by Ashley Clark
Harper fidgeted her hands and stared at the front door, where Peter would appear any moment. She wondered if the butterflies she’d felt yesterday were just a fluke, a consequence of her surprise at seeing him all dressed up.
Then Peter opened the front door, and her heart fluttered a thousand times over.
Definitely not a fluke.
“Ready, ladies?” He held his arm out widely toward the door as if he were on a game show and teaching a contestant to play Plinko. He was such a nerd, and though she’d never admit it, Harper loved that about him.
“You clean up nicely.” Her voice was hoarse, so she cleared her throat.
“I could say the same about the two of you.” Peter simply grinned, adjusting his tie. “How are you tonight?”
She was nervous around him. She’d never felt nervous around him. She shifted her weight between her heels, suddenly wishing she’d spent more time on her hair. “Yeah, I’m fine. Great, actually.”
“Well, that’s . . . great. Shall we?” He offered his elbow, then leaned closer to her ear and whispered, “You do look beautiful tonight, Harper.”
It all seemed to feed his confidence—her awkward manner, her inevitably palpable attraction. He stood a little taller, and his gaze lingered just a little while longer on her lips.
But no, Harper was wrong. It wasn’t so much a matter of confidence as attention. He was, perhaps for the first time she’d seen, undistracted by the glitz of someone else’s history—and completely immersed, for a few moments at least, in his own.
The dashing-date role suited him quite nicely.
Just as Harper’s heart was melting to a satisfying swirl, Millie swooshed between them. She reached for Peter’s tie and tightened the knot, then gave it a satisfied pat. “Let’s not forget the old woman in the room, shall we?”
Peter just chuckled, then looked her straight in the eyes, grinning with the sweetest look of admiration. “You’re not so old, Millie.”
Millie patted him once more on the shoulder. “You are charming, Peter Perkins. I will give you that much. Your mannerisms . . .” Millie sighed. “Well, you remind me of a person who meant a lot to me.”
Peter stilled at that, and Harper watched him, wondering. Was Millie finally going to summon the courage to tell him everything?
But in a moment’s time, the spell was broken. Millie draped her beaded purse on her shoulder and looked toward Harper. “Go on now and fetch your purse. There’s no time like the present.”
You’re telling me.
THIRTY-FIVE
Charleston, Modern Day
There was something different about Peter tonight, under the light of the city streetlamps. Harper was superficial for noticing, but there was a word for how Peter looked, and the word was fine.
But the difference was so much more than looks alone. Peter was one of those few people who become vastly more attractive the longer you know them. He was the opposite of entropy, the bettering of what was good.
But he could never know the feelings that were beginning to stir in her. No one could. She’d kept his long-sought-after grandmother a secret for weeks. Millie was the one person that Peter would give anything to find, and Harper had kept her from him. Not on purpose, sure, but there was no telling if Millie was ever going to come out with the truth. Besides, Peter represented a dream that Harper needed to cut all ties with if she was eventually going to find closure.
A jazz band settled down behind their instruments as expo guests donning colorful hats and various sizes of pearls mingled with one another. The dresses—oh, the dresses—ranged from floral prints to off-the-shoulder, lacy details. And the band, with their penchant for old swing songs, was sure to book new gigs because of the expo. Even Harper had taken their business card, though she didn’t have an occasion.
They started up with a nod to years past with “Rockin’ Robin.”
Peter held his hand out toward Millie. “Care to dance with me?”
Harper’s heart pitter-pattered just hearing him say the words. And she didn’t even like dancing. Oh, she was done for.
Millie’s olive skin warmed with a blush, but she played coy as he patiently led her out toward the dance floor, offering his arm as support.
To keep from staring, Harper busied herself straightening the several gowns they’d displayed in front of the booth. To keep from swooning . . . well, she didn’t have an answer to that one.
She would just focus on the dresses and the event. What better way to advertise a new dress shop than going straight to the source with an expo designed for bridal parties? If all went well, the contacts they made tonight could become customers in the coming weeks.
“Excuse me?”
Harper jumped at the woman’s voice behind her. She turned to greet the would-be client.
“I’m so sorry to startle you.” The woman held out her left hand, flashing a diamond the size of the Aiken-Rhett mansion Harper had toured with Peter last week. “Do you have a card or something?”
Harper hurried to grab one from the folding table in the middle of the booth. Millie thought it would be cute to add buttons and flower petals as table arrangements, so Peter and Harper did as they were told and followed through.
Harper handed the card to the bride-to-be, then reached for the plate of cookies. “You’re welcome to one of these if you like. The owner of the dress shop made them. She ran a boardinghouse for decades and is an amazing baker.”
The woman smiled and slipped the business card into her clutch. “Wish I could, but I already gained two pounds last week from my cake tasting.”
Note to self: When and if you someday have a wedding, plan ample inches within your wedding dress to accommodate the side effects of cake tasting. You do not want to be turning down cookies.
Harper set the plate down. “Well, we look forward to seeing you at our grand opening next month.”
“I plan to be there with bells on.”
