The Secret Wedding Dress

“I brought your mail.” She’d also picked up a thistle in one bare foot, Sylvie discovered, idly brushing one foot over the other. “I see you’re still taking a newspaper from your home-town. Seems silly that they’d require you to sign for it. I’ll bet if you’d ask our librarian, she’d probably subscribe to this paper, if she doesn’t already. It’d save you the cost of shipping. Freda Poulson likes having news from other cities. There’s no one more interested in world events.” Sylvie grinned engagingly and extended the bundle.

Joel grabbed the stack out of her hands and gave her a fierce scowl. “What are you doing snooping through my private mail? Tampering with someone’s mail is against federal law.”

The form that was supposed to be signed by Mercer floated to the boards at their feet.

Her smile turned to a frown, too. “Our mailman has rheumatoid arthritis. I couldn’t care less who sends you stuff. I volunteered to run this up to you to save wear and tear on poor Homer’s joints.”

“If he can’t do the job he should retire.” Joel moved to shut his door.

“Wait!” Sylvie neatly blocked his move. “This needs your autograph.” Bending to scoop it up, she and Joel struck heads. Sylvie rubbed her forehead, allowing him to come up with the signature card.

“Do you have a pen?” he asked curtly.

Dazed by their collision, Sylvie stared at him blankly.

“Never mind. This mail system is so haphazard I’ll just make other arrangements,” he muttered after digging through all his pockets and finally coming up with a pen. A moment later he shoved the signed card back into Sylvie’s hands.

Joel slammed his front door almost before Sylvie had negotiated a step back. “You have a nice day, too, buddy,” she snarled, stomping down his steps and out into his thistle-littered lane. She landed on the thorn buried in her foot and ended up yelping and limping to where Homer waited patiently.

“Got it? Thanks, Sylvie. What’s Iva’s great-nephew like now that he’s grown up? I remember him as a quiet tyke over the four or five summers he spent with Iva and Harvey. Quiet but eager to please. Seems a long time ago.”

“Are you saying Joel Mercer is related to Iva? Are you sure he’s not some city dude who bought the place from her nephew?”

“Nope. That’s him all right. I hear he’s got a daughter about the age he was when he first used to visit the Whitakers. Mercy, how time flies. Say, don’t forget your lace,” Homer called as Sylvie turned to give the Whitaker house a longer evaluation.

She lugged the heavy carton of laces she’d ordered from New York into her house, mulling over the latest tidbit Homer had added to the little she knew about her neighbor. Darned little. The man had acted downright surly about her touching his mail. What was the big issue? Did Joel Mercer have something to hide?

JOEL STOOD IN HIS ENTRY and ripped open the envelope of tear sheets consisting of his last two months’ worth of cartoon strips. Enclosed was a big fat check that would have to last him until his accountant decided if he could retire on his investments or if he needed to seek another job. Lester Egan, his former boss, had attached a scribbled note asking Joel not to be hasty in his decision to quit the strip he’d started right after Lynn had divorced him. At the time, no one, least of all Joel, had dreamed that his satirical exaggeration using the backdrop of upscale Atlanta singles, would garner so much interest. Or that it would result in syndication and a whole bunch of new readers. Neither had Joel supposed his ex would return to anchor Atlanta’s nightly news.

But Joel didn’t see how he could continue drawing comic scenes about city singles from Briarwood. To do what he did on a daily basis necessitated haunting popular nightspots, where the upwardly mobile twentysomethings hung out after work and on weekends. Anyway, he’d about run out of situations for Poppy and Rose, his cartoon characters. Material of that type didn’t fall out of North Carolina dogwood trees.

Speaking of falling from trees—his dingbat neighbor had a penchant for crazy stunts. Tree-climbing at her age…Joel watched her retreat, barefoot, down his lane. Each time he saw her she looked different. Today she wore her dark hair in two fat pigtails tied with ribbons that matched her shorts. He couldn’t fault the shorts. They showed off her legs to good advantage. She did have nice legs. Maybe her best feature. Outside of that, nothing was remarkable except for her eyes. A warm hazel that reflected every nuance of her mood.

Leaning into the etched oval window in the center of his front door to watch her progress, Joel was sharply reminded of how lethal even a casual meeting with Sylvie Shea could be. He had a lump forming in the center of his forehead. And no idea how Sylvie made a living, other than to barge through life at warp speed. Oh, and pet-sit with humongous, ill-mannered dogs.

She did seem to have an active social life, he mused. There’d been the guy in the Mercedes. Yesterday, two muscle-bound dudes, both on very friendly terms with her, appeared like magic to rebuild her fence. One or both had hugged and maybe kissed her before taking off. And today, a girlfriend had shown up to visit for an hour or so.

He watched Sylvie dig a package out of the mail truck and then scamper out of sight. Joel continued to stare out the window. His fertile imagination began fashioning caricatures of Sylvie Shea as a subject in his comic strip. A country cousin of Poppy or Rose. It started him thinking there might be a whole other side to the singles experience in Briarwood, North Carolina, than he’d believed. Having tired of political cartoons, he’d tripped over the idea of the singles strip after his divorce. After he’d been dumped into the singles scene himself.

Truthfully, after a number of years spent skulking around Atlanta’s hot spots, studying unsuspecting females on the prowl for husbands, he’d learned how to observe without attracting attention.

And now, the longer Joel considered the idea, the more he thought his neighbor’s varied taste in male friends, combined with her zany capers, might just offer the perfect new opportunity for him to continue the strip.

Chapter Three

Sylvie dropped her stack of junk mail and bills on a sideboard that stood in her entry. She hunted down a pair of non-sewing scissors then with care cut open the box of imported lace. One roll of fine hand-stitched lace came from a specialty shop in Holland. The lace had been on back order for six months, and it was every bit as beautiful as she’d pictured. Every other piece in her order was nicer than anything she could purchase through online outlets, too. But the Dutch lace exceeded her expectations. Of course, it’d cost an arm and a leg. Eyeing it critically, Sylvie deemed it worth every penny.

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.