Our Bridal Shop

Chapter 3 - Charlotte

Charlotte believed a nice to-go cup of coffee with one of those wrappers like in the shipping boxes would make Alex miss the big city less. Heck, if Nash ever showed up with one of those, Charlotte would likely take matters into the backseat of his crew cab. As it turned out, fancy overpriced coffee ain't mood witchcraft after all. Alex occupied the shop office like a corpse dressed for a board meeting. Charlotte tallied one more grievance against her husband, and Freesia—the one who had been so considerate as to bring three cups at the start of the next business day, a sort of peace offering for being who she was—moved around the shop like she'd been caught pushing on a pull door and everyone within a two-mile radius had witnessed it.

She couldn't say Freesia was there to learn about bridal couture so much as keep an eye on Alex. Charlotte was the first to admit that Alex was a bit of an acquired taste. Always figuring out what was best before everyone else got to figuring at all. She had certainly made a sour impression straight away, but Charlotte had been in a state of anxiety since the funeral—what with a dozen weddings on the books and robbing Peter to pay Paul in the shop's accounts. Today was the first day since Mama died that Charlotte felt like someone was taking care of her again. She wanted Freesia to feel that side of Alex, too. Charlotte supposed it was a lot like getting a husband to take out the trash. It would happen in its own time. It would just take some encouraging, is all.

Charlotte intended to give Alex uninterrupted time to sort out the financials. Prove the business was in capable hands should the decision fall toward keeping the shop.

As was often the way, brides came in waves that morning. Mama said the marrying business was feast or famine—everyone was either in love or running from it. Right about the time she was getting to know a new bride in for a solo browse, Charlotte's noon pickup arrived early. With Alex up to her tailored suit in spreadsheets, Charlotte grabbed Freesia.

"Do you mind giving me a hand?"

Freesia's eyes rounded like Charlotte had asked her to vacuum between the seats in her minivan and CSI the contents.

"I don't know what to do," said Freesia.

"I've already measured her. Just help her in and out of the dresses, clip them up the back, and give her your opinion if she asks." Charlotte jotted down the woman's size range on a sticky note and whispered, "Don't mention we may not be here for her big day, since we don't know for sure."

"We or you?"

Such a pointed question. One Charlotte wasn't prepared to answer. "For this week, I guess, makes no difference."

Freesia considered Charlotte's answer or her, she couldn't tell. Freesia was poised, balanced. Nothing to do with her hoop earrings, big as bangles. All that meditation in Nepal that she had told Charlotte about after coming back to her place for supper. Something about Freesia was wise beyond her years. Made you want to confess a lifetime of sins and the 4 a.m. corn chips.

Charlotte gave her a quick smile and a head nod to encourage her toward the bride-to-be. Also, to encourage her to smile. As prudent and deep as her half-sister appeared, she didn't seem prone to overdoing anything in the happiness department. The previous night, Nash snoring beside her, Charlotte's mind roamed places she had never been—Saint Simmons Island, a diner adjacent to a lighthouse, a life without a father. She found she liked it, all but the part about family. When she looked at Freesia, into the eyes she shared with Daddy, Charlotte did her best to remember what Alex said: most nights, our daddy was here. Even a smile born from guilt was still a smile.

Charlotte tended to her next bride-in-waiting. Savannah Jones-something-or-other, hyphenated to account for the southern tradition of merging two old-money families, and her mother, Jenna. At times, Charlotte found it hard to tell which was which. Jenna chased the fountain of youth as if it was the last gown in the basement grab at Finlay's Department Store in New York City. Mama had a term for such customers: light pole brides. Stuck way on up there and believing the world was just waiting for them glow.