by Rachel Hauck
Then she discovered a new, small designer out of Paris and Charlotte knew she’d found her own brand of white-silk gold. “Call her back and tell her tomorrow is fine. Do we have crackers and cheese in the refreshment bar? Coffee, tea, water, and soda?”
“We’re all stocked. Tawny seemed enthusiastic, so I don’t think she’s going to tell you she’s going with another shop.”
“How long have we been working in the bridal gown business together, Dix?”
“Five years, ever since you opened this place.” Dix, forever pragmatic and calm.
“And how many times have we lost a customer at the last minute?” Even after countless hours of scouring designers to find the perfect gown.
“We didn’t know what we were doing then. We’re the experts now,” Dixie said.
“You know very well it has nothing to do with us. Listen, I’ll call Tawny and tell her we’d be happy to see her tomorrow.”
“Already told her. Didn’t think you’d want to turn her down.” Dixie’s voice always carried the weight of confidence. She was a godsend. Support beams for Charlotte’s dream. “So, where are you anyway, Char?”
“Up on Red Mountain. At the Ludlow estate. I came up here to think but ran into the annual auction crowd. I’m wandering among the antiques as we speak.”
“People or things?”
Charlotte grinned, scanning the gray heads among the aisles. “A little of both.” She paused in front of a locked glass of jewels. Unique pieces were the perfect accent for her brides. Charlotte maintained an inventory of one-of-a-kind necklaces, earrings, bracelets, and tiaras. It was the small things that helped seal her success.
“Speaking of weddings,” Dixie said low and slow.
“Were we?”
“Aren’t we always? Your wedding invitations are still on the storeroom desk, Charlotte. Do you want me to bring them home tonight?” Dix and her husband, Jared, Dr. Hotstuff as she called him, lived in the Homewood loft next door to Charlotte.
“Wait . . . really? They’re still on the storeroom desk? I thought I took them home.”
“If you did, they walked back.”
“Ha, ha, funny girl you are, Dixie. Yeah, sure, bring them home. I can work on them tomorrow after church. I need to see if Mrs. Rose has a guest list for Tim’s side—”
“You’re meeting with Tawny at three.”
“Right, okay, after I meet with her. Or I can work on them Monday night. I don’t think I have anything Monday night.”
“Charlotte, can I ask you something?”
“No—”
“You’re getting married in two months and—”
“I’ve just been busy, Dixie, that’s all.” Charlotte knew where her friend was going with her inquiry. Charlotte had been asking herself the same questions for weeks now, and the need for answers drove her up the mountain today. “I’ve got time.”
“But it’s running out.”
She knew. She knew. “We should’ve picked a fall wedding date. Fast engagement, fast wedding . . . it has me spinning.”
“Tim is an amazing man, Charlotte.”
She knew. She knew. But was he amazing for her? “Listen, I’d better go. I need to get back down the mountain in a few minutes so I can get my hair done. Call you later.”
“Have fun tonight, Charlotte. Don’t let Katherine get to you. Tell her to bug off. Just be there with Tim. Remember why you fell in love in the first place.”
“I’ll try.” Charlotte hung up, Dixie’s advice settling in her thoughts. Remember why you fell in love in the first place.
It’d all been heart pounding and romantic. She wasn’t sure she could identify a real, solid reason out of the whirlwind. As Charlotte made her way down the aisle to leave the tent, she found herself herded to one side by a gathering crowd.
She smiled at the man beside her and tried to step around him. “Excuse me.” He didn’t budge, but remained planted, staring pointedly at the item about to be auctioned.
“Pardon me, but if you could let me through, I’ll be out of your way. Are you bidding on that—” Charlotte looked over her shoulder. “Trunk?” That ugly trunk?
“Gather around, everybody.” The auctioneer jumped onto the riser next to the trunk. The crowd of fifteen or twenty surged forward, taking Charlotte with them. She stumbled back, losing her clog in the process. “We’re about to start bidding.”
Fishing around for her shoe, Charlotte decided to wait it out. The bidders on this item seemed determined. How long could the auction be? Ten minutes? Might be kind of fun to see the whole process up close.
