Remembering that day now as he stood peering at the racks upon racks of delicately spun silk and tulle, Atticus understood the importance and value of a wedding gown. For a bride, her wedding dress was the transition article of clothing that took her from girlhood to womanhood. It had to be right. It had to reveal to all that she was a woman of value, worthy of respect. It had to give her the confidence to lift her chin high as she walked down the aisle to commit herself to her life’s companion.
He kept up his tour around the salon, idly looking at the veils, jewelry in glass cabinets, blingy belts, and other accoutrements while he waited. In the back of the salon, the door to an office was open. He peered in, more out of idle curiosity than anything else, and stopped short.
Hanging on a hook in the office was the gown he’d been wanting for Harper. Boldly he stepped into the office to look closer. The stunning, simply cut gown had pearls delicately beaded over Thai silk. A sheer bolero jacket of the same fabric buttoned at the neck and had an edged Peter Pan collar. The dress was very French. Very haute couture. Very Harper.
He picked it up, carried the dress to the fitting room in the back of the salon, and knocked gently.
Kate opened the door. Her eyes widened when she saw the dress in his hand. “That’s one of my new designs.”
“Can you show this to Harper?”
“I suppose.” Kate’s face was troubled. “It’s a sample, so it’s small and I don’t know if it can be altered. All that beadwork. But”—her eyes brightened—“it is a fit to flare. And Harper is small, even with her baby bump. It might work. What’s the point of being the owner if I can’t do as I think is best for my bride?”
Harper came to the door to see what all the discussion was about. When she saw the dress in Atticus’s hand, her face lit up. “Oh, I love it! I absolutely love it. That’s my dress!”
Several hours later, Atticus opened the door to Sea Breeze for Carson and Harper, then followed them single file indoors. The house was redolent with curry. His mouth watered as he followed the girls into the kitchen.
“Oh, Granny James!” Harper exclaimed. Immediately she launched into a vivid description of the dream dress that Atticus had found her, gesticulating wildly and pulling out her phone to flip through the dozens of pictures she’d taken.
“She’s one happy bride,” Carson remarked dully.
Atticus looked at her face. She was putting on a brave smile, but he wasn’t fooled. He’d known Carson wouldn’t find her dress at the salon today. What she was looking for couldn’t be found in any bridal salon.
“I’m going to go to my room for a while,” Carson told him. “I’m pretty tired. Stay for dinner, won’t you? It’s curry. Granny James is mad for it. She’s British, you know. Curry is mother’s milk to them. See you, then.” Carson turned and walked away down the hall.
When he was alone, Atticus turned and left the house to walk across the gravel drive to the cottage. Pansies filled pots by the door, cheerful and colorful. Two rockers sat side by side on the porch. Between them a book lay half-open on a small wooden table. Someone was home, he thought. He knocked gently on the door.
A moment later he heard footfalls and the door swung open.
“Atticus!” Marietta exclaimed, delight brightening her blue eyes. Her hair was pinned in a twist, as usual, and she was dressed for dinner with a blue linen tunic over tan pants. “Do come in. What a surprise.”
“Am I interrupting?”
“No, not at all. Girard likes to come over for a cocktail before dinner, so he might be by soon. You are joining us for dinner, aren’t you? Imogene has made curry.”
“I smelled it in the house and I can’t wait.”
“Can I offer you a drink?” Then, remembering, she added easily, “I have iced tea. I make it myself. With simple syrup, of course.”
“I’d love some.” He eyed the platter of cheeses laid out and his stomach growled. While Marietta went to fetch his drink, Atticus moved toward the cheese and helped himself to a thick slice of Camembert on a cracker. Chewing, he looked around the cottage. So this was the prize these two grandmothers were fighting for. It was nice enough, spare but cozy with its white-painted walls and white furniture. But hardly worth World War III. Over the fireplace he recognized the large, colorful painting dominating the wall as a Jonathan Green. Atticus was impressed.
“Here we are.” Marietta walked toward him with a glass of iced tea. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
He slid into a thick upholstered chair near the fireplace. Marietta poured herself a cocktail from the crystal pitcher. She came to join him in the chair opposite his.
