A February Bride

by Betsy St. Amant

  “Allie! Don’t forget my dress.” Her mom pointed at her as if they were the only ones in the room, not concerned that she was interrupting a ceremony taking place. “Two weeks, remember?” She patted the arm of the man at her side, who smiled and waved as if he had no idea he’d just joined the circus.

  Mrs. Hall shot a concerned look between the two of them as the pastor began instructing Hannah and Zach on where they’d stand during the ceremony. She focused on Allie once again and mouthed, “Are you okay?”

  Okay was pretty relative at the moment. Maybe even rhetorical. Allie forced a nod, her face burning, as mortification, razor sharp, swelled inside her. First the confusing back-and-forth with Marcus and his roller-coaster reactions, then her inner debate over the workbench. Then the phone call and wedding announcement from her mom, the kiss with Marcus that was completely left hanging in midair, and now her family crashing her best friend’s rehearsal—inside the same church where she and Marcus had nearly wed.

  She eyed him across the steps from her, and he caught her eye and winked.

  Her stomach flipped. He still thought she meant what she’d started to say before her mom’s phone call interrupted them in the kitchen. He had his hopes up again, just as she’d feared. Dreaded. Wished for.

  She squeezed her newspaper bouquet with clammy fingers. She’d wanted Marcus to hope. Wanted to plant that seed of expectation and possibility in his heart after the kiss. Why? Why would she do that when she knew deep down it couldn’t happen?

  That nothing had changed, and never would.

  Because clearly, she was just like her mom. And her aunt. Taking advantage of men, using them for her own purposes, her own pleasure, her own means of beefing up her self-esteem. It would only be a matter of time before she tossed them—tossed Marcus—aside in the same way they did, moving on to the next victim when the last didn’t fully satisfy.

  She looked back at Marcus, who seemed transfixed on the ceremony before him, and her heart cracked.

  Some things couldn’t be restored.

  Not Marcus. Not her engagement or her family.

  Definitely not her heart.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  Allie pressed her hand against her stomach as the church closed in on her, until all she could hear was the snort of laughter from Husband #27 coming from the front row near her mom and the stage-whispered criticisms from her aunt and grandmother over every carefully handcrafted decoration in the church. This was her life. She didn’t belong with Marcus and Mrs. Hall. With Hannah and Zach and the purity and love shining in their eyes.

  She was part of the circus too. Bound to it by chains of blood and DNA and whispers of memories that never fully left her alone. She was crazy to think she had a chance of escape.

  Marcus caught her eye, and the suffocating feeling intensified. Losing him again after their glimpse of reconciliation would be a hundred times worse than the first time. He’d never understand, and this time he’d hate her. How could she have been so selfish, giving him hope with that kiss?

  His brow furrowed in concern as her face heated, and she swayed on the stairs. The ceiling dipped and panic gripped her in a vise. She had to get out of there or risk fainting in front of everyone.

  Marcus took a step toward her, but the pastor’s microphone squealed a protest. He tapped it with a grin. “And then at this point in the ceremony I’ll say, ‘Zach, you may kiss your bride.’ ”

  The wedding party raised their arms and cheered as Zach blew a kiss to Hannah. Allie’s mom planted a smack on her soon-to-be husband’s cheek. Mr. Hall dipped Mrs. Hall into a backward kiss.

  And Allie hitched up her dress and bolted down the aisle.

  Funny how history had a way of repeating itself.

  Once again Marcus stood in front of Beaux Creek’s only pawn shop, his and Allie’s wedding rings clenched in his hand—except this time he was determined to actually go inside.

  Because this time he’d actually seen Allie run away from him in full Technicolor instead of only imagining it. This time was different.

  This time he was done.

  The morning sun screamed a contradiction to his mood as he pushed open the door, the dusty scent of unmoved merchandise and cheap cologne slapping him in the face. He nodded a curt greeting to the owner behind the counter. Bert nodded back as he paged through a fishing magazine. “Have a look around,” he said in a monotone. “Let me know if I can help.”

