The Wedding Dress

by Rachel Hauck

  “Do you love it? I do. Come on, boss, tell me, how’d I do?”

  “Excellent, you did excellent. It’s . . . perfect. But please put it back on the rack. I won’t be wearing it.” Charlotte turned to leave.

  “What? Charlotte, come on, this dress has your name on it. See, right there in the pearly light . . . Charlotte Malone. Give me one good reason why you can’t get married in this dress.”

  “Because, Dix, I’m not getting married.” She held up her bare ring hand. “Please, put it away.”

  “Charlotte, good grief, what happened?” Dixie trailed Charlotte out of the room. “You’re not getting married? Did you break up with him?”

  “No, actually, he broke up with me.” Charlotte rounded the shop’s flared staircase, heading for the kitchen and the comfort of her latte and coffee cake. “He said he wanted to postpone the wedding for a while. I said we get married or we break up.” She shrugged. “So, yeah, I guess I did. But he didn’t fight me . . .”

  “Oh, dear friend, I’m . . . I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it. Did he say why he wanted to wait?” Dixie’s soft tone sympathized with Charlotte’s feelings. “This makes no sense, no sense at all. He just doesn’t feel ready? Everyone gets cold feet. I had icicles for toes before Hotstuff and I got married. So what? Tim fell head over heels in love and kept falling until he tumbled right on out? I don’t get it.” Dixie waved off the pastry Charlotte offered.

  Spoken in those terms, it didn’t make sense. But, in the deep dark of her heart, something felt right about this. And that, in and of itself, felt wrong. Charlotte sat at the kitchenette and took a small bite of her coffee cake, weary from her boomerang emotions. The pastry looked so good when she was in Starbucks. But at the moment, the sweet bread tasted like cardboard.

  “Are you okay, Charlotte?” Dixie pressed Charlotte’s arm and pulled a chair up beside her. “I’m so sorry this is happening.”

  “I didn’t sleep well.” Charlotte tossed her breakfast to the napkin on the table. “I woke up and read my Bible, but Jesus doesn’t say much on how to tell if a guy is the right one. I wanted Tim to be the one, Dix. Maybe for all the wrong reasons.” Since it was Dixie, Charlotte let her tears fall. “He’s gorgeous, at least to me. He’s fun and smart, he makes me laugh. From the moment I met him, I forgot myself and I’d talk without censoring every word, then later wonder if I made a fool of myself. When he called the first time to ask me to dinner, I believed there was something divine about the whole thing because I’m not that pretty and I’m definitely not that good of a flirt.”

  “Are you kidding me? You’re stunning. And charming. Who needs to flirt when they’re as smart as you? Tim’s darn lucky you gave him the time of day.” Dixie sat back. “Snob. That’s what he is, a snob.”

  “I was the lucky one. He’s not a snob, Dixie. He’s honest. Would you have wanted Jared to marry you if he had any reservations?”

  “No, I guess not.” Dixie sighed, sitting back, sleeking her hand down the length of her ponytail. “This makes me sad.”

  “Yeah, but maybe Tim’s right.” Charlotte’s weak smile trembled. “We moved too fast.”

  “Well, he can blame himself for that, Charlotte. Don’t you take that on. Do you think that’s why you never picked a dress? You knew, somehow?”

  “Who knows.” Charlotte rested her head against the wall, swallowing the swell of emotion in her throat, wanting this day to be years behind her. The harsh overhead light of the kitchen made her feel cold and exposed. “It’s just that when it was my turn to be the bride, I didn’t know how to make myself ready. In the back of my mind, I thought the dress, the day, the pieces of the wedding would just fall into place. That I’d know it was right.”

  “But you didn’t know, did you?”

  “I used to have this recurring dream about my wedding. It started right after high school and my ‘one true love’”—Charlotte air-quoted the phrase—“broke up with me. In the dream, I’m walking down the aisle toward my groom. I’m alone because I don’t have anyone to walk me down the aisle. No father, brother, uncles.”

  “The Roses are nothing but men.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Charlotte sat forward, rubbing her fingers over her eyes. She’d not bothered with makeup today. Just a swipe of concealer and a brush of powder. “When Tim told me he had four brothers, I literally laid awake that night begging God, ‘Teach me about men.’” She laughed low. “I was so afraid I’d regard them like caged lions at the zoo. But I wanted to do the guy’s-girl thing and play kickball—”

  “Football.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Back to the dream. What happened as you walked down the aisle?”