Twenty bucks. The trunk didn’t look like it was worth more than that. Charlotte peeked around to see who she thought might be willing to shell out money for a dull, battered, and scarred box of wood with frayed and cracked leather straps.
The auctioneer was a man with nothing distinguishable about him. Average height and weight. Hair that might have once been brown but was now . . . gray? Ash?
Yet he wore a brilliant purple shirt tucked into charcoal gray trousers that he held up with leather suspenders. He bounced on the risers with his very clean and white Nike runners.
Charlotte grinned. She liked him, though when he looked at her, the blue blaze of his eyes made her spirit churn. She took a step back but remained hemmed in on all sides.
“This is lot number zero,” the auctioneer said, and his bass voice sank through Charlotte like a warm pearl.
Lot number zero? She fanned the pages of her catalog. There wasn’t a lot number zero. She cross-referenced with the itemized listing in the back. But no trunk, or chest, or luggage, or steamer was listed.
“This item was rescued from a house just minutes before it was torn down. The trunk was made in 1912.” He leaned over the crowd. “It was made for a bride.”
His gaze landed on Charlotte and she jerked back with a gasp. Why was he looking at her? She tucked her ring hand behind her back.
“It’s one hundred years old. A century. The hardware and leather are original and the entire piece is in good but thirsty condition.”
“What happened to the lock?” The man on Charlotte’s left pointed with his rolled-up catalog at the gnarled brass locking the lid in place.
“Well, that’s a tale in and of itself. It got welded shut, you see.” The auctioneer leaned farther toward his audience. Again, his roaming, fiery blue eyes stopped on Charlotte. He wiggled his bushy gray eyebrows. “By a gal with a broken heart.”
The women in the group “Ooh’d” and angled for a better look at the trunk while Charlotte took another step back. Why was he directing his attention toward her? She pressed her hand against the heat crackling between her ribs.
“But to the one willing, there’s great treasure inside.”
He scanned the crowd that seemed to grow thicker and winked. Laughter peppered the air and the auctioneer seemed satisfied he’d drawn everyone in.
Okay, Charlotte got it. There wasn’t really a great treasure inside. He just wanted them to believe there could be. He was quite the salesman. Kudos.
“Let’s start the bidding at five,” he said.
Several from the crowd peeled away, releasing the pressure Charlotte felt to stay penned in. The swirl of cool air around her legs felt good.
“Do I have five?” he said again.
Charlotte checked the faces of those who remained. Come on, someone, bid five dollars. Now that the trunk had a price and had endured laughter, her sympathies were aroused. Hearing a bit of its story changed its dismal appearance.
Everyone, everything, needed love.
Another few seconds ticked by. Bid someone, please. “I’ll bid five.” Charlotte raised her rolled catalog. She could donate the trunk to the children’s ministry at church. They were always looking for items to store toys or to pack with mission trip necessities.
“I have five hundred.” The auctioneer held up his hand, wiggling his fingers. “Do I have five-fifty?”
“Five hundr
ed?” She balked. “No, no, I bid five dollars.”
“But the price was five hundred.” The auctioneer nodded at her. “Always consider the cost, little lady. Now you know the price. Do I have five-fifty?”
Please, someone, bid five-fifty. How could she have been so stupid? The innocent-old-man routine fooled her.
The man next to Charlotte raised his catalog. “I’ll go five-fifty.”
Charlotte exhaled, pressing her hand to her chest. Thank you, kind sir. She flipped through the catalog pages again, searching for a description, some information, anything on the trunk. But it was flat not listed.
“Five-fifty, do I have six? Six hundred dollars.” The auctioneer’s eyes were animated, speaking, and his cheeks glistened red even though the mountain air under the tent was cool for April.
The woman next to Charlotte raised her hand. “Six.”
Three more bidders peeled away. Charlotte regarded the trunk through narrow slits, thinking she should just take this time to be on her way too. She’d experienced enough of the bidding process.