“It’s a lovely space.”
“It is, isn’t it? Lowcountry on the outside, Santorini on the inside.” They shared a brief laugh. “The girls helped me decorate it after Lucille passed. It was very different when she lived here, chock-full of knickknacks. I probably would have left things the way they were, but those girls . . .” She shook her head. “Put them together and they’re a force of nature.”
“I’m beginning to understand that.”
“Are you?” she asked cautiously. She didn’t press the point. “I feel freer out here in my little cottage, detached from all the belongings I cared for all those years. Possessions can be a burden, you know. They distract from what’s important in life. Here I live like a monk. With certain privileges . . .” She hoisted her drink in the air. She laughed. “But I can walk across the drive to the big house and see everything in place, only now Harper has to tend to them. Big houses, like young children, belong to the young. It all takes so much energy.” She took a sip from her drink. “But I do go on. You’ve come here for a reason. I’m all ears.”
“Actually, I did want to talk to you about something. Do you know I went to LulaKate with Carson and Harper today?”
“No, I didn’t.” She clapped her hands together and laughed. “My goodness, dear, I’m afraid I just can’t picture you amidst all that lace and silk. Although, better you than me, I’m afraid. I made a rather poor showing in front of my granddaughters.”
“They told me about that. We all make mistakes, Marietta. I wouldn’t worry yourself over it. And the good news is, Harper’s found a new dress.”
“She isn’t keeping the other one? But didn’t she buy it already?”
“She’s going to sell it. Besides, I don’t think that’s an issue for her. She’s inside telling Imogene all about it. I’m sure you’ll get all the details over dinner.”
“That’s very good news. And Carson?”
Atticus paused. “Carson didn’t find anything there.”
Disappointment flooded Marietta’s features. “I swanny, she’s tried on every dress in the city!”
Atticus placed his palms together. “It wasn’t that Carson couldn’t find a dress. She couldn’t find a dress that was meaningful to her.” He glanced up to see if Marietta understood. Her blue eyes were bright. “Beneath Carson’s confident exterior lurks the heart of a frightened woman. I saw it in the way her hand trembled when she fingered the gowns in the salon. Heard it in the cavalier way she said she’d wear any old dress, as though it didn’t matter. Felt it when I’d looked into her eyes at the salon and realized she was holding on by her nails. Marietta, what is she so afraid of?”
“Commitment. Loss of independence,” Mamaw answered simply with a wave of her hand. She sighed, slumped deep into the chair’s cushions, and looked at her hands. “I realize now I turned a blind eye when she was young and living in Los Angeles with her father. Edward and I sent monthly checks, but it was all, shall we say, convenient for Edward and me to live in ignorance on the opposite coast.” A sparkle of hard-won wisdom flashed in her eyes. “I suspect . . . no, I know that’s why I’m trying to make amends now.” She stopped for a moment, lost in her thoughts. Then she brightened and said with more cheer, “Last summer, though, Carson made great strides. She faced her alcoholism and joined AA, she went back to work, and she became engaged to Blak
e.”
“Big commitments.”
“Exactly. The wedding plans are going smoothly enough.” Marietta smiled. “The Legare Waring House is a well-oiled machine at events. Yet, I don’t see any of the excitement or joy one expects in a bride when planning a wedding.”
“Fear has a way of numbing a person.”
Marietta brought her hand to her cheek. “Yes, of course. I see that now.” She looked to Atticus. “What can we do to help her?”
Atticus told Marietta how, in a flash of insight at the salon, he’d understood that Carson, more than Harper, needed to wear something that had meaning to her. A dress filled with memories. One that would remind her of someone dear to her.
He moved forward on his seat and rubbed his palms together. Their eyes met. “I was wondering . . . hoping, really . . . Marietta, do you still have your wedding gown?”
Atticus knocked on Carson’s bedroom door.
“Come in.”
