The Wedding Dress (37 page)

At five ’til eight, Charlotte let herself into her loft, fumbling to juggle her purse, iPad, a bag of groceries, and the key. The bag of groceries hit the floor, spilling bread, apples, oranges, and a bag of baked Goldfish over the tile.

“Need some help?” Tim slid past her, stooping to gather the fruit, tucking it into his arms, a folder jutted between his fingers. His chestnut-blond hair hung long and loose about his face. A light beard dusted his chiseled cheeks.

“What are you doing here?” What was with today—July 19—Charlotte woke up an ordinary girl in an ordinary day. Just the way she liked it. But ever since Purple Man appeared, she felt a shift in her spirit. Like the morning she went up to the mountain to pray.

“I was wondering if you’d care to grab a bite of dinner?” Tim dropped the apples and oranppl

“I can’t.” Charlotte averted her gaze. She loved Tim’s hair and the fullness of his lips. If she looked at him too long, her heart would start to pound, and she’d get all breathless and girlie. “Someone’s stopping by.” Charlotte opened her pantry and set the torn bag on the shelf. Didn’t even bother to take the items out. She shoved the door closed. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

“Don’t have a girlfriend.” He hopped up on the counter, setting the folder beside him. It was his thing, sitting on her counter. He had a way of just making himself at home.

“Ah. Well, these things happen.” When Charlotte looked at him, he flashed his pearly whites.

“How about dinner after your company?” He shrugged, holding up his hands. “Before your company?”

“Can’t. Don’t know how long
he’ll
be here.”

Tim’s confidence faded a bit. “Do you have a date?” He slid off the counter.

“No, but it was worth faking it to see your face.” Charlotte crossed the kitchen, heading for her room. “It doesn’t feel good, does it?”

“I never went out on you, Charlotte.” Tim reached for her as she walked by. “Hey, where are you going?”

“My room. To change. Do you mind?” Charlotte headed down the hall. When she closed the door, she fell against it, expelling the air from her lungs.

A smile pinged her lips. He
was
jealous, wasn’t he? When he thought she had a date. So Mr. Cool and Confident wrestled with the green-eyed monster.

Charlotte changed into jeans and a pullover, then wriggled her toes into her favorite worn flip-flops.

As she went to her bathroom, a wave of gold light caught her attention. The dress. Still displayed in the corner. The silk skirt shimmered with light and the gold threads beamed. The waistband of pearls flowed around the gown like an incandescent river.

Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed. “Hey, magic dress. Cleo’s coming to see you. What does she know that I don’t? And who’s your friend, the man in purple?” Charlotte leaned to listen. “
Hmm
. . . well, maybe you don’t know either. After all, Hillary barricaded you in the trunk for forty years. And oh, Tim’s here. I
know
. What’s that about? You remember him, don’t you? He helped redeem you from the trunk.” She slicked her fingers along the creamy folds of the skirt. “Can you keep a secret?” Charlotte laughed low. “Of course you can, look who, rather
what
, I’m talking to. I’m in love with Tim. I shouldn’t be, but I am.” She flopped back on the bed. waithearlWith just about every part of my being.”

For a long moment, Charlotte stared at the ceiling. Then at the dress. Why couldn’t she be
over
Tim? And why did inanimate objects have stories they can’t tell?

She pulled her hair back, then flipped off her bedroom light and went back to the kitchen and to Tim. It was after eight and Cleo would be here any moment.

“So, what else is going on, bubba?” Charlotte clicked on the dining area lamp, then went for her iPad.
Friend, treat Tim as a friend
. As a bubba. “How’s the firm? You and David doing well?”

“The firm’s fine.” Tim slid down from the counter. “David is fine. So, who’s coming over here?”

“If you’re here when she comes, I’ll introduce you.” Charlotte flipped Tim a faux smile and set her iPad on the table. “Or maybe you already know her.”

“Cleo Favorite is coming here, isn’t she?” Tim propped his hands on his belt with an exhale.

“How did you know? Tim, what’s going on?”

“She wants to see the dress. Man, she’s a crafty one.”

“Tim?” Charlotte regarded him, bells clanging, whistles blowing. “Did you tell her about the dress?”

