by Ashley Clark
Her body had bulged with two babies. Her arms had carried two babies.
And yet this—this grief, this emptiness, this parting—was the only way the two girls could both have lives filled with opportunity.
Still, everything within Millie ached and screamed, as one wakes in the night to the swelling of a broken bone that’s been wrapped and set and still cries out.
Grief enough for both babies.
In her pocket was a note from Hannah. You will always be her mother, it read, but I promise to raise her with love. Millie had given Franklin’s mother a letter for Rosie, a letter she’d written just before leaving, and Hannah had given her this in return.
Millie didn’t know what to make of this. Didn’t know how she felt. Thankful, she supposed. Yes, thankful. That’s how she ought to feel. If only it were as easy as ought to.
The drive away from Charleston was entirely different from the last time they had departed the city by train. They were entirely different too.
Once two kids themselves, they had all the possibilities of life ahead, however bleak their reality.
Now, Millie and Franklin were grown. Stronger, perhaps. But more broken. And Millie, for one, was definitely more alone.
As they drove south through Georgia, Franklin parked at some little town on the coast. Millie didn’t know what the place was called, but it had a lighthouse, so that was good for something.
Franklin flipped off the ignition and turned to face her, his arm already resting on her shoulder.
“There’s nothing I can say, is there?”
Millie bit the inside of her lip and shook her head slowly.
“I loved her too.”
She wanted to say—not as I did! Not as one-half of myself!—but she realized, quite unexpectedly, that she didn’t really know that about Franklin, did she? She didn’t know his pain any more than he knew hers.
And love was not a yardstick to which she ought to be comparing. Loss was loss, and grief was grief.
Something to acknowledge, something to cherish, something to which they might cling. Something that would altogether shape them and their future by the absence it had rounded out in their beings.
Millie reached into the backseat for the picnic basket she’d packed earlier with sandwiches. She handed Franklin his food, then sipped water from her thermos.
They both chewed numbly. Millie knew she had to eat, had to drink, for the sake of her other daughter. But the will for all of it had left her.
And for that reason on that day, perhaps her other daughter saved her.
They sat like that in silence for an hour, the two of them looking in tandem at the lighthouse and then at the sea, looking for hope while drowning.
Lord—Millie watched the top of the light turn ’round and ’round—someday, let me see her again. Somehow, let me know she is safe and happy. And let her know she is always, fiercely loved.
Wasn’t it Hemingway who said the sun also rises?
Millie only wished she could rise so faithfully.
She had changed her mind.
She, Franklin, and Juliet had been living as a little family for six months. Juliet’s skin tone had continued to deepen as the days passed. So when folks at the pharmacy or the hardware shop asked, Millie told them her own father was Italian. They smiled kindly in return, and Franklin smiled back. But Millie never missed the sideways, skeptical glances they gave as they walked by.
Sometimes she considered telling guests at the boardinghouse that she and Franklin had decided to help the young child, and the biological mother was devastated she couldn’t keep her baby. That way, people wouldn’t ask any more questions.
Neither answer would be a lie.
But she couldn’t stomach the thought of telling anyone that Juliet wasn’t her own flesh and blood. It was bad enough she had to do that with one daughter. But both of them?
For the longest time, she blamed her volatile state on her body’s transition into motherhood. She had frequently forgotten to eat, and would often wake in the night in sweat and panic, thinking that one of her two daughters had been taken from under her roof. And then Franklin would calm her, tell her it was going to be all right and his mother was taking care to give Rosie the best life she could. And for a few moments, for a few hours, Millie would sleep again.
But the dreams, as it turned out, never faded—never blurred as she anticipated they would.
Franklin didn’t seem all that surprised when she woke him a little after two o’clock and told him they needed to go to Charleston, and soon.
She watched by the moonlight as he rubbed his eyes with his hands. His voice was hoarse from sleep. “What is it you want to do, Millie?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head as she clutched the sheets. Her nightgown was damp with the sweat of the dreams. “I just want to hold her, Franklin. I want to kiss her forehead and smell her hair, and when she’s older, teach her to read. I want her and Juliet to know one another. If the world won’t permit them to be sisters, perhaps they can at least be friends. It’s better than nothing.”
Millie’s gaze trailed to the dark window behind Franklin. Outside, a cloud slowly floated in front of the moon, so that the moonlight cast an ethereal glow all around its perimeter.
“Okay.” Franklin laid his head back down on the pillow.
“Okay?” Millie’s heart leapt with anticipation. How could he go back to sleep at a time like this? “Really? You’ll take me to Charleston?”
“Millie, if it will bring you back to yourself once more, if it will give you some peace, I would take you to the moon.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Charleston, Modern Day
One month after the expo, Harper situated Millie’s gown over the display mannequin in the front window, careful to raise the hem of the old silk so it floated in a smooth cloud toward the ground.
Millie busied herself behind the antique cash register they’d found last week. She’d swooned in the thrift store over the sound of the bell as she repeatedly opened and closed the drawer, marveling that the antique was still operational.