Harper smiled. “Thanks for your support. It means a lot, really.”
The young bride waved her left hand, scattering tiny prisms all over the vintage dresses and the little booth.
Harper looked toward Peter and Millie, then reached for a cookie.
All evening, a steady line of people had come over, grabbed the cookies Millie had insisted on making, and gushed over the vintage gowns they had repaired. All the customers promised to visit for the grand opening of Dresses by Millie. They were fooled by Harper pretending she belonged here.
By all accounts, the opening was guaranteed to be a success. That much was sure.
But Harper couldn’t seem to still the nagging voice inside her head. It echoed through the empty spaces her confidence had once stood guard over.
She’d never been one to feel sorry for herself, never been anything but stubborn. But her department chair’s words had come on the heels of a decade of work, a decade’s worth of failures.
At some point, even the strongest lose hope.
And even dreamers must sleep.
Millie laughed and held on to her hat as Peter acted as if he were about to dip her. Harper took another bite of the cookie. Was it bad that she found herself jealous of Millie right now? She knew she shouldn’t feel this way, but she would do anything for a few moments in Peter’s arms.
The band slowed the song to a close, and Peter and Millie returned.
Millie took a seat in the padded chair they’d brought along for her. “Well, I’m plumb wore out.” She looked up toward Peter. “Sorry to say, you’ll have to find yourself another dance partner.”
Peter’s gaze drifted to Harper’s, and she fell into the blue-green tide behind his tortoiseshell glasses. She could not tell him the truth, and it wasn’t fair to flirt until he knew the whole story.
You promised Millie. You promised Millie. You promised Millie.
“You did help me with this ridiculous suit I will probably never wear again. So in exchange, I’d love to offer my mediocre dancing skills and very
possibly step on your toes. It’s only fair.”
Harper moistened her lips, dry from the dark lip stain she had used, and didn’t let go of his gaze. “I’m not much of a dancer.” She wasn’t.
“I don’t care.” He didn’t, did he?
Peter took her hand, and Harper’s low heels clacked against the cobblestone until the two of them made it to the corner of the makeshift dance floor.
His touch was gentle, but his fingers were roughened by the work of saving old things. They’d known each other such a short time—just weeks, really. But sharing a dance was a funny thing—touching a person’s hands and leaning on their shoulders. Learning the details of where their feet rise and their posture falls. Somehow, in the midst of all the movement, the racing thoughts inside your mind still long enough for you to really know somebody, when you both do your part in rhythm.
And in Harper’s case, well, she was smitten. Warmth tickled her skin, and nerves fluttered in her stomach as the realization sunk in that he would touch her hand like this, gently, decidedly, and not let go.
The band counted off, then started into a rendition of an Ella Fitzgerald song she had always loved.
Peter seemed to be following the tempo in his head. “I think we can rumba to this,” he murmured. “Do you know how to rumba?”
Does an extensive knowledge of competition dance shows on TV count for anything?
Harper just shook her head.
Peter leaned a little closer. He placed his free hand at the small of her back and explained the slow-quick-quick rhythm as her heart began to outpace the music.
She was going to make a fool of herself, wasn’t she?
Peter pulled her toward himself, leading the pace of their steps and even adding a turn or two for variety. Harper had no idea what she was doing, but she melted into his hold and into his lead and found herself very nearly floating over the dance floor.
He was good at this. Very good.
He smiled down at her as if he knew his own skill.
But of course he did.
Because if there was one thing Harper was learning about Peter, it was that he did everything with passion. He did everything well.
Why should she be surprised that he would dance well too?
Peter inched her even closer as she gained familiarity with the steps. He leaned down to whisper, “You’re not so bad, Harper.”
Chills ran down her spine at the mention of her name on his lips. She looked up at him, her face inches from his own and her eyelids suddenly heavy, begging to close from the breath of his kiss.
But she was getting ahead of herself. It was only a dance, after all.
A very well-executed rumba with a surprising amount of hip sway from the historian. Only a dance, she told herself again, but darn it if Peter wouldn’t stop looking into her eyes.
His nearing, then, was almost imperceptible. Harper could feel it—the charge in that space between them.
Peter bit down on his bottom lip, his hand pressed to the small of her back, and she almost leaned in those last two inches. And she would have, but what if she were misinterpreting?
The song ended with a drum flourish, and Peter’s Adam’s apple warbled. He seemed stuck in that place of in-between, unwilling to close the gap between them, but equally unwilling to move away. “Thanks for the dance, Harper.”
When he dropped his hand from her waist, she all but groaned for it back.
She had very little dance experience, but she didn’t need it to know Peter had been about to kiss her. And she would have welcomed it wholeheartedly.
The expo went late into the night. Harper still hadn’t recovered from their almost-kiss when Peter returned from loading the vintage dresses back into his car.
“Hey, where’s Millie?” Peter stretched his shoulders and looked above the dwindling crowd.
“She told me she’s parched and they’re all out of water, so she’s getting a bottle across the street.”
“By herself?”
