A Lowcountry Bride

by Preslaysa Williams

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my husband and real-life hero, Daren Williams. We did it!

  In loving memory of the Emanuel Nine, who died in a mass shooting on June 17, 2015, and the twelve victims of the Virginia Beach, Virginia, mass shooting, who died on May 31, 2019. May your souls always be blessed.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Preslaysa Williams

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  I need to get this dress right. More than right. I need to get this dress perfect.

  Maya Jackson dug into the plastic bin set atop her ironing board / dress design table in her tiny living room. Yeah, an ironing board doubled as her workspace. Once she made enough money from her wedding dress design job, she’d buy a real worktable, but this would do for now.

  A wave of dizziness overcame her, and she wiped a sheen of sweat from her forehead. “Not now,” she whispered. “I have to finish this dress.”

  But sickle cell anemia flare-ups didn’t wait for bridal gown designers.

  Ten to fifteen years. That was what the doctor had said. She had ten to fifteen years left on planet Earth. Maya had to make the most of it.

  She sat on the wooden stool and took a few breaths. The dizziness relented. It was gone, for now. Back to work.

  This latest dress project wasn’t coming together. It looked like every other dress in every other wedding boutique across America. “Every other” wouldn’t cut it if she wanted to secure her promotion to head dress designer for Laura Whitcomb Inc., the nation’s top bridal gown designer.

  Maya stood and circled the dress form. The dress would have to stand out. Maya ran her hand across the dress’s bodice, her fingers catching on the swirly, pearlescent beads. Waves of tulle cascaded into a long, seamless train. It needed something more, but what?

  She bit her lower lip and stepped over the bolts of satin and tulle. Scissors, pins, and thread spools rolled around underfoot, cluttering her scratched, wooden floor. She hadn’t done anything to tidy up this place in forever. Working sixty hours a week for Laura could mess up a housekeeping schedule pretty quickly.

  Fine. Maybe Maya had never had an actual cleaning schedule, but still. Once she secured her promotion, she’d hire a maid.

  Today, she worked.

  She grabbed her portfolio, which lived on the lumpy love seat, and flipped through it for some ideas. Should she go fancy-schmancy à la English royalty? Nah.

  Simple and elegant à la the late Carolyn Bessette? Nah.

  The dress needed something different. It needed her personal touch.

  Always put yourself into your work, Maya. You’ll never go wrong by staying true to yourself. Mama’s advice never failed her.

  She surveyed the bright white gown. A sense of overwhelm pressed on her chest. This wasn’t the way she wanted the gown to look. Color. The bodice needed color, not monotone white with shades of ivory. This dress would determine her fate. The thought nearly made her sick, but Maya could zip around her tiny New York City apartment fueled on nothing but willpower (and caffeine, of course) if it meant she’d be promoted. She’d prepared for this for years. This was her chance. If she could only fix this dress in time.

  She had to.

  She had to.

  She had to.

  Maya didn’t have much time left.

  Her cell phone blasted a Beyoncé song. Maya glanced up and dropped the pins she’d been holding between her teeth. That was Pops calling from Charleston. She reached for her phone and pressed Talk. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “My daughter finally has time to answer her phone.”

  Maya shifted her weight from side to side. He always joked with her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’ve been trying to get in touch with you since yesterday. Have you checked your messages?”

  No. “Um.”

  “That means no. I understand.”

  Her neck tensed. Guilt set in. Her father understood too, too well. He understood that Maya worked around the clock. He understood that Maya was hustling up here in New York City. Workaholism had grabbed Maya by the throat and wouldn’t let her go.

  “I was working late at the design studio. When I got home, I crashed, and I just now started redesigning my latest dress project. How are things with you?”

  “Not good. I broke my hip yesterday.”

  Worry stabbed her in the side and twisted and twisted. “What?! What were you doing?”

  “Puttering around in the garage, trying to fix the car.”

  “Pops, you can’t fix cars. You’re seventy-two years old. That’s what mechanics do.” She tossed the portfolio aside and plopped onto the love seat. The last thing she needed was for her father to be injured.

  “I know. I know. I was watching a YouTube video on how to install new brake pads, and I figured I’d—”

  “Please don’t figure out anything anymore. Please.” Maya’s voice took on a thin note. She cleared her throat and shook off all that vulnerability. “If you need a mechanic, I can look that up for you and give you a list, okay?”

  Silence.

  “Where are you now?” Maya asked.

  “Settled into a room at Roper Hospital. Ginger was home when I was fixing my car, and she called 911 right away.”

  Ginger was her father’s “friend.” That’s what Pops called her, but Maya knew Ginger was a romantic interest. “I’m glad she was there.”

  “Oh, she’s a godsend. She’s a wonderful lady.”

  There was a bounciness in his voice. Her father hadn’t sounded this content in a while. Ginger must be a special woman to have such a good effect on him—despite his broken hip. Maya would have to meet her to know for certain, though.

  “The doctor said it’ll take me a few months to be mobile again,” he added.

  Not good. “A few months?”

