Our Bridal Shop

Chapter 11 - Alex

Three things happened at the March kitchen table the next night. Alex got her second chance with Aima Solutions, to prove her worth to the whole of her industry. Charlotte showed up like the Pied Piper of Devon, carrying food—"Because, well, food"—leading the casserole-toting posse of Stella Irene's squad, who aimed to rescue Freesia from the depths of her committed timeframe to complete the bridal dress. And Taffy brought the box that contained Elias and Stella Irene's artifacts from the second floor of the bridal shop. Whiskey flowed, which was probably the fourth thing. Everyone but Alex soon had enough loose lips to sink friendships. But that wasn't the way of them. The Silver Swarm would trade the precious time they had left on earth to make each other feel love, no matter how messy love became.

Alex set the timer on her phone for ten minutes—all she could spare for a paper plate and a smorgasbord of artery-clogging southern staples—before she had to put in a call to her IT guy, Duncan. Up half the night, she'd had an epiphany about enhanced productivity at Aima's warehouses and had filled two journal pages with notes before sleep overcame her. If her software guy could implement her idea along with the impending backup, she could be a contender for VP again, despite the distribution hiccup.

Everyone settled in the family room, plates in hand. Alex chose the raised hearth of the fireplace, not because the lit gas logs offered an inviting heat but because the stone seat was the fastest escape in a room full of women who had honed "visitin' for a spell" to high art.

The doughy carbs had barely hit her tongue when Taffy brought her box to the room's center. Her parents' memories, part of the evening's public consumption. Alex nearly retreated to another room right then, but Freesia entered with her plate, not one place left to sit, a twitch and too many blinks at her eye.

Alex scooted over.

Freesia settled beside her. She smelled opulent, spicy, a fragrance Alex had come to align with the dirty little lie. In another lifetime, Alex would swim in its sultry, confident notes, allow its perfection to wash over her senses. In this lifetime, Freesia's scent cloyed.

They hadn't spoken since the encounter the previous night. When Alex wasn't revolutionizing blood channels, her thoughts drifted back to one word: choice. Her father—their father—had exercised his choice to have the affair, sure, but he had also chosen to head west out of Georgia, not even a spare last name to give. Did he suspect? When did he know? Did he even think about protection? Before Freesia had opened her eyes to this world, Daddy had been here, around this hearth, with her. Another wayward choice.

Had he burdened Alex with unquenchable notions of perfection because he knew he wasn't?

Alex plied a forkful of cornbread dressing down her throat as Queen Bee Taffy held court near the coffee table. She asked Charlotte to tell the story of the Evangeline leaf rotting inside the sandwich bag, the first March artifact from the marriage crypt. It could only be for Freesia's benefit. Everyone here had heard the story a million times before. Ever the performer, Charlotte rose to the occasion.

For a bunch of women who already knew the tale, the rapture was real—likely because they were plied with whiskey and senioritis. Then Charlotte got to the meat of the point. Elias and Stella Irene met beneath the Evangeline oak in St. Martinville, Louisiana, when each stopped on a road trip with their families. Beside the chocolate brown waters of the Bayou Teche, Elias said he saw his future. As much as a boy of twelve could envision. He gave Stella Irene a leaf; she gave him an address where he could write her. Eight years later, he proposed beneath the same live oak.

Taffy rummaged through the remainder of the box: a map with men's names on it, a cassette that fit into an old video camera with the label vow renewal, and the tassel Alex didn't recognize.