  Marcus thanked him, though help from anyone at this point seemed impossible. He hesitated at the counter, taking in the selection of jewelry beneath the smudged glass. Could he really add his and Allie’s rings to that random collection of gold, white gold, and sterling silver?

  Yes. Because he couldn’t get the image of Allie dashing down the aisle last night out of his head. Why did she think running away was the answer to everything? So what if her family embarrassed her? Yeah, they were pretty bad, he wouldn’t lie. And being surrounded by a crowd of people kissing, in the very church they were supposed to have gotten married in, had to be emotionally draining for her. He knew, because he’d felt it too.

  But they could have been one of those kissing couples. They were one of them, just days before in Zach’s kitchen. What had happened?

  She’d reappeared, like a ghost from Christmas past, at the rehearsal dinner, face stoic and eyes averted, dutifully serving his sister as maid of honor yet clearly a thousand miles away in her head. She didn’t want to be there.

  All he’d ever wanted was to be by Allie’s side—and she kept running away.

  From him.

  He might still be in love, but he wasn’t stupid.

  “Here.” He slapped the rings on the counter with a clink, trying to ignore the ache deep in his chest. “How much for these?”

  Bert grunted and squinted over the top of his magazine, eyed Marcus with suspicion, then went for his magnifying glass.

  He looked up in surprise.

  Marcus nodded. “I know, man. They’re real.” All too real. And too useless. He swallowed and gripped the edge of the counter with his fingers. “How much?”

  Bert named a figure well under what the rings had cost, but Marcus nodded without argument. “Sold.”

  No more looking back.

  Allie had chosen.

  Red eyeliner was never appropriate for a wedding.

  Unfortunately, Allie’s makeup-free face boasted exactly that very look.

  She rubbed at the bags under her eyes and stared dejectedly into the bathroom mirror, adjusting the tie on her fuzzy turquoise robe. Accusations screamed back at her teary, rumpled morning reflection. Heartbreaker. User. Hypocrite.

  She could only imagine what Marcus must think of her right now, bolting from the church—again—and ignoring his panicked texts and phone calls the rest of the evening. She wasn’t sure what was worse—the incessant phone calls and message chimes, or the silence that hovered when they stopped.

  She was more than a little ashamed of herself.

  Maybe she’d taken the coward’s way out by running.

  But in running, she’d saved Marcus from another near-mistake. She wouldn’t have been able to reject him to his face. Not after that kiss, not after the connection they’d resurrected.

  Not after feeling those few moments of hope.

  At least she’d left one final message, something she’d never gotten the chance to do last time. Maybe it would help—or make things incredibly worse.

  Guess she’d find out.

  The doorbell rang, and her heart jerked in a violent twist. If it was Marcus, she wouldn’t open the door. Not only because of her disheveled appearance, but because if he looked at her with anything other than pure anger in his eyes, she’d melt like a cherry Popsicle.

  She peered through the peephole, her heart sinking in an odd mixture of relief and disappointment. Not Marcus.

  It was his mother.

  What was Mrs. Hall doing here when Hannah’s wedding was that very night? She
should be getting ready or puttering around the church with last-minute preparations. Allie would be doing the same, as soon as she figured out how to get her makeup to cover the consequences of crying all night long.

  She took a deep breath and pulled open the door. “Julie—I mean, Mrs. Hall.”

  “It’s still Julie.” Marcus’s mom bustled inside, as if she knew Allie might close the door at any minute. A garment bag was draped over one arm. “I’ve brought your dress.”

  An even stronger wave of shame and embarrassment washed over Allie. “I didn’t want Hannah to ask you to do that. It didn’t seem right. But . . . thank you.” She reached for the bag, but Julie held it out of reach.

  “First things first.” She pointed toward the living room, and Allie followed willingly, like a child desperately needing instruction. Something about Julie’s take-charge yet kind demeanor was like chicken soup to her sick heart. “Sit.”