  “I’ll adjust, though, don’t you worry.”

  She worried. She worried a lot.

  “No, Pops. You’ll need a lot of help while you recover. I’ll try to see if I can come down to help for a bit.” Maya picked up her dinner plate from the dented coffee table and walked into her cramped kitchen. Maya needed to eat. Pops breaking his hip was way too stressful. She lifted the lid from the stainless steel stockpot and inhaled the scent of chicken adobo. Her favorite. Even if Maya didn’t have time to clean her house, she did have time to cook. Maya piled up her plate.

  “Maya?”

  “Uh-huh.” She stabbed her fork into the chicken and took a bite. Delicious.

  “Don’t come down to Charleston.”

  She was going down to Charleston. That wasn’t a question. This was her father.

  This would also put her chances of a promotion at risk, a chance she’d wanted since forever. Perhaps Laura would understand he
r family situation. Yet there was no telling whether she’d give Maya another shot.

  “I know this is a great time for your career. So stay in New York. I was just calling to let you know.”

  The thought of possibly losing that promotion unsettled her, but she cared about her dad more. Maya spread a paper napkin onto the kitchen counter and tucked it into her collar to make a bib. Yeah, a bib. This was how worried she was. “I can only hope Laura will give me some grace and not let this emergency affect whether I get promoted.”

  “It shouldn’t,” he said.

  “But it could, knowing Laura. You matter more to me, though.”

  Pops was silent for a few seconds. “Don’t take that chance. I know how much you want that promotion. It’s a chance of a lifetime.”

  Lifetimes were reserved for brides. Not bridal gown designers.

  “You also have a lifetime to eat,” he added.

  Maya set down her fork. “How’d you know I was eating?”

  “Because your chewing is loud.” He chuckled. “You stress eat.”

  “So what?” Maya grabbed a bottle of Tabasco and drizzled it on her chicken.

  “No ‘so what?’ Just making an observation. You do you, Maya. I’m pretty sure your food is seasoned enough. No need to add all that hot sauce.”

  Maya held the cell phone away from her ear and scanned the ceiling, shook. Did he install a hidden camera in my apartment or something? She didn’t see one. She raised the phone again. “How’d you know about the hot sauce?”

  “A father knows his daughter.”

  He knew Maya, all right. “The hot sauce adds some kick.” She half smiled. “You know there’s been interest in my gowns from brides here in the city, but I prefer to focus on my work with Laura. One day, she’ll like my style.” I hope.

  “Don’t worry about me. Build your dream, Maya.”

  Dress design was all she ever wanted to do. Being head designer was the dream of dreams. That was the only thing Maya focused on attaining, given the time she had left. Both of her parents had the sickle cell trait, so they knew chances were pretty high that Maya would get sickle cell anemia—25 percent. That 25 percent went looking for Maya. She was diagnosed with the illness at birth, but her parents said she didn’t show symptoms until she was four months old.

  Living with it had become second nature—monthly blood transfusions and medications all kept her symptoms mostly under control. So Maya went after her career full force. Now that her father broke his hip, she definitely planned to put her career on the back burner for a few months. It was going to be so tough to leave New York now, but her father needed her.

  Yes, Ginger was there, but she could change her mind and leave Pops hanging. Then her father would be alone.

  Maya would have to ask for a leave of absence. No way was she going to let her father recover down in Charleston without any family. “I’m going to Charleston. I have a few weeks of vacation on the books.” She chewed in silence as the ceiling fan hummed a steady rhythm. “I just have to figure out what to do with all the gowns I have here that Laura rejected. I don’t want them to get damaged by too much moisture or heat while I’m gone. Maybe I can buy some good storage material.”

  “One day, you’ll be wearing one of those gowns again,” her father said.

  Ain’t no way I’ll ever get engaged again. “What do you mean? To demonstrate to a potential customer?” she asked, shifting the topic.

  “One bad experience doesn’t mean you should write off marriage forever.”

  Maya glanced at the hall closet next to the kitchen. Behind its shut door, her own wedding gown, the one she wore to her wedding, lay hidden along with mothballs and an old pair of roller skates. She wasn’t writing off marriage forever. She was just . . .

  “I’m focused on work now.” She filled her plate with a second helping of chicken adobo.

  He didn’t respond. That meant he didn’t agree with Maya, but whatever. It was Maya’s non–love life to live, not his.

  “I’ll be there very soon,” Maya said, quickly changing the subject. “I’ll let you know my flight details. I’ll just have to work out the details with Laura.”

  Laura wasn’t gonna like this, but her father came first.

  “You are so stubborn. I’ll reimburse your plane ticket. You work so hard, and this is an unexpected expense.”

  Maya smiled. He understood. “Thank you, Pops.”

  After hanging up, Maya’s brain went splat. She’d have to be extra savvy while discussing her family situation. She’d talk with her in person, of course. Face-to-face was always better.