  “I’d spin around and run out of the church.” Charlotte gazed at the wall, picturing Tim and his brothers. A man’s man each and every one, but men who accepted her like a sister. “Usually somewhere between the sanctuary doors and the altar, I’d run out, yelling, ‘Nooooo!’” Charlotte tore at the edge of her napkin. “I woke up from that dream two or three times a year. Until—”

  “Maybe it’s a sign you’re not supposed to marry Tim.”

  “—I met Tim.” Charlotte sighed, her gaze on the latte, then on Dixie.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, ‘Oh.’” Charlotte stood, wrapping up the coffee cake. “Now what? How will I know Mr. Right?”

  Dixie dropped to her knees and drew Charlotte into her embrace. “Faith, girl, faith. At the end of the day, that’s all we have.”

  Charlotte rested her cheek against her friend’s firm shoulder, releasing the last of her morning tears. Then she sat back, reached for a napkin, and wiped her face. “Let’s get to work, Dixie.” Charlotte stood, straightening her suit, brushing her hair away from her face. “Today is the first day of the rest of my life.”

  Chapter Seven

  Emily

  In all of Birmingham, Mrs. Caruthers was the most renowned dressmaker. Mother made an appointment with her the morning after Phillip proposed. And now, eight days later, Emily walked into her rich quarters in the Loveman’s of Alabama downtown department store.

  A green gilded wallpaper covered the fitting-room walls and a Persian rug brightened the dull, scarred hardwood. A midmorning light fell over the shiny horsehair settee and sounds from the street below bounced off the closed windowpanes.

  A clanging trolley drew Emily to the window. Down on 19th Street, downtown Birmingham hustled and bustled past the broad stone department store. Emily loved the city and came down from Highland whenever she could. Once, she suggested taking a position at Father’s exchange, but he promptly rebuked her.

  “You’re a lady of society,” Mother had chimed in. “You employ others. You, yourself, are not employed.”

  “Then why send me to college only to have me squander my time at home? I’m not too much of a lady to kneel in the dirt and plant a garden.” She’d shot an eyeful at Mother, who insisted Emily learn to garden.

  “You garden for your family,” Father had said with a soft smack of his palm against the table. “You will not go to the city and punch a time clock, working for wages beneath your training and station.”

  So Emily sat at home, college educated but trained for nothing, and waited. With Daniel gone and her friends either married or touring Europe, boredom drove her to the brink.

  When Molly invited Emily to a suffrage meeting, she jumped at the offer. Something to do. Then Phillip called on her and her desperate heart yielded.

  Emily’s engagement ring tapped against the glass as she angled against the window to see farther down the bustling avenue. Now she was getting married and she’d have a home of her own and be able to determine her own mind as Mrs. Phillip Saltonstall.

  She’d most likely have an allowance at her disposal to give to whatever projects she deemed worthy. To shop whenever and wherever she wanted, the mistress of her own manor.

  “Mercy, it’s warm in here.” Mother fanned herself with her gloves, then removed the pins fr
om her hat.

  Emily set her reticule and parasol on the table just inside the door. “I’ll see if I can open the window, Mother.”

  “Mercy, no. There are people walking the streets. Do you want them to see you?”

  “If it means I won’t faint from heat, then yes.” Emily shoved open the window and a broad gust filled the room. Thick and muggy, the outside air was pungent with city fragrances, tinted with the gray exhaust of the mills and mines. But Charlotte preferred it to the hot, stale air of Mrs. Caruthers’s workroom.

  “Mercy.” Mother pinched her nose. “We either faint of heat in here or inhale the stench of mines.”

  “It’s the smell of life, Mother.” Emily drew deep. “Gasoline, horses, the sweat of men, the perfume of women.” She glanced toward the narrow door through which the dressmaker had disappeared, turned to the window, and—careful of the dust—leaned over the sill.

  A Model T driver spirited his rig ahead of a slow-moving, horse-drawn delivery cart. “Mother, let’s go to Newman’s for lunch.”

