kidding.”
He wasn’t.
Several minutes later, they’d crossed through the park and approached the historic home. Harper’s shoe caught against the cobblestone, and on instinct, Peter steadied her elbow. His touch was warm, gentle, and not exactly unwelcome.
“Head over heels for the place, are you?” he joked, then stepped forward and punched a code into the security system. The plan was to take the measurements he needed, then go back to the truck for the tiles since they’d parked a block up for their tour of the Battery.
To Peter’s credit, he’d resisted overwhelming her with historical information on the walk and had managed to limit himself to one pirate story and a nod toward Fort Sumter. Actually, she hated to admit it, but Harper was beginning to crave his little historical tidbits.
She could ask him for more, of course, but she wasn’t that desperate.
As if he could read her thoughts, Peter held the iron gate open for her to pass through, then motioned once more toward the Battery. The smell of jasmine caught on the breeze. “Hard to believe that all this grandeur sits on man-made land. You know what’s under here?” He tapped his shoe.
“No clue.”
“Rocks, dirt, and oyster shells.” Peter led Harper through a garden courtyard spanning the width of the ornate house. Flowers bloomed in every color and variety, and bees hummed, happily searching for the last nectar of the evening.
Harper breathed it all in as best she could. The beauty of the place was striking.
“Follow me.” Peter waved her toward the front door of the home, then typed another access code into a keypad by the entry. When he opened the door, Harper stood in shock.
She had never stepped foot in any home like this before.
Lavish, narrow-slat wood floors led through the entryway toward a stairwell on the right side of the house. On the left, an antique brick fireplace shimmied up the wall.
Harper tilted her head up. Overhead, an ornate chandelier hung from a decorative mount on the ceiling. The place smelled like history in a whole different way than the house in Radcliffeborough. And yet, Peter’s reaction was the same.
He was something else, wasn’t he? He stood unaffected by the details of wealth, details that pulled a person in like dangerous fingers curling come hither, into the trap of never-enough.
Harper couldn’t take her eyes off the chandelier. “I can’t imagine having this kind of money.”
Peter let the tape measure retract abruptly. “Oh, around here, it’s not about the money. You know that, right?”
Harper frowned. “What do you mean?”
“In Charleston, you don’t get into the inner circles by being rich. Anybody can be rich. That’s the easy part.” He grinned. “You can buy a house here, sure, but for better or worse, you can’t buy a history.”
“Then how do you get into Charleston’s elite?”
“You’re born into it. Ideally, for ten-plus generations. Some of these families have kept their homes for decades and even centuries. That’s why it was such a big deal for my stepfather that I take his last name.” Peter pulled a tiny notepad and pen from his pocket. “You’ll see what I mean when you open your store.”
Your store.
The words brought a flutter of anticipation, quickly resolved by Harper’s determination to remain level-headed.
One purpose drew her to Charleston—to support Millie. Once the store was up and running, Harper would help Millie find a new manager and move on. Otherwise, she might get caught up once more in her ridiculous, unrealistic fancies.
“We need to talk about Millie.” The words tumbled out of her mouth.
Peter raised his eyebrows. “What about her?”
She’s your grandmother, for starters. Harper tucked several wisps of her hair behind her ears. “How are we going to help make this store a success for her?”
Peter locked his jaw, lost in thought. Birds on the long, gabled porch outside chirped a background medley. “I think I have an idea. A friend of mine is hosting a wedding expo next month.”
“An expo?” Harper slid her heels back and forth along the polished floor. “You mean for vendors?”
“All sorts of vendors. Brick-and-mortar stores partic
ipate. We could rent space for a booth and get a buzz going about the place.”
Harper nodded. “It could work.”
“It would take a lot of effort getting things ready in just a month. But maybe you could do something with the vintage dresses?”
“Peter, that’s perfect! We can repair them and use the gowns as a display to catch people’s attention.”
“Sure, and to help spread the word about the new store. By the time you open, folks will be lined up outside.” Peter slid the tape measure into his pocket. “It’s settled, then. I’ll give my buddy a call.”
Harper’s heart did a flip-flop, suspended upside down like a toddler trying to learn how to tumble. She didn’t know where she belonged in any of this.
This was not the long-term plan. But then again, Harper didn’t have a long-term plan. So maybe she wouldn’t recognize it if it came.
But she did know one thing. Peter was making it all very easy.
Two Weeks Later
A jazzy tune crooned from Harper’s phone as a cinnamon espresso candle flickered on the table beside her. Midafternoon sunshine streamed inside the dress shop, which was empty save for that table, the velvet sofa where Harper sat, and the rack of vintage dresses Peter had given them. And of course, the rows of Harper’s shoes, tagged and sitting in the corner waiting for the dresses they would accessorize.
Harper threaded gold beads into the fabric of a 1920s Gatsby-style gown. She rocked her head back and forth shamelessly and sang along with the music, completely immersed in imagining the story behind the gown. Perhaps a young woman had worn this dress to her first social party, outfitted with a long flapper necklace, and maybe even a feather in her hair. Harper sighed, smiling. The fabric seemed alive with a forgotten story to tell.
Whatever happened to the woman who wore it? Where did she go and who did she become? Harper felt strangely connected to these questions as she sewed new beads on, one by one.
Footsteps gently rapped down the stairs, and Harper recognized the two-steps-at-a-time rhythm. Her heart skipped at the sound of it. She turned from the sofa just as Peter was taking the last step toward her.