  That plain white bridal gown lay abandoned on the dress form, begging to be evaluated for Maya’s promotion, evaluated and fixed. Maya teemed with ideas for improving it. She had made a few stunning dresses that reflected her true design aesthetic before. Too bad Maya’s ideas and her creations had to pass through Laura Whitcomb’s Twenty-Point Design EssentialsTM. Most of the time, Maya’s ideas didn’t make it past Point Two, and so Maya ended up compromising her originality for the sake of Laura’s brand.

  It was all good, because Laura Whitcomb was Laura Whitcomb, and Maya was just . . .

  Maya, a junior designer with a dream.

  A junior designer who desperately needed to make her mark in the industry before her time ran out.

  Laura Whitcomb Inc. would help Maya do that . . . somehow.

  The next day, Maya sat in Laura’s office, nervously awaiting her arrival. The massive space outside of her office was busy for a weekday morning. Every cubicle, design table, and dressing area buzzed with employees. The place reminded her of rush-hour traffic, where everyone was packed in like sardines.

  She loved the chatter and the noise at work. This was where Maya’s career dreams unfolded. Coming to work every day gave Maya a daily dose of her aspirations. She inhaled the ambition in the air.

  Maya had been practicing what she’d say to Laura over and over and over. She had to state her case in a convincing way. She scrolled through the Notes app on her phone, worried that she would mess up her prepared statement.

  Moments later, Laura walked through the front door. She was all New York chic with her black leggings, black turtleneck, and leopard-print ballet flats. The tortoiseshell eyeglasses, which sat atop her long blond hair, added another level of sophistication.

  Their eyes met, and Maya stood, an unconscious movement. Maya always stood whenever Laura walked into a room. She had immense respect for the lady.

  Laura gave one curt nod and sat behind her massive desk. “How’s that dress you’ve been working on?”

  “Excellent. Almost finished with it,” Maya said.

  Not really.

  “It’ll be ready very soon,” Maya added.

  I hope.

  “Good. I’m glad you requested to meet with me today. I wanted to chat with you about something, but you go first.” Laura fanned herself. “Phew. My hair has been flat as a pancake with all this humidity. No volume at all.”

  Maya smiled. She had the opposite problem, being a Blasian woman and all. The humidity made her flat-ironed, straight hair revert to its naturally curly state. With some hair product and a head wrap at night, it was mostly under control.

  After her first day on the job at Laura Whitcomb Inc., Maya straightened her hair. Laura hadn’t said anything overtly, but the look in her eyes when she saw Maya’s big, curly hair said it all: Tone down the bird’s nest.

  “You don’t have my hair problems. It’s a White-girl thing.” Laura laughed.

  Maya cringed inside, not knowing how to take her comments, but she joined in Laura’s laughter anyway. Always had to follow the boss’s lead. Laura’s jokes were Maya’s jokes. Laura’s not jokes were Maya’s not jokes as well.

  Seconds later, Laura’s phone buzzed.

  “Julian Rodriguez is on line three,” Laura’s assistant announced on the intercom.

  Interruptions were not good. Maya was ready to say what she had to say n
ow. Waiting would be torturous. She scrolled through her Notes app, still concerned it wouldn’t come out right.

  “Tell him I’m in a meeting and I’ll call him back,” Laura said to the intercom, and clicked the Off button. “Julian is a worrisome gnat. Now, what brings you here today?”

  “My father recently broke his hip. He requires assistance while he recovers. I need to take some vacation time to go down south for a while.”

  Laura paused. “That’s fine, as long as you have the vacation time on the books.”

  Unease enveloped Maya like a blanket. “So that’s the issue. I only have—”

  “There’s an upscale boutique based in Charleston that wants to carry some of our gowns. Huge, huge order,” Laura said. “They’re looking to expand there. Maybe you could meet with the store’s buyer and show them our latest collection. Bring some dresses and our catalog with you too. It’ll be a working vacation.”

  Of course Laura would task Maya with work while she was on a family emergency “vacation,” but if it meant helping Pops and keeping her job . . . “I could—”

  “It’s a gorgeous shop.” Laura fiddled with her ring. “Very chic. You know there’s another bridal boutique down there too. You may want to check that one out as well, but it looked kind of dingy and small when I saw it online. The location was just horrible, right next to some Black history museum on Chalmers Street. They talk about slavery or something. Depressing. What bride would want to go dress shopping next to that? Not me.”

  Laura’s disdain for the museum made Maya feel some type of way. Maya’s ancestors probably arrived through Gadsden’s Wharf as enslaved people, and they were bought and sold in the same area. If it wasn’t for their perseverance, if it wasn’t for their story, Maya wouldn’t be here today. “Charleston has a rich history. I went to the museum before. I learned a lot.”

  “I don’t think it should even be there. It’s bad for their tourism business,” Laura said. “I was researching the area because I was trying to figure out if it would be a good idea to even approach that other boutique. I heard that people were petitioning to get rid of the museum. I hope they do. If that happens, I may consider selling some of our designs there. Who knows if they’ll succeed in getting rid of the place? Especially with the politically correct crowd opposing them. They’re nothing but a bunch of troublemakers, if you ask me. Just bothersome.”