  “Not today, I had Molly slice the roast beef—” Mother paused when Emily sighed. Much too loud, but it was too late to retrieve. “Well, all right, it is your wedding dress day.” She gripped Emily’s arm. “Don’t hang out the window like a dance hall girl. Emily dear, just so you know.” Mother’s voice warbled and her eyes watered. “Father and I are very proud of you. He was practically bursting his buttons the day after Phillip asked for your hand. He ordered fresh cigars to pass out at the club. You’ve grown into one of the most beautiful girls in Birmingham. You’re smart and talented, educated—which I insisted on—and you have a solid, sensible head on your shoulders. You will make Phillip an outstanding man in the community. He’s done well to choose you.”

  Emily came away from the window. Maybe now was the time to ask Mother the question brewing in her heart ever since Phillip proposed. “Mother, did you love Father when you married him?”

  “Oh my, I believed your father made the cotton grow in the spring, I did. He was so handsome and smart, told the best stories that made us all laugh, and was the idol of all the girls in our class.”

  “Grandmother and Grandfather were happy with him?”

  “Your grandfather thought him a fool.” Mother made a face mimicking Grandfather’s expression and affected a deep voice. “‘The boy’s full of nonsense, Maggie. He’s all talk. What’s this about starting an exchange? He’ll lose his shirt, I tell you, lose it for sure.’” Mother laughed with an arch of her brow. “Papa is singing a different tune now.”

  “No doubt he is, especially after Father bought him a touring car for his birthday.” Emily gazed out the window again, watching the life on the street, letting her thoughts drift.

  She loved Phillip. Certainly she did or why would she let him caress and kiss her the way he did?

  “Where is that Mrs. Caruthers?” Mother paced past the narrow, interior door. “Did she set sail to Paris for the fabric?”

  Mother had tried in recent years to book Mrs. Caruthers for special gowns but was always denied. Only since the Saltonstall engagement did Mother rate an audience with the queen of seams. It didn’t sit well with Emily, but if having Mrs. Caruthers design her trousseau and wedding attire made Mother happy, then it made Emily happy.

  “Sit, Mother, don’t worry. She’ll be along.” She needed Mother to settle down so she could process the nagging feeling caught in her chest.

  Unlike Mother, Emily knew Phillip didn’t make cotton grow. Nor did he make her laugh with his zany stories—at least not often. Not even when they were in grammar school together. However, he did make her shiver right down to her bones when he stroked his hand down the length of her neck.

  Emily peeked over her shoulder at Mother, who’d taken a rest on the settee. Did Father make Mother’s skin quiver with desire? Oh mercy . . . Emily shut her eyes and shook the very idea from her head. Even if she had the courage and brashness to ask Mother, she did not want to hear the answer.

  Angling out the window, Emily drew in a deep, cleansing breath. Yes, she loved Phillip. She must.

  On the corner of 3rd Avenue, Emily caught sight of a familiar figure. Tall, lean, wearing a telltale burgundy waistcoat and spats. Phillip. Her heart hopscotched. Like Father, Phillip was handsome and smart, well respected in the city, and most assuredly the desire of all the girls in their circle.

  She stretched farther out the window and waved. “Phillip. Phillip Saltonstall. Man in the spats. Phillip! You’re the only man who wears them in the day.”

  A hand yanked Emily back inside. “Emily Lee Canton, stop that yelling at once. Now you are behaving like a dance hall girl. Stars above, a proper gentlewoman does not lean out fourth-floor windows and yell like an uncouth at proper gentlemen. Especially a man of Phillip’s reputation and one who is her fiancé. What on earth?” Mother fidgeted with her cotton gloves, drawing them through her hand over and over.

  “Mother, it’s Phillip, the man I’m going to marry. Why can’t I yell out the window to him?” After all, hadn’t she just discovered her true affections? Why not tell the world? Emily shoved the window higher still. “My dear, Phillip, I’m up here—”

  But Emily’s words lighted on her tongue and slipped back down her throat, nearly choking her as her eyes beheld the scene below.

  A slender reed of a woman with pale skin and pale hair, wearing a royal-blue dress and carrying a matching parasol, leaned into Phillip as he wrapped his arms about her, bending his lips to her . . . neck.