“Yes, I know.” Harper shook her head, leaning against the display table of their booth. “I tried to go with her, but she insisted I stay, and you know how ornery she can be. I did manage to convince her to take her cane, though I doubt she’s using it.”
Peter didn’t smile at this attempt at humor. Suddenly, Harper felt much more worried. “You don’t think she’s unsafe, do you?” She swallowed hard and adjusted the pearls around her neck. “I thought this was a good part of town.”
Peter rubbed his hands over his eyes and started toward the exit, onto the street. Harper followed.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Downtown is safe, but this street is also full of tourists and college students who may’ve been partying at this time of night.”
Harper should’ve thought of that. If something happened to Millie . . . but she was supposed to be just across the way. It shouldn’t be hard to spot her.
Wait. Was that Millie?
Two men surrounded her at the exit of the convenience store. One of the men held her red cloche in his hands.
Millie raised her cane and began swinging.
She made contact with the man’s shoulder. He dropped her hat.
Peter began to run. He stripped off his jacket and tossed it to Harper who caught it midair. “Get away from her!” he yelled.
He unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves. What did he think was about to happen? Harper’s pulse began to race. She willed herself to help but didn’t know what to do.
The other man—whom Harper now saw as scrawny and old, but intoxicated and uninhibited by reason—grabbed Millie’s hat from the ground. A smarter thief would’ve run.
But instead, his pride apparently threatened, he turned back to Peter and waved the cloche around. “I’d like to see what you’re going to do about it.” The man slurred his words.
“Give the woman her hat back.” Peter’s voice took on unwavering authority. Harper grasped his jacket. The streetlights cast a glow upon them and turned their forms into shadows. She could smell the liquor even from where she stood.
Millie shook her cane toward the man. “You heard him, fool.”
Not helping, Millie. Harper sent her a sideways glance.
The drunk did not respond well to Peter’s command—or Millie’s, for that matter. He yanked Millie by the arm and spat at her feet. This guy could hurt her if the situation continued escalating. Realization set in.
Harper began to panic, arms tingling and nerves burning. With two strange men involved, how would she and Peter manage? They had to do something, and quick. There wouldn’t be enough time for police to arrive.
But then she saw the fire in Peter’s eyes. Fire enough to light the street and send the shadows back under it. And for reasons she couldn’t explain, she knew Peter was capable. He would take on the world if he had to.
Peter pulled back his arm, his shoulder muscles tightening as his fist connected firmly with its target. The drunk man dropped his hold of Millie’s arm. He staggered and wiped the blood from his nose.
Peter shook out his hand, getting ready for another punch.
Harper felt as if she were watching it all play out on a screen, fast-forward and surreal. The other man, the forgettable one, tugged Millie’s hat from the thief’s hand, then tossed it to the ground.
“Let’s get out of here, you idiot,” he mumbled to his companion.
Peter angled his body in front of Millie, a human shield from harm, until the two were out of eyeshot. Satisfied by their disappearance, he turned to Millie and cataloged her from head to toe. He put two gentle hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “Did they hurt you, Millie?”
Harper bent down and reached for the cloche. She brushed dirt from the rim and repositioned the hat back where it belonged. Guilt seized her. How could she have let this happen? She had one job—to take care of Millie. No matter how Millie had insisted, she never should’ve let the woman go alone.
Millie trembled from Peter’s embrace, an
d he pulled her closer. “It’s all right, Aunt Millie.” He rested his chin above her hat. “We’re here now. You’ll be all right.”
Tucked beneath the safety of Peter’s arms, Millie shook her cane once more.
Peter drew in deep breaths as he held her, his chest heaving with each one. Adrenaline, Harper imagined. And then he began to laugh. “Millie, would you put that cane down?”
“Confounded fools were going to take my hat,” she mumbled.
Peter held her a little tighter and made eye contact with Harper, rolling his eyes and offering a relieved grin.
The sight of Peter holding Millie changed something in Harper. He was no longer the searching grandson, the nerdy historian, or even a Gosling doppelgänger.
He was strong. Unrelenting and calm. No threat was too large to stop him from protecting Millie. Of that, she had not been surprised. What she had not anticipated was how very capable he had been. She would have expected the bravery, but Peter had offered something far more.
Peter had become Millie’s hero.
Peter, whose golden heart was beginning to quicken Harper’s own.
THIRTY-SIX
Charleston, 1952
Millie hadn’t planned this part.
The leaving.
The trees browned with the colors of fall. With one baby discreetly nursing from the crook of her arm, Millie looked out the window of the yellow Plymouth as the tires caught traction against the gravel, smashing the pebbles deep into the dirt, and the bricks of that house grew smaller and smaller until their individual pieces faded into a blur.
She didn’t cry at first.
She was far too weak for tears.
For it was almost as though someone had taken a scoop to the heart of her, leaving her hollow. And so alone.
She glanced over at Franklin, who wiped tears from his eyes in the driver’s seat.
Poor Franklin, much as he loved the babies, could never fully understand.
Not in the way of Millie’s arm reaching for her absent child, or the milk that already leaked.