The Secret Wedding Dress

Sylvie scrambled to stand, but was startled all the same by what Kay had said. “The only mystery to me is why people would covet a dress they’ve never seen. That’s just silly, Kay. How often have you heard me preach about bridal gowns needing to fit a bride’s unique personality?”

“Yeah, but it’s not silly. Anyone who knows you is positive that dress has gotta be spectacular. Your sisters say you’re always working on it, and we’ve all seen your previous designs. Mandi Watson claims you’re keeping this one for your own wedding. Is that true, Sylvie?”

“Right!” Sylvie shook her head. “So when am I supposed to have time to work on anything for me, let alone find that mythical husband? If and when I ever get married, I’ll probably end up with a dress off the rack. Don’t you know it’s the plumber’s wife who has a clogged sink, and the shoemaker’s kids who go barefoot?”

Sylvie impulsively gave her friend a hug. “Your wedding will be featured in our weekly society page, Kay. You’ll be the most beautiful bride of this season. Who else will have eight bridesmaids, two candle-lighters and three flower girls? And your patterns came from France. Each one is an original. I’ve sewn all fourteen dresses with my own bleeding fingers over the past three months. I guarantee the guests will weep, you’ll be such a vision,” Sylvie said, laying it on a little thick. But she did have plenty of history with Kay, the drama queen. “If you’d relax, you and Dave will have lots of wonderful memories. People will say Eddy who? if that jerk’s name ever surfaces.”

Kay compared her soft fingers with Sylvie’s callused fingertips, and had the grace to blush. “I’d have given you more notice, but David wanted that day. And you could’ve cut the dress count by one,” she pouted, “If you’d let me buy the dress.”

“I guarantee this gown suits you best,” Sylvie said. “Come on, I have something to show you.” Walking away, she looked quickly at the covered dress form in the corner. The unfinished gown beneath the sheet represented all that was left of her hopes and dreams, she thought, opening a cabinet and lifting out an old notebook. “Recognize this? It’s the notebook I kept in high school home-ec.” Her eyes misty, Sylvie flipped several pages, then handed the book to Kay. “This was your dream gown in tenth grade. See how closely it resembles this one? I knew your marriage to Eddy Hobart was doomed from the minute his whiny mother insisted you wear the dress she’d worn at her own wedding.”

Kay snickered. “It was ghastly. And so is Flo Hobart.”

Sylvie shut the book and returned it to the drawer. “Zero taste. Hold out your arms. I’m going to unbutton you. We need to get you out of this without losing my marker pins—and without sticking you.”

They had the gown off, and on a padded hanger, when through the side window came the sound of furious barking.

“Oscar, Anita Moore’s Great Pyrenees,” Sylvie said nonchalantly. “I’m boarding him until Anita and Ted get back from Tennessee. Can you let yourself out, Kay? That’s Oscar’s ‘I treed a cat’ bark. I have to rescue my new neighbor’s cat…again. Sounds like this time she’s gone up my big dogwood.”

Kay stayed with Sylvie. “I meant to ask about your neighbor, Syl. I hear he’s a real hottie.”

“Who said that?” Sylvie stopped abruptly.

“You mean he’s not?”

She shrugged. “I suppose, if looks is all you’re interested in. He’s a bit of a grouch. Which you’ll hear if I don’t get out there and save his daughter’s cat. He’ll throw open an upstairs window and order me to corral my damned dog. And after Dory and Carline’s husbands repaired our adjoining fence, too. For free,” she added.

“Mercer has a daughter?” Kay ignored everything else. “Wow, I don’t think the gals at the salon know he’s married. A couple of them are drawing straws over him already.” Kay worked at Nail It!, the local beauty parlor.

Sylvie didn’t mention that she had yet to see a wife show up next door. Nor would she admit that Joel Mercer was better to look at than a chocolate fudge sundae. All Sylvie needed was for her mother or sisters to get wind of the fact that she considered her neighbor worthy of a second glance. Say Mercer was separated, as Sylvie had begun to suspect—the poor guy didn’t deserve to find himself hustled into being her blind date before he could guard against being flattened by the Shea freight train.

Leaving Kay standing at the side gate, Sylvie raced into her yard. Sure enough, Oscar ran crazily around the tree, in which the long-haired cat huddled. “Oscar, stop. Bad dog.”

Aware he was in trouble, the dog put down his head until his ears dragged the ground, and slunk toward Sylvie’s back porch.

It took some coaxing, which she was getting proficient at, but she soon cradled the purring cat in her arms. As she’d predicted, the upper half of Mercer’s body was leaning out his upper window. Darn, Sylvie couldn’t see him as well as she’d like because she’d left the glasses she used for distance in her purse today. But even fuzzy, the man had a glorious physique. Not too skinny, yet not too muscle-bound.