“Sort of. I went up there today. Boy, she works fast.” He smoothed back his hair.

Charlotte walked around to the pencil jar by the phone and dug around until her fingers found a rubber hair tie.

“What were you doing up there?” She passed him the tie.

“Investigating.” He twisted back his hair.

Charlotte sighed. With his hair away from his face, his eyes were blue quicksand. “Investigating what? Are they bidding for jobs? When I was there in April, the estate looked immaculate.”

“I found a picture of Emily Ludlow while I was doing research for a project downtown.” Tim angled back for the folder he’d carried in and removed a picture, offering it to Charlotte.

She glanced. The woman stood in the midst of other ’20s women in big hats and baggy dresses. “What were they thinking with that drop-waist style? But after nearly a century of corsets, I suppose loose and baggy was the way to go.”

“Emily’s in the middle.” Tim tapped the picture.

“I 3">mily’s iknow what she looks like, Tim.” Charlotte frowned. “Why are you showing me this?”

“Did you ever meet her?”

“Emily Ludlow? She was an old lady when I was born.” Charlotte tugged open the fridge for a soda. She handed one to Tim, then took one for herself. “Where would I meet her?
Why
would I meet her?”

The doorbell rang. Charlotte returned her coke to the fridge. “There’s Cleo.”

“I’m staying.” Tim locked his position in the dining area. “Okay?”

“Suit yourself.” Charlotte cut him a glance, then opened the door. “Hey, Cleo, come on in.”

“Sorry I’m late. My husband insisted on a bite to eat before I came here. I’m full as a tick.” Dressed in a suit and heels, she looked composed and perfect, nothing like a full tick. A black attaché swung from her shoulder. “Hello, Tim. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Didn’t expect to see you either.”

“Must be a lucky day for both of you.” Charlotte stood between them. “The dress is in the bedroom, Cleo. I’ll go get it.”

Just inside the bedroom door, Charlotte paused, listening. What was going on between them? But Tim and Cleo exchanged no words. Gently, she moved the gown and the dress form around her bed and out the door toward the living room.

Cleo gasped the moment Charlotte came into view. “That’s the dress. Tim, you said you didn’t know. My stars, it’s so obvious.” Cleo hovered around the gown as Charlotte set it by the sofa. “It’s like time has never passed. It’s . . . it’s perfect.”

“What are you talking about?” Charlotte looked at Tim. He shook his head slightly, eyes narrowed, as if trying to tell Charlotte something. “Do you know this dress, Cleo?”

“I most certainly do. It belonged to Emily Ludlow.” She unsnapped her attaché and removed a picture frame. Beneath the glass was a yellow, faded, grainy newsprint photograph of Emily Ludlow, head back, laughing, her arm linked with a dark-suited elbow.

And she wore the gown.

“Where did you get this?”

“It’s part of the Ludlow Foundation’s history, Charlotte. This dress has been lost for decades. I asked her once where it was, but she was nearly ninety and she wasn’t quite sure what I was talking about. Or so she pretended. Knowing her, she probably was faking.” Cleo knelt, turning over the hem of the dress, running her finger along the seams. “My goodness, here it is.”

Charlotte bent to confirm the seamstress’s initials. “Do you know what TH stands for? Dixie and I couldn’t figure it out.”

“Taffy Hayes. She was a black seamstress in Birmingham. Born into slavery but freed when she was a baby. Emily wanted her wedding gown made by Taffy, but mercy, her parents and her groom resisted. Her mother had hired a well-known white seamstress, Mrs. Caroline Caruthers. She made the dress we have in the wedding portrait at the estate, but then about five years ago, I found this picture among some old things up in the attic. That’s Daniel’s arm she’s holding on to. The caption says ‘Emily Canton Leaves Church after Wedding.’”

“I’ve heard of Taffy Hayes,” Charlotte said, studying the newsprint. Emily Canton wore the gown. She was the bride the purple man referenced. “She was well-known for her wedding dresses, but only in the black community.”