  Allie sat.

  Julie perched on the edge of the couch, two cushions away, close enough to talk intimately but not so close that Allie felt pressured to run again. “Now I’m going to talk, and I want you to listen. Not apologize. Not explain yourself. Just listen.”

  She began to unzip the garment bag, and Allie braced herself to see the dress that always tore up her insides. At least the rip would be fixed now, and she could give the dress to her mother as expected and avoid that pending headache.

  But the dress Julie pulled from the bag wasn’t the Andrews’ family wedding dress.

  “What is that?” Allie leaned closer, then drew back as reality sank in. It was her dress. Completely remade.

  Horror began a slow creep up her chest. Her mother was going to kill her. Actually, there’d be a line to kill her, starting with her grandmother, who treated that gown like some sort of ancient family heirloom. It was an ancient family heirloom.

  Ancient family curse, too, but she was clearly the only one who cared.

  “I took some liberties.”

  Julie held her hand to stop the words she probably assumed were about to flow out of Allie, but there was no danger of that. Allie couldn’t speak if she tried. Her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth.

  “But I felt like it had to be done.” She paused, as if gathering her thoughts, and Allie couldn’t tear her eyes away from the material that used to be what she considered one of the ugliest dresses in the history of wedding dresses.

  This gown, this shorter, stylish, tailored gown, was nothing short of a masterpiece.

  It looked exactly like her. Right down to the thin straps and the turquoise sash knotted around the waist.

  “Allie, I’ve been a mother a long time.” Julie reached across the couch and took Allie’s hand in hers, her manicured fingers cool, yet her touch warm all at once. Exactly like a mom’s should be. Allie squeezed back as if clutching a lifeline. “And I’ve watched you around my son. You love him. You never stopped.”

  Tears—how could she possibly have any left?—pressed behind Allie’s eyes, setting off another headache pounding in her temples. She fought to draw a ragged breath as she nodded her confirmation.

  “So I’ve been trying to figure out what went wrong last fall, since clearly you still have the same feelings for Marcus you’ve always had.” Julie hesitated, the silence illuminated only by the ticking of the antique wall clock.

  Twin tears dripped into Allie’s lap as she waited for the slice of the guillotine.

  “You’re believing lies, Allie.” Julie took her chin and demanded her gaze. “And it’s time to stop.”

  “What lies?” Silly question. If she could plug in her brain, she could hit Print and let Julie and the rest of the world just see for themselves. Except the thoughts didn’t feel like lies. They looked a lot like truth. Like a bunch of unnecessary baggage for someone like Marcus to carry.

  “You are not defined by your family, sweet girl. You’re not destined to repeat their mistakes.” Julie leaned closer, her gaze serious. “But you’re making your own because of trying so hard to avoid theirs.”

  Now that sounded like truth, and pricked like it too. Was she guilty of that? Had Allie somehow, in trying so desperately to avoid being like her family, done the exact same thing? Pushed men away in order to avoid getting hurt? In this case, she’d pushed Marcus away to prevent hurting him.

  Same premise. Same consequences. Same end result.

  Heartache.

  Before Allie could fully process the possibility, Julie picked up the dress and draped it over the back of the couch between them. “You and Marcus have always had something special in common. You both like to restore things.”

  Allie thought of the message she’d left on Marcus’s porch, and grief knotted in her stomach. She nodded through the tears. He’d been the one to convince her to believe in her gift and open her own shop, while she’d been the one always propped beside him and an open hood, fascinated by his ability to turn uselessness into value.

  “Instead of furniture and cars, why not make your next project something more worthwhile?” Julie fingered the short hem of the remade dress, then smoothed the silky sash. “There’s beauty in everything, Allie. There’s a time to tear and a time to mend.”

  Allie risked a glance fully into her almost mother-in-law’s eyes, and read for herself the love and acceptance inside. If Julie could forgive and forget the hurt Allie had caused their entire family—twice—was there a chance Marcus could do the same?