Peter’s single rack full of dresses had multiplied with the arrival of Millie’s mysterious boxes, and now, four long rows of wedding and evening gowns made the store seem complete. If all went well today, Harper would work on sewing some more custom dress samples. Twinkle lights hung from the exposed brick walls, and a large, whimsical chandelier gave just the right rosy glow to the space.
They were ready for the not-so-grand opening of Dresses by Millie. This soft launch would give them a chance to recognize and improve upon any potential business hiccups prior to the actual grand opening next month.
The bell above the front entry chimed as Peter pushed open the door. He held a white box in his hands and wore his new slim black pants with a dusty-blue sweater.
“Morning, ladies.” He walked toward the back of the store and set the box and a stack of napkins on the counter beside Millie.
Harper hurried over, her kitten heels clacking. “Please tell me those are from Glazed Gourmet.”
“These are from Glazed Gourmet.” He opened the lid to reveal a variety of specialty flavor combinations. The scent of sugary glaze filled the air. “I’ve got a mocha donut for the coffee lover, a lemon old-fashioned for Millie, and a raspberry one for myself.”
Harper and Millie each took a napkin and snatched their donuts from the box.
“This was super sweet of you.” Harper took a bite, then heard the pun in the words she’d just spoken. She began to laugh at herself, and Peter joined in.
Millie pinched the smallest bite off her donut as if she didn’t quite trust all the hype. “I don’t get it. What’s funny?”
“Sweet . . . like the donuts.” Harper talked with her hands, still holding the mocha donut.
“Right.” Millie simply raised her eyebrows and took another bite of the lemon pastry, which had apparently passed her test. “I get that part. Just don’t understand why
it’s funny.”
Peter turned to Harper then, and she couldn’t help herself—her laughter got the best of her. Peter’s too. Harper tried to hush her laugh, but her failed attempt only made her laugh harder.
Peter was more successful. He took his own donut from the box and wrapped it up inside a napkin. Then he checked his watch, an old-school relic in the age of digital timekeeping. “Hate to deliver these and run, but I’m scheduled for a private tour on the Battery in ten minutes.” He reserved a humored twinkle in his eyes just for Harper.
He took a step closer. Just close enough that Harper could smell a hint of his sandalwood shampoo. Just close enough for her to notice the strength of his shoulders and think back to the expo, to that dance and his very heroic display.
She breathed in the smell.
“Hope everything goes well for y’all today.”
Harper smiled at him. “Have a great time teaching strangers about history.”
“I intend to.” He turned then, donut in hand, and grinned right back. Then he waved and headed out the door.
Harper took another bite of her donut, savoring the glaze, and sighed. If Peter kept this up, she was tempted to make the short-term rental a long-term situation.
“Well, isn’t this an interesting development.” Millie put one hand on her shoulder.
“What’s that?” Harper bit her tongue as she chewed.
“Oh, sweetheart. I may be old as dirt, but I’m not blind. You’re falling for him.”
Harper started to protest—that she had no such feelings and he wasn’t her typical type. But then she snapped her mouth shut. Because they both knew Millie was right.
Too bad there was nothing she could do about it.
Seven hours later, Harper flipped over the Open sign on the door to read Closed and twisted her key in the lock.
A grand total of twelve customers had come to the soft opening, two of whom had only walked inside to ask if the dress in the window was for sale. Millie sat on the sofa that still anchored the center of the room.
Harper moved to sit beside her. “I just don’t understand. People seemed so interested at the expo. What happened? The whole point was to walk through a typical day in the dress store so we could know what to expect and what to improve. Is this what we should be expecting?” Failure? The added word hung unspoken in the air.
Millie smoothed her embroidered cardigan with her wrinkled hands. “Maybe it was just a fluke.”
“The expo, or the opening?”
Millie didn’t answer.
Harper shook her head, looking around the shop. She had imagined she’d have stacks of gowns in the dressing rooms to return back to the floor. But instead, all the racks remained pristine, the dresses largely untouched. There was little or no work to be done because there were so few customers.
She’d stayed up late making sure the store was ready. She’d climbed into the window display, accessorizing the mannequin again and again until she had it just right. She had remembered all the details. Swiffer-swept the floor. Tested out the Bluetooth speaker and made the perfect playlist that wasn’t too trendy but also wasn’t too Celine Dion.
Why had no one come?
Why did she keep readying this fantasy again and again, when no one had ever come? Her dream had become like an elusive blind date, only in this version, she was Meg Ryan in the coffee shop again and again and again.
Harper blew out a deep breath. She shouldn’t overreact. It was only the first day, after all. But she couldn’t seem to silence the voice inside that kept whispering, “Your dreams will never amount to anything. You should stop embarrassing yourself.”
Peter would say she was listening to fear. Maybe he was right. But she didn’t want to feel the sinking disappointment of failure again.
Millie set her hand on Harper’s knee. “Come now, it’s not so bad. See, I’m in good spirits, and I’ve waited much longer to own a dress shop than you have.”
Harper released a sad sigh. She shifted so she faced Millie more directly. “So, we just keep planning, and hope the real opening goes better? Maybe we could increase our marketing efforts.”
