Roz Fox - The Secret Wedding Dress

As she pinched the lace edging into tiny pleats, her eyes kept straying to the covered antique dress form in the corner. Until Kay had referred to the dress as an object of envy, Sylvie had no idea the last gown from her private collection was of interest to anyone but her.

Human nature to speculate about something kept hidden, she supposed. She hadn’t lied to Kay. The cover protected an unfinished project Sylvie rarely had the time or heart to work on—despite what Kay had heard to the contrary. The gown had been her intended wedding dress. She couldn’t bear to part with it. But neither was there any likelihood of her ever wearing it. Moving it out of her client area seemed the best course of action.

This dress form was the first she’d owned. Fashioned of brass and North Carolina hardwood, it weighed a ton. Sylvie’s two dear grandmothers had run across it during one of their many antiquing forages into the Smoky Mountains.

As Sylvie wrestled the awkward thing into her bedroom, where the lighting was definitely poorer than in her sewing room, she fondly recalled the two women who’d nurtured her early dreams of becoming a wedding gown designer. Losing both of those dear souls had left holes in her heart. Yet she was thankful neither of her staunchest advocates were alive to see her slink home in defeat. Although, she mused, puffing as she dragged the form into a corner opposite her bed, many in the family said Mary Shea had possessed a sixth sense. And that might be why she’d willed Sylvie this land and cabin, when the logical recipient should have been Sylvie’s dad.

Straightening, she dusted her hands. The form fit nicely below a shelf displaying old hat boxes. Those too had been Gram’s. The grouping beckoned temptingly. Maybe it was an omen nudging her to—finally—assemble the lacy sleeves. After all, the arrival of the Dutch lace, coupled with the fact that autumn was coming and not as many weddings would be scheduled, meant there’d be time to do it.

Her bedside phone rang as Sylvie contemplated her workload. “Sylvie Seamstress, “ she said cheerily into the receiver.

“It’s Carline,” came a muted response.

“Carline, what’s wrong? Are you ill? Is it the baby?” Sylvie sank onto the crocheted bedspread, also an heirloom handed down in the Shea family. Carline’s husband, Jeff, was twelve years older than his wife. Their baby, a boy, was probably Jeff’s last chance to produce a Manchester heir, as doctors said his sperm count was low. They’d had a difficult time conceiving. The only other Manchester male, Jeff’s twin, had died at sixteen in a parasailing accident. A tragic loss for any family, but especially for parents who needed their sons to take over the business—Manchester Sawmills. Not that they wouldn’t have let any of their five daughters assume the helm; however, none of the girls or their spouses were so inclined. Feeling obligated, at twenty-two, Jeff had stepped into the role. The task had proved monumental and time-consuming, which resulted in zero opportunity to consider dating or marriage—until he walked into Carline’s brand-new kitchen shop two years ago to buy a coffee grinder for his sister and fell instantly in love.

Sylvie always sighed over love stories that seemed to fall into place with such ease. Especially since she had a habit of falling for Mr. Wrong. Die-hard bachelors—guys who broke out in a rash at the word marriage. And that was even before Des had betrayed her.

Shoving aside those rambling thoughts, Sylvie gripped the phone nervously and strained to hear her sister’s soft whisper.

“I’m fine. The baby’s fine, Syl. I’m calling about Buddy Deaver.”

“Who? Bucky Beaver?”

“Not Beaver. Deaver! And don’t shout. He and his mother are in the next room picking out a gift for Kay. His real name is Jarvis. Jarvis the fourth, and they call him Buddy. He was in Dory’s class, and went to university in Raleigh-Durham. An accounting major. Now he’s a financial advisor or stock broker in Raleigh or something like that.”

“Carline, this is all very interesting, but why do I need to know this?”

“Because I just suggested he escort you to Kay’s wedding. His dad has a business associate flying into Asheville that day, so Mr. and Mrs. Deaver aren’t going to make Kay and David’s wedding. Which means Buddy has to go alone. He said he’d skip it altogether except that he hasn’t seen his classmates in years.”

“Carline, I can’t conjure up a mental picture of this guy. But I’m Kay’s maid of honor. That means I’m responsible for seeing that everything to do with the ceremony runs smoothly. What are you thinking?”

“That you’re going stag to the reception and the dinner dance at the Elks club. Can you really think of anything more embarrassing?”

“Yes, being saddled with a financial guru named Buddy.”

“Sylvie, why must you always be so sarcastic? I told him you’d probably have to take the flower girls or candle-lighters’ dresses to the church. Mrs. Deaver said Buddy can drive his dad’s Coupe DeVille. There’ll be room.”

“My Mutt Mobile has more. I’ve already scheduled time tomorrow afternoon to wash it and vacuum it out.”

“Sylveeee!” Carline wailed, still in hushed undertones. “You can’t humiliate me like this. Mrs. Deaver was thrilled to think Buddy won’t have to stay home. She buys a lot from my shop. I can’t go out there and say you won’t go with her son.”

“Make up an excuse. Say I have a prior date you didn’t know about.”

“Lie? Sylvie, what would Mother say? Or Reverend Paul?”

“Lord, deliver me from you and Mom when you invoke the name of our pastor. All right, Carline. I’ll do this one favor. Don’t commit me ever again or I swear I won’t bail you out. Tell Buddy I’ll take the dresses to the church early. That way he can drive his own car, whatever it is. I’m not going one mile if he shows up in his dad’s Caddy.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you. You’ll have fun, I promise.”

Sylvie was saved saying she sincerely doubted it by her sister’s banging down her phone. After hanging up, Sylvie went straight to the bookcase in the living room and pulled out the yearbook published in Dory’s senior year. Sure enough, there he was, voted the school’s best citizen and voted by his class as most scholastic. She groaned as she saw his perky bow tie and the absence of even a tiny smile.

She shut the book and slid it back in the shelf. One could hope that working in the city had polished him up a bit. She really wished she hadn’t suddenly remembered her father calling the fourth Jarvis Deaver a stuffed shirt. Oh well, it was only one night out of her life. She’d gotten through all the other blind dates scrounged up by her well-meaning family and friends by keeping that thought uppermost in mind.

Having stored the lace from her recent delivery, Sylvie had just finished checking the packing slip against the invoice when Oscar went berserk. Maybe this time he’d flushed a rabbit or a squirrel. Or else…the Mercer’s cat was out again.

Sylvie knew that was the case the minute she stepped onto her back porch and heard Rianne Mercer calling for Fluffy. The girl’s dad thundered from an upper window, “Rianne, what’s the racket now? Tell me you didn’t let Fluffy out!”

“It was ’nother accident, Daddy. Fluffy’s on Sylvie’s fence and I can’t get her.”

“All right. Give me a minute and I’ll be down to help.”

Sylvie was sure she heard his irritated sigh. Did that man do nothing downstairs? For crying out loud, did he live in that one room—a bedroom, if Sylvie recalled the layout of the Whitaker house. But then, Rianne had mentioned he worked at home and that he now had a bedroom and a separate office, instead of the two combined. Probably the sunnier corner room had become his office.