Our Bridal Shop

Chapter 7 - Charlotte

Charlotte had only ever seen Alex mad—dying duck fit mad—on three occasions. Once, when Alex found her roaming the field behind their house buzzing milkweed and seemingly dead patches of leaves to scatter late-migration Monarch butterflies when she was supposed to be inside the house, napping. Another time, when Charlotte was sixteen and she snuck out at night with Nash to trap crawdaddies and haul them to a bonfire in the sticks. Both times, Alex's screaming and carrying on came from a locus of protection deep down inside her. The third occasion, though, happened in semidarkness, just as Charlotte approached the bridal shop door to lock up for the business day. Alex gripped her hand on the door jamb and charged in, same pinched look on her face as the times she hollered, "Mama would'a killed me first and swore me second if you'da drowned in that creek" and "Crayfish ain't the only thing Nash was looking to trap."

"Where were you today?" Alex asked.

"Today," Charlotte mimed, at half-mast to her sister's volume and intensity. "Well, I didn't want to tell you, but you've forced my hand."

Alex raised an eyebrow.

"Oprah and I had our nails done then went for tea cakes."

Eye roll. Just like Charlotte's twins.

Near the display of winter-toned bridesmaid dresses, Freesia offered up an appreciative snicker.

Charlotte hustled back to the day's receipts—all ten dollars and twelve cents, based on one sold garter—so she could get home before Nash turned his annoyance into three longnecks and a night watching professional wrestling. "Where do you think? I was here, doin' my civic duty to prepare women for the glamorous road ahead of air conditioners set to sixty-five and fingernails spit at the carpet."

"We had an appointment with the realtor at two," said Alex.

"You had an appointment. You know that business-talk is like a Brooklyn accent spoken through tin can and a string to me."

"You needed to hear what she had to say. About Devon's economic prospects. About comparable retail space within a reasonable driving distance. Price per square foot is up for the first time in six years. And there's a new R & D aerospace facility set to open this summer over in Natchez."

"Unless R & D stands for ruching and damask, I'm not interested."

"Which is precisely why you have no business running a business. Charlotte, this shop is more than fluffing tiered gowns and fitting the perfect bun holder."

"Snood."

"So not the point."

Freesia drew close just then. She and Charlotte had been together all day, flipping through glossy wedding catalogues and discussing the merits of bateau versus spaghetti-strap designs between inventory duties Alex had assigned them. It wasn't quite bonding, but Freesia had taught her some yoga moves and Charlotte thought it might be precisely the right time to stretch.

Her hands trembled.

Charlotte aligned herself to Alex, practiced one cleansing breath, as Freesia had coached, and said, "Maybe it should be the point. You're so smart, about everything I'll never understand, but I'm smart, too. About fabrics—the way they look in sunlight versus candlelight and how they stitch together and the length of train appropriate for every ceremony and about people, Alex. Realizing that sometimes a woman in a bad family situation needs a good cry on a warm shoulder. You know balance sheets, but I know brides."

"No one is doubting that, Charlotte. But the realtor appointment was critical to injecting some much-needed reality into this situation."

"You never mentioned it until we were expected to be there. And who would have run the shop?"