Millie nodded, patting Harper’s knee twice before moving her hand. “More advertisements. Maybe Peter can make some referrals.” Her red lipstick framed her beautiful smile.
“I bet he wouldn’t mind. He’s certainly well-connected in the city.” Harper thought back to some of the projects he’d told her about.
“We’ll see.” It was Millie’s way of ending the conversation. Harper had begun to recognize the strategy.
Preparations in the dress shop continued to be discouraging the following week and brought much of the same doubt that had begun to hover like a looming shadow over their dwindling optimism. Harper could probably also call it naïveté, honestly, but she was avoiding that thought. So she and Millie decided at the close of the business day, they would take action to spruce up the place. Get their own enthusiasm raised in hopes that it would spread to would-be customers. The store decorations were minimalistic, after all, and perhaps all they needed were a few more things to jazz up the place.
Millie followed closely behind Harper as she reached for the door, and the little bell chimed with a ring very familiar to the streets of the Holy City and all its steeples.
Together, they walked down King Street, past the charming storefronts and under striped awnings, toward an eclectic antique shop that sold everything from vintage clothing and handbags to lampshades.
Millie ambled toward a framed poster of Katharine Hepburn while Harper made her way to the rack of dresses and browsed through them.
Harper’s fingers lingered over the hanger of an emerald-green gown. The fabric was stiff but vibrant. She lifted the hanger and tucked the dress safely over her arm, then headed toward the curtain at the back where she found the dressing room.
The fit would be tight, at best, especially with no stretch to the fabric. But she had to try anyway. The dress was stunning.
Harper swooshed the curtain shut and unzipped the dress, careful to mind the seams so as not to catch the fabric. She shimmied into it but stopped abruptly, mid-waistline, when she confirmed her love of pralines from Savannah Candy Kitchen had finally caught up with her.
But as she slipped the dress up and over her head, a sea of old emerald brought waves of fragrance.
The smell was familiar and immediately elicited every manner of flashing memory—from a vintage dress Daddy bought her to the torn fabrics she’d found at estate sales and repurposed, and even the lonely nights spent in Savannah, trying to perfect her work.
The smell was an open door to a hallway of memory. She would never know the original dress owner, this woman who had probably zipped the waistline with ease, or what the pockets carried. She would never know her, and yet the fabric was the same. A shared intersection of this mystery woman’s story and her own. The thought of all that meeting at the seams gave Harper chills, as emotion pulsed through her veins.
Hope, namely. Fascination and determination and the bliss that only comes from one’s deepest dream.
Dust mixed with old fabric.
Not a particularly complicated sort of smell. But a powerful one.
It was the smell of old books. Of old houses like the ones Peter loved. The smell of untold stories leading up to the next chapter, and the smell of home. Fabrics that have been worn day by day, sometimes accumulating dust, until the day by days begin to take on the scent of one another, a scent that is as recognizable as fabric, sewn stitch by stitch into a gown.
When Harper zipped the dress back onto the hanger and tugged her own stretchy jeans back on, she knew she had to buy it, even though her own waist was a good three inches beyond the allowance. She thought of the rack of clothes Peter had given her and Millie for the shop, and somehow, for some reason, this dress just seemed to belong.
It was a silly impulse, but she couldn’t shake it. She had the strangest sense that leaving this dress at the store wou
ld mean leaving part of her own story behind.
Harper opened the curtain of the dressing room to find Millie waiting, several long strands of pearls draped from her arms.
“Find something to purchase?” Millie took the fabric of the dress between her finger and thumb. “This is lovely. I had one just like it once . . . but that was a lifetime ago.”
Harper hesitated. Millie’s hand along the old fabric seemed to jump-start a time machine, blurring decades and chronology, until the only thing left was life as it is lived before it becomes memory. The fabric between the seams.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Charleston, 1955
Millie pulled back the floral curtain and peered through the window. Franklin pressed behind her, so close her heart leapt at the smell of him—coffee and firewood and water—a smell he must’ve brought to Charleston all the way from the boardinghouse in the small suitcase she’d packed for him. He wore a tie with his white button-down, and the shirt tucked into a pair of pleated trousers, Millie’s favorite outfit of his.
“Are they here yet?” Franklin asked. “Is that their car pulling up?”
Millie turned to him, putting her hand on his face as Juliet carried an old doll by the arm. She’d wanted to bring Rosie too, but then realized that would set a dangerous norm for when the girls grew older. It was one thing for the three of them to make visits and then leave, but quite another for them to publicly take Rosie around town. Rosie was to believe she had been adopted by Franklin’s mother, which, in her mind, would make him her much older brother. As she grew older, she would question why her brother would take her to his wife’s family’s house, would she not?
Complicated, yes, but they must think this through. And Millie had spent plenty of nights doing just that. They had to be consistent. So for now, Millie, Franklin, and Juliet would keep their visits to his mother’s place, much as that hollowed out her heart.
She turned her attention back to Franklin. “Are you sweating? I’ve never seen you like this.” He was adorable. But she wouldn’t say that part out loud and embarrass him all the more.