  Emily gasped, moving back inside with a quick jerk, banging her head against the window frame. She cried out, smacking her hand against the wound, squeezing her eyes shut, but seeing the woman’s hair glinting in the sun.

  “Are you all right?” Mother asked, her attention on the narrow, closed door. “I’ve a mind to go in there and see what’s taking Mrs. Caruthers so long. This is unthinkable.”

  What was Phillip doing down there? A woman in his embrace, laughing so gay and carefree? In public no less. The blood filling Emily’s cheeks burned. Had he no decency? No respect? Too late, a moan escaped her chest.

  “Emily, what is it?” Mother angled to see out the window.

  “Nothing, Mother, a horse threw a shoe is all. You’ve seen it a dozen times.”

  “But you moaned.”

  “The gelding tripped, I thought—” What? What did she think? Surely she must be imagining things, so far above the ground. She couldn’t be seeing correctly. Other men wore burgundy waistcoats and spats. On a week day. Surely Phillip was not the only one.

  With another sly glance, Emily captured the end of the embrace. The woman pulled away, laughing, popping Phillip’s arm with her umbrella. Phillip reached for her as she headed to the corner, stepping off 19th to cross 3rd.

  Emily watched Phillip watching her until she vanished in the shadows.

  “Here we are, Mrs. Canton. Pardon me for the delay, honey pie, but my assistant failed to unpack all of this lovely fabric. I ordered it from Paris six months ago, quite sure I’d have a special wedding coming up soon. And sure enough, here I do. The lovely Emily Canton. Come away from that window, deary, you’ll spoil your beautiful skin.” Mrs. Caruthers’s arms were laden with bolts of rich, shimmering satin. “I have silk, too, but I do think satin makes such a fine wedding gown. Have you chosen your wedding date?”

  “We’re considering March,” Mother said with a proud smile. Emily’s stomach turned. She’d never seen Mother pander to anyone and here she was doing it to Mrs. Caruthers. “Emily, look at this lace. What do you think, darling?”

  “I think—” I think I just saw another woman in my fiancé’s arms. With another look out the window, Emily caught Phillip striding up 19th in the direction of the Saltonstall building. He raised his hat at a trio of gentlemen and paused to converse, bending backward with laughter.

  How jovial the man was after holding that twig of a woman with a ghostly complexion.

  “March is a lovely time
for weddings. Not too warm, not too cold.” Mrs. Caruthers and Mother conversed as if everything were right and wonderful in the world. “Gives me plenty of time for dressmaking. How many bridesmaids? Of course, your dress as well, Mrs. Canton, and your mother’s, perhaps? And the trousseau.”

  “Emily,” Mother called, “what is so interesting out that window? Please do tear yourself away from your curiosities and tell Mrs. Caruthers what you think of this fabric. Have you thought of bridesmaids? Mrs. Caruthers, this satin is buttery soft.”

  Emily turned to see Mother smoothing her fingers over a creamy material. “It’s beautiful,” she said with a glance. “So pure and white.”

  She went back to the window. The afternoon sat on its celestial perch unaware that a sliver of Emily’s heart had chipped away. She was pure. But was Phillip? Her heart beat at the memory of his skilled touch.

  “I do believe this shade is perfect for your skin. Please, dear, over here.” Mrs. Caruthers guided Emily to the stool in the middle of the room and had her step up. Then she held a corner of the satin to Emily’s cheek. “Yes, quite lovely. Shall we decide on a design? I have Goody’s books over here.”

  Mother held up pages while Emily stood for Mrs. Caruthers’s measurements.

  “You’re a full-figured one, aren’t you, Emily?” Mrs. Caruthers draped the measuring tape around her neck. “Start drawing your corset tighter, dear, and we might be able to have your waist at a perfect eighteen by your wedding.”

  “Twenty-two is fine with me. I prefer eating. And breathing.”

  “Eating?” Mrs. Caruthers arched her brow. “It’s quite evident.”

  Emily shot her mother a look.

  “We’ll discuss it, Mrs. Caruthers. Thank you for your concern.”

  Concern? Mother could be too kind. Emily refused to cut off her air or her stomach, for the sake her figure. Northern girls might want to eat like birds, but Southern girls were robust and hearty. Emily glanced wistfully at the window. The woman she’d seen with Phillip was slender, her petite figure molded by her corset.