Besides, she wanted to grab a bite of lunch before her appointment. By the time she left the salon, she’d have just time enough to go home and change before Tim picked her up at six.
“Six, do I have six-fifty?” The auctioneer’s voice bobbed with each syllable.
“Six-fifty.” The man on her left. “I can use it for replacement parts on a steamer I’m restoring.”
“Seven hundred,” Charlotte said, the words bursting from her lips. She cleared her throat and faced the auctioneer. Used for parts? Never. Something inside her rebelled at the thought of tearing the trunk apart. “This trunk deserves its own tender, loving care.”
“That it does, young lady. I rescued it myself. And what I rescue is never destroyed.” The auctioneer’s eyes radiated blue with each word and sent a burning chill through Charlotte. “Do I have seven-fifty?”
The woman next to her lifted her hand.
“Eight.” Charlotte didn’t even wait for him to up the bid. “Hundred. Eight hundred.”
Run! Get out of here! Charlotte tried to turn, but her legs refused to move and her feet remained planted on the Ludlow lawn. A blunt brush of the April breeze cooled the flash of perspiration on her forehead.
She didn’t want this trunk. She didn’t need this trunk. Her loft was contemporary, small, and so far, clutter-free. The way she liked it.
Malone & Co. was an upscale, classy, exquisitely contemporary boutique. Where would she put a beat-up old trunk? Never mind that she’d spent her windfall money on the remodel. Every last dime. And her personal bank account had just enough to foot the expense of a small wedding. Eight hundred dollars for a trunk was not in the budget. If she was going to blow that much cash, she’d buy a pair of Christian Louboutin shoes.
“It calls to you, doesn’t it?” The man in purple leaned toward Charlotte with a swoosh up of his bushy brows.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Tim would have a fit if she brought that thing home.
Charlotte regarded the trunk. Who was the man or woman who owned the trunk in days gone by? What about the bride the auctioneer spoke of from 1912—wouldn’t she want a home for this battered old piece?
“Eight-fifty.” The second man on Charlotte’s left made a bid.
“One thousand dollars.” Charlotte clapped her hand over her mouth. But it was too late. She’d made the bid.
Oh, she’d have to explain this to Tim.
“Sold.” The auctioneer smacked his palms together and pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket. “This trunk belongs to you.”
Charlotte read the preprinted slip. Redeemed. $1,000. She whirled around. “Wait, sir, excuse me, but how did you know . . .”
But he was gone. Along with the crowd and the hum of voices. Charlotte stood completely alone except for the battered trunk and the glittering swirl in the air.
Chapter Two
Charlotte leaned into Tim as they watched his parents’ anniversary party from their table. A bluish amber hue fell over their dinner plates as the party lights chased around the ballroom.
“Dinner was good, wasn’t it?” she said. Come on, Tim. It’s only money.
“It was great.”
Charlotte looked over at him. He was picture-perfect to her. If she could use such a word. His straight nose aligned over full lips and an even, square chin. His long, sandy hair fell in a soft sheen against his sculpted cheek.
But at the moment his normally vibrant, charming countenance was brooding.
Oh, why didn’t she wait to tell him until the ride home? Now the family—Katherine—would blame Charlotte for Tim’s lack of participation.
“Do you want to dance? Look, Jack keeps waving at us.”
Jack was Tim’s younger brother, the one right after him in the line of five boys. David, Tim, Jack, Chase, and Rudy.
“In a minute.” Tim gestured for Jack to hold on.
Every guest at this fortieth wedding anniversary celebration was on the floor jukin’ and jivin’, singing “celebrate good times, come on” at the top of their lungs.
Everyone except Tim and Charlotte.
“Come on, Tim, it’s not that big of a deal. Let’s dance.” Charlotte stood, smoothing her hands over her skirt. She’d determined to have a good time tonight, forget her Red Mountain mission that went bust and let her inner extrovert rule the night. She had a long talk with that girl this afternoon while sitting in the chair getting her hair and nails done.
She’d worn a new party dress, a navy number with a fitted bodice and short, flared skirt. And a matching pair of Jimmy Choo Mary Janes she’d bought on sale.