Carson was lying on her side on her four-poster bed flipping through a magazine. Her shoes were off and her dress was high on her long thighs. A slim circle of light poured out from her bedside lamp. The large, airy room had broad windows dressed with plantation shutters. Seeing Atticus, she sat up quickly and pulled her skirt down over her knees.
“Sorry. I thought it was one of my sisters.”
“I didn’t mean to bother you, Carson, but I have a message. Your grandmother Marietta would like to see you. In the cottage.”
“Now?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “As she put it, lickety-split.”
Mamaw had telephoned Girard and headed him off, telling him she’d meet him at the house for dinner. She wanted some privacy with Carson.
She was atwitter. So much so she didn’t feel the shame she knew she ought to for being such a horrible grandmother not to have seen Carson’s dilemma from the beginning. She, who thought she knew her granddaughters so well. It took Atticus, a young man who had known them for such a short time, to identify the problem. Such a perspicacious man her grandson was, she thought with pride. And such a fool he had for a grandmother.
She approached the large box resting on her dining table with trepidation. The box hadn’t been opened since 1951. The box was made of acid-free cardboard and was completely enclosed in a natural muslin bag. Marietta fooled with the stiff metal clasp that bound it, cursing under her breath when she nearly broke a nail. It was careful work, and once the clasp was undone, it took some effort to drag the bag off the large box.
Catching her breath, she surveyed the box. To her dismay, it had yellowed over the years. Worried that her dress had met the same fate, she gripped both sides of the top and lifted it off the box. She sniffed cautiously, half expecting to smell the telltale scent of mildew or mold. To her relief, she did not. Inside, thick layers of acid-free tissue had not yellowed and still felt miraculously stiff. Encouraged, Marietta gingerly unfolded the first layer of tissue, feeling like a child opening a Christmas present that she hoped was what she wanted. She said a quick prayer that the dress was in good shape, for Carson’s sake. Then she lifted the gown from the box, just enough to peek. Her lips eased into a grin of relief.
A soft knock came at the door. She gently returned the bodice to the box, gathered the tissue paper over the gown once more, and hurried to answer the door. Carson stood at the entry, looking a bit tired and perhaps even a little annoyed with having been summoned.
“You wanted to see me?”
“I do. Come in.”
After closing the door, Mamaw clasped her own hands, barely able to contain her excitement. This had to be handled correctly. She didn’t want to pounce on the poor girl, thrust the dress at her, and risk Carson’s saying no.
“Would you care for some iced tea? I’ve made a fresh batch.”
“No, thank you. I think dinner is about to be served.” Carson glanced back at the door, as though ready to leave.
“Oh, they can wait. It’s curry. The longer it sets, the better.”
Carson looked around the room idly, clearly not in the mood for a chat. She glanced at the table where Atticus’s glass of iced tea sat beside a glass of rum and tonic.
“You had company?”
“Yes, Atticus stopped by for the briefest chat.”
“What about?”
“We talked wedding dresses.” Mamaw clasped her hands again so they wouldn’t shake. “He told me that you didn’t find anything you liked.”
Carson shook her head. “No. Harper did, though. It’s perfect for her.” In one fluid movement Carson slid down on the sofa and curled like a cat, her legs tucked under and her head resting on her hands along the back of the sofa. “Oh, Mamaw,” she said despondently, “I give up. I’ll never find a dress in time. Maybe I’m not meant to be a bride.”
“Nonsense. Finding a dress has nothing to do with whether you’re meant to be a bride.”
“Doesn’t it?” Carson replied obstinately, eyes averted.
“No. You’re ready to be a bride, Carson. You’ve worked very hard for this moment. Sacrificed, struggled, dug deep, and persevered. I know, because I watched you do it.”
Carson didn’t respond, but with some reluctance, she looked Mamaw in the eyes, seeking affirmation.
Mamaw pressed on in an upbeat tone. She didn’t want to derail the purpose of tonight’s visit. “Atticus was telling me that you thought you might like a vintage gown. One with memories and connected to the family.”
“Where will I find such a gown?”
Mamaw’s eyes brightened with her news. “How about right here?”
Carson looked confused.
“Come, lazy girl, sit up.” Mamaw reached out to lend Carson her hand.
