Our Bridal Shop

Chapter 17 - Freesia

The previous week had passed in a parade of measurements for Julia's bridal party, and Freesia wrapping her mind and fingertips around crafting six hand-beaded maxi bridesmaid dresses. An original in white, the dress boasted a slight ruche at the neckline, a sparse floral motif of tiny silvery beads clustered at the waist and sheer cap sleeves, and a subtle flare at the hem. Freesia called it Sinead because her friend's intervention in Spain had made the bride's dress possible, forever her good luck charm.

Julia called the Sinead an understated paragon. She also threw out words like utopia and axiom that seemed to have little to do with fashion but made Freesia feel like she had created a dress powerful enough to shape human history. Should Freesia ever need a fashion writer to describe her creations in one of those pretentious magazine spreads, she would hire Julia.

Freesia viewed it as a distraction—exciting, yes, a distraction, nevertheless—to the primary reason she had come to Devon: to know her father. She would not find his personality, his history, the machinations of his decisions inside sheer-and-lace bodices or saffron organza or embellished sleeves. When Saturday closing time came, she gladly shed her shears, her notebook filled with bridesmaid party measurements and her insecurities about her sewing ability and swapped them for the open road. Daylight waited longer to lift. Early spring evenings stretched long. The more she drove Elias March's old truck, the closer he came.

On this day, she selected Enzo. No last name, perhaps because the first was so distinctive. His name was scrawled across Point Coupee Parish on the faded map. Freesia liked that the Louisiana parish looked like a woman in a dress flexing her bicep. Gave her a good feeling that she was on the right path. Like the name of the lone red-light town in the distance: Petit Laurent.

Freesia stopped at a gas station, no more than three squat odometer-style pumps with missing hoses and nozzles and a mini-barn behind it that had seen better days. Not a place she would have normally stopped, but this was the closest thing she'd seen to a town for miles.

But for the dim light snaking out of the windows, the shack looked abandoned. Outside the truck, trees, insects, and critters seemed the greater population. A spent rifle cartridge by the door gave her pause. By then, three men inside had made eye contact.

At her entry, conversation halted.

The barrel-shaped man behind the counter said, "You lost?"

Interesting choice of words. Not can I help you? or how you doin'? but worst-case scenario.

"Why would you assume that?"

"No stranger comes here on purpose."

Her inner voice told her to rein in the questions. Not that her connection repellant wasn't warranted here. The store consisted of one island of shelves, bisecting the store into two distinct sections: ways to circumvent the law—ammo, camouflage accessories, malt liquor; and ways to fill your gut while outlawing—venison jerky, pork rinds, those round-filled snacks that looked like dog treats. With two dirt-caked windows and one florescent light buzzing overhead, the place was insular, forgotten. Like her heart needed a pulse-boost from spotting the most important detail.

A confederate flag adorning the front of the register counter.

She shifted the key ring in her hand, slid her first and second fingers through what looked like the eyeholes of a cute kitty-shaped charm. The ears were 1095 carbon steel, corners sharp as an ice pick, just the right spacing for eye-gouging.

"I'm looking for a man named Enzo. He might be from around here."

The second guy—younger, buff, tattoos crawling on him like scarab beetles—said, "You the law?" His gaze slimed down her body—her chest, her waist, her calves—all the places she might holster a weapon if she were a plain-clothed cop, she told herself. Not the places of exposed skin.