“Hey,” he called. “Rianne’s on her way down. I’ve gotta say, for the record, a big reason I moved here is so she and her cat could quit being cooped up inside an apartment.”

Sylvie nodded, pretty sure that would be a major factor for anyone moving from the city to the country.

“By the way, Rianne’s supposed to thank you for the cookies you brought over the other night. They were a big hit. With me, too,” he added.

Kay, who’d followed Sylvie into the side yard, hissed very near her friend’s ear, “You took him cookies?”

Sylvie whirled. “I did, but—no, I didn’t. Mom sent them home with me to drop off. Remember, I told you about Dory setting me up with that computer guy at our family barbecue? It was that night.”

“Yeah? How did your date work out? According to Dory, Chet’s cool, and he has his own business. I understand he drives a top-of-the-line Mercedes.”

“He also lives in Asheville.” Sylvie specifically didn’t add that, from an unmarried woman’s point of view, Chet had another major drawback, like being gay.

Joel Mercer’s daughter exploded out their back door. The girl had clearly dressed herself today, as Sylvie noticed she often did. Sylvie was all in favor of comfort, but she felt colors ought to match. Today Rianne had on red shorts teamed with a pink-and-green knit top. Her shirt was stretched out of shape and had probably been in the wash with something black that had left behind a series of gray blobs.

“I’m sorry Fluffy keeps getting out, Sylvie. Oh, and Daddy said I should ask if I can call you by your first name or not.”

Sylvie said yes, after which Rianne launched into a rehearsed-sounding thank-you for the cookies. Obviously ordered by her dad.

“I’ll tell my mom you like her chocolate chip recipe. Rianne, this is my very dear friend, Kay Waller. She’s getting married soon, so probably the next time you see her she’ll have a new last name. Ramsey. She’ll be Kay Ramsey.”

The girl seemed shy all of a sudden.

“Rianne starts school in September, Kay. I told her she’ll really like Briarwood Elementary.”

“You will,” Kay agreed. “Are you in second grade? If so, my cousin may be your teacher.”

“I’m gonna be in first grade,” Rianne supplied. “Daddy has to go there next week and take them records from my kindergarten.”

“I suppose you’ve already done your school shopping,” Kay said politely.

Rianne shook her head. “Daddy’s been too busy unpacking boxes and working.”

“Working?” Kay had no compunction about probing.

“Yep. He used to have his office in his bedroom. Now he has a bedroom where he sleeps, and he’s got an office upstairs, too.”

Sylvie wanted to ask what her neighbor did at his home-based job, and she could tell it hovered on the tip of Kay’s tongue to ask, as well. They were interrupted, however, by the arrival of the rural mail carrier. Because Homer saw the women over Sylvie’s side gate, he honked and beckoned her over.

“Bye, Rianne. I’ll see you later.” Sylvie noted that the girl’s dad had long since withdrawn from the upper-floor window.

Kay lowered her gaze from the spot where Joel had been, and checked her watch. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m meeting David at the church for our last couples class in fifteen minutes. Do you want to fit my gown again tomorrow? If you do, I’ll have to rearrange some client appointments.”

“I don’t see any need. If you lose weight between now and Saturday, it won’t be enough to change the drape of the material. Tell David I said to take you out for a steak and lobster lunch after class. Fatten you up some.”

Homer, the arthritic mailman, had climbed out of his mail truck by the time the friends parted with a laugh and a hug.

“I have some mail for the new owner of the Whitaker place, Sylvie. Plus a package. Certified, so he’s gotta sign for it,” the old man said, eyeing the overgrown driveway. “Do you have any idee if he’s home?”

“Yes. Kay and I spoke to his daughter. Mercer came to an upstairs window a few minutes ago. Would you like me to deliver the package for you, Homer? It appears you’re not too spry today.”

“That would be right kind, Sylvie-girl. My old bones tell me the less walking and climbing I do today, the better. Just have the Mercer fellow put his John Hancock on the line with the big black X. When you come back, I have a box for you, too. Peggy said it’s the lace you’ve been waiting for.”

“Fantastic. I’ll find it in the truck when I get back.”

Sylvie didn’t intend to spy on her neighbor, but the return address printed in bold lettering on a fat manila envelope was that of a major Atlanta newspaper. She assumed it was a few recent editions of the paper; he must want to keep up with news from home.

She dashed up Mercer’s porch steps and rang his doorbell. Listening to the fading sound of the bell, she whistled a tuneless melody, swaying from side to side as she waited for Rianne or Joel to answer.

He took his sweet time, but eventually Joel Mercer did yank open the door. His hair stood askew as if he’d been running both hands through it. Sylvie again admired small, gold-rimmed glasses that left his slate-blue eyes looking slightly myopic.