  Was it even fair to ask?

  Doubts tickled her conscience, and her hope wavered. She ran her hands lightly over the dress, then stood up, pulling it off the couch and holding it up against her body. It would fit perfectly, she could already tell. The hem fell just to her knees, though it dipped longer in the back. The once-lacy sleeves had been cut into thin straps that would highlight her collarbone and narrow shoulders, while the waist tapered into the low-slung turquoise sash. Modern, with a classic flare.

  Exactly the kind of dress she would have chosen for herself.

  Exactly the kind of dress she would love for Marcus to see her in.

  And exactly the kind of dress that could allow her to be a new creation, once and for all. Maybe she could do it—redeem the dress. Redeem her relationship with Marcus.

  Redeem herself.

  “Don’t be afraid to mend, Allie. Don’t be afraid to heal.” Julie smiled, as if sensing the direction of her thoughts. “I think it’s time. Don’t you?”

  Allie began to tug the dress off the hanger in response, a faint image of hope urging her on.

  And a brief vision of the look on Marcus’s face when he realized that this time she wasn’t running anywhere.

  Marcus should have felt lighter without the weight of those two gold bands in his pocket, but an anvil sat on his chest and refused to budge. He turned off his truck, shot a glance at the garage hiding the car he’d labored over so painstakingly, and trudged toward the porch.

  A tall, polished wooden workbench sat in front of his door.

  He blinked, then ran his hand over the sturdy shelves. The entire piece was beautiful, down to the carved details on the back and the sleekness of the legs. Where had it come from? He needed one, for sure, but this wasn’t the kind of bench to stick in a garage. This was more like a keepsake.

  A closer look revealed deep scuffing under the stain, hinting at a long history of prior use. The screws on the back of the bench attaching the shelves were new. A lot of effort had gone into this restoration.

  And he only knew one person with a touch like that.

  The same person whose handwriting adorned the front of a white envelope resting under a rock on the shiny restored seat.

  Anticipation and dread warring for placement in his heart, Marcus sank slowly to the bench and opened the envelope, pulling out several pieces of paper lined with Allie’s familiar scrawl.

  Marcus,

  Hannah said you were considering moving to Texas. I wouldn’t really blame you, because some days I’d escap
e me too, if I could. Like last night. I know what my running out of the church must have done to you, but I couldn’t seem to get my heart and my feet on the same page. I’m sorry I hurt you. Again.

  But in hurting you, I’m only trying to save you. Save you from ending up worse, later, with me. You know my family, you know where I come from. Who I am. You’re better off, Marcus. Please believe me. It has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me.

  I wanted you to have this bench, this reminder that there’s a lot of good that can come from old. A lot of use that can come from worn. That’s what Mrs. Hawkins told me when she brought this bench into the store, nearly falling apart in her nephews’ hands.

  I wish restoring the past were as simple as restoring this bench. If it were, I’d buy stock in stain and sandpaper and give it all I had. But I’m afraid some things weren’t meant to be mended.

  Sort of like my family’s wedding dress, the one I’m so grateful you never saw me in. It was awful, for so many reasons, most of them having nothing to do with vanity at all, but rather, with what that ridiculous gown represented. Decades of failed marriages. Broken promises.

  When I found a rip in the sleeve in the bridal room before our ceremony started, it was like a sign, a symbol urging me to tear myself away for your own good.

  I’ve never been good at mending lace.

  And all I can do now is ask for your forgiveness and wish you the best. Because you’re a treasure, Marcus.

  And you deserve the same.

  Love always,

  Allie

  Marcus folded the papers, then turned them over and over in his hand. A treasure. Did Allie have no idea how he saw her? Had he failed that miserably as a friend, a boyfriend, a fiancé, over the past several years, that she was clueless to her own value? A value that had nothing to do with family trees and genealogy and cursed dresses.

  Rather, a value that shone because of who she was. Her experiences and family, crazy as they were, had shaped her into the woman she was.