“Mamaw?” Carson raised her head to peer over the sofa at the large box that rested on the dining-room table. “What is that?”
“That, my dear, is my wedding dress.”
Carson’s mouth slipped open in a soft gasp. She pulled herself to her feet. “You still have it?”
“Of course I do. It was customary for brides in my day to save their dresses for posterity.” Mamaw walked to the box on the table and gazed inside, gingerly touching the tissue. She spoke wistfully. “One always hoped her daughter would want to wear the gown. I, of course, never had a daughter. But, Carson . . .” Mamaw paused, and a tremulous smile eased across her face as she looked at Carson. “You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a daughter. You’re my granddaughter, true. But more a daughter than anything else.”
Carson’s lower lip wobbled. “I’ve always felt that, too.”
“My dear girl . . .” Mamaw opened her arms.
Carson followed the same path to her grandmother’s arms that she had as a child. Tears stung Mamaw’s eyes as she caught the scent of the perfume they both shared.
“This is not a time for tears!” Mamaw laughed lightly. “Take a look! The same rules apply. If you like it, then it’s yours. If you don’t, don’t feel beholden to wear it.”
“I just hope it’s not white,” Carson said with a wry grin.
It took a moment for Mamaw to catch the joke, and when she did, she giggled and waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, you. As a matter of fact, it’s not. It’s ivory. Now go ahead, darling,” she said, anxious to see the dress. “Open it.”
Carson approached the box with care. Reaching out, she spread open the folded tissue with fingertips. Mamaw held her breath, eyes wide, one moment looking at the dress, the next checking on Carson’s reaction. Suddenly she felt afraid Carson wouldn’t like the gown. She’d think it was old-fashioned, nothing a modern girl such as Carson would like.
Slowly, reverently, Carson lifted the dress from the box. Huge mounds of tissue paper that had carefully been tucked between the folds of the dress fell away like birds, taking flight to scatter on the floor. Yards of creamy satin flowed from the box. Carson took a step back and held the dress in front of her, arms straight out, while she studied it.
As did Mamaw. As she saw
her gown again, heady memories of that glorious day in 1951 came rushing back at her. Her wedding was one of the most talked about of the season. Her and Edward’s union had marked the blending together of two historic Charleston families. At that time, most of her friends wanted to look like Elizabeth Taylor or Grace Kelly: the fashion was tight bodices with sweetheart necklines and full, layered skirts. Her dress was quite the opposite, a sleeveless gown of duchesse satin, V-neck and V-back. Carson held the gown to her body. The ivory color complemented her tanned skin and dark hair. The dramatic cut would show off her tiny waist and the graceful curve of her back, as would the covered buttons that trailed to the court train.
Mamaw sighed, feeling again like the young bride. The dress was as beautiful to her now, and as precious, as it was when she’d worn it on her wedding day.
“Do you like it?” she dared to ask. “The veil is all French lace. That was the rage then, postwar.”
Carson fingered the soft fabric and said softly, “Vintage satin . . . lace . . . It’s everything I wanted.”
Encouraged, Mamaw brought Carson to the bathroom so she could look into the picture mirror. “It should fit you. We’re the same height. And once upon a time I had a small waist, like yours.”
Mamaw flicked on the bathroom lights and, for a moment, blinked in the brightness. Carson held the gown in place against her body. She stood staring, unblinkingly. Mamaw held her breath.
To Mamaw’s surprise, tears began flowing down Carson’s cheeks. As she looked at the gown, her expression was as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing in the mirror—her very own fairy tale.
“Harper told me I was supposed to feel like this,” she said with a choked laugh. “But I didn’t believe her. Look at me! I’m crying. Me!” She laughed again. “And so are you!”
Mamaw brought her hand to her trembling lips and nodded.
“Oh, Mamaw!” Carson then said the words she’d come to believe would never cross her lips: “I’ve found my dress!”
“There’s one thing more.” Mamaw reached out to pick up a small navy velvet bag from the bathroom counter. “I want you to have this.”
A Lowcountry Wedding Page 31