“Emily was the first white woman to wear a wedding gown sewn by a black designer. There were black washerwomen and seamstresses, but Taffy was a
designer
. She made this dress especially for Emily. It was scandalous in 1912.” Cleo walked around the gown, fascination rising in her eyes. “We’ve been looking for this gown for a long time.”

“Then why’d you sell the trunk?” Charlotte kept her back to Tim and his shaking head, though his soap and cologne fragrance made his presence known.

“I didn’t sell it, Charlotte. The trunk is not even listed in our inventory.” Cleo tucked the picture back into her attaché. “Can you help me carry the dress down to my car, Tim? Charlotte, I’ll compensate you for the purchase price.”

“Whoa, whoa. Carry the dress down to your car?” Charlotte fanned out her arms and stood between the gown and Cleo. “This gown isn’t going anywhere.”

Now the purple man’s visit made sense.
The dress belongs to you
.

“I’m afraid it is. That trunk, wherever it came from, was not to be sold at the auction.”

Tim stood beside Charlotte. “Cleo, you didn’t even have the trunk listed in the auction inventory. If I hadn’t come up there today, you’d have never known.”

“But you did come up and now I know.”

“Cleo, I bought the trunk,
and
its contents, fair and square. It didn’t belong to you before and it doesn’t belong to you now.”

“You’re right, the trunk never belonged to the estate. But this dress belongs to the Emily Ludlow Foundation and the Civil Rights Institute.”

“It belongs to me.” A royal purple wash splashed Charlotte’s heart.

“City ordinance dictates that historical items found on-site belong to the estate. If they are not found on-site but are proven to belong to an historical estate, site, or registry, the item’s ownership reverts to the estate or site.” Cleo fussed with her attaché, producing a collection of papers. “And if none of those strike your fancy, Charlotte, the dress belongs to Birmingham’s Civil Rights Institute for Emily’s groundbreaking move to wear a wedding gown designed and sewn by an African American woman.”

“Come on, Cleo. You’re leaving something out,” Tim said. “The ordinance dictates that historical items revert to the site
or
to an heir.”

“There is no Ludlow heir, Tim.” Cleo crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “What is your point?”

“Your researchers should’ve done a better job.” Tim nodded, aiming his rakish smile on Charlotte. “There is a living Ludlow heir. And I’m looking right at her.”

Tim
“What are you talking about?” Charlotte peered at him like he’d lost his mind. “I’m not related to anyone. Remember me? The one with one branch on her family tree? I’m especially not kin to the Ludlows.” She flipped her hands in the air without aim, her body swelling with big breaths. “I think you knocked the last bit of sense out of yourself when you crashed your bike.”

“Crashing my bike is what gave me a moment to think about all of this.” He went back to his folder and passed over the picture of Charlotte and her mom. “I called Monte Fillmore to see if he had anything of yours or your mom’s among Gert’s things.”

“Why would you do that, Tim?” Charlotte stared at the picture. “I haven’t seen this in twenty years. Where’d you get it?”

“Monte brought me a box of your mom’s things. From her office. He meant to give it to you, but forgot and . . . anyway, Charlotte, this picture was in it. It was also filled with Ludlow newspaper clippings. Which I found odd until I saw this.”

Tim passed over the FSU picture. Circumstantial evidence for sure, but it was all he had to make his case. To keep Cleo from walking out of here with the dress. He’d wanted to get to Charlotte before she did.

He’d brought the folder over, thinking he’d invite Charlotte to dinner, warm the waters of their relationship, then tell her Colby Ludlow was her father.

“That’s Mama.” Charlotte tapped the picture.

“Tim, come on, I can’t stand by and let you fabricate a story to this poor girl.” Cleo huffed and strutted in a circle. “You have no proof—”

“Stop.” Charlotte presshar aligned her palms against the air. Against Cleo’s words. “Tim, what are you talking about?”

“Charlotte, I think Colby Ludlow is your father.”

“What? How? He’s . . . he’s . . . old.” Charlotte tapped the picture.

“He was forty-five in ’81.” Cleo blurted. The resident Ludlow encyclopedia.

“You’re saying my mother had an affair with her professor?” She shook her head, handing Tim the picture. “She wasn’t that kind of person, Tim.”