The night was going so well. Tim couldn’t keep his eyes off of her and for the first time, Charlotte actually felt like she was a part of the inner-Rose circle.
Then, fifteen minutes ago, Charlotte leaned into her man and said, “Oh, Tim, I forgot to tell you, but I ended up at an auction today up on Red Mountain and bought a trunk. For a thousand dollars.” There now, that wasn’t so bad.
Then she noticed the light dimming in his eyes. “A thousand dollars?” Tim kept the wedding budget and had every penny accounted for until June 23.
After that, they whispered harshly to each other over dinner about why and how she could’ve spent that much money without talking to him. The muffled debate concluded as dessert arrived.
“I hope you didn’t buy that five-thousand-dollar dress you wanted because we can’t afford that now.”
“No, I haven’t,” Charlotte said with a bit of sass. “I haven’t bought my dress yet.”
The confession hung between them and dimmed the last bit of merry light from Tim’s eyes. “We’re getting married in two months, Charlotte. You own a bridal shop.”
“I know, I know.” When would she learn to keep her mouth shut? Her timing missed by a country mile.
They ate their carrot cake in relative silence.
“Sure you don’t want to dance?” Charlotte tugged on his elbow.
Tim shoved away from the table, standing. “I’m going for some air.”
“O-okay.” Charlotte watched him go through watery eyes. “Tim?”
He turned, gazing down at her.
“Sorry about the money.”
“I know, Char.” He brushed his fingers lightly over her neck and relieved her fears. “It’s okay. Promise. I’ll be back in a minute.”
In the four months she’d known Tim, she’d learned that he needed time to process. He rarely made snap decisions. Which was another reason to contemplate this whole wedding ordeal.
He never did anything impulsively—so why the marriage proposal so quickly? Was it a moment of romantic weakness? She wasn’t sure he even wanted to marry her. What made him drop to one knee two months after they’d met and slip a ring on her finger?
Did she want to marry him? Charlotte might have to drive back up to Red Mountain in the morning.
But oh, his proposal was perfect and romantic. Charlotte bl
urted yes without thinking. She led with her heart. At least that’s what Gert always told her.
The band brought down the music and the dance-floor lights dimmed. Couples stepped together and swayed in time to “I Only Have Eyes for You.”
Charlotte grabbed her clutch and headed for the ladies’ room. If she sat there any longer, someone would inquire about Tim.
Shoving through the door, Charlotte was grateful to be alone. She leaned against the vanity counter and studied her reflection in the mirror, ducking under the glare of the unkind lights.
The strands of hair that had slipped from her updo curled around her neck. Pressing her finger under her eye, she dabbed away a spot of mascara. As she opened her clutch for her lipstick, a voice crawled over her shoulder.
“You look beautiful tonight, Charlotte.”
Charlotte glanced in the mirror. Katherine, older brother David’s wife, stood behind her. “As do you. I love your dress.”
Katherine moved to the vanity and leaned toward the mirror, checking her hair and makeup. She was the first and only daughter-in-law in Marshall and Blanch Rose’s family. A distinction she took seriously and guarded jealously.
“Are you having a good time?” Katherine’s smile was stiff and forced as she fished a tube of lipstick from her clutch. “You and Tim have a fight? You were whispering to each other all through dinner. It’s a good thing Blanch couldn’t see you directly.” She smoothed red color over her lips. “Tim’s usually the first on the floor and he’s not been out there yet. He never misses ‘Celebrate.’”
“I’m having a lovely time, Katherine, thank you.” Charlotte sidestepped the woman’s hunt for information. Her conversation with Tim wasn’t any of his sister-in-law’s business. “Forty years of marriage is quite a milestone.”
“You know, Charlotte”—Katherine tore a tissue from the box—“if you’re going to be a Rose, you should start trying to act like a Rose. You keep dragging Tim to dark corners and holding personal conversations like he’s not allowed to associate with his own family. It’s not going to sit well with everyone if this keeps up.” She dabbed the corners of her red lips with the white tissue.