The Dress Shop of Dreams Read online

  Cora hurries along the corridor of books to see Walt standing at the counter alone, reading a book. 38 other books are piled up around him: 17 on the counter and 21 on the floor at his feet. It’s almost as if he is sprouting from them, a human tree with paper roots. Cora approaches slowly, postponing the moment. She wants to tell Walt that she heard him last night, wants to say how much she loved listening to his voice, but doesn’t want to admit to breaking her promise.

  “Hi,” Cora says as she reaches him.

  Walt looks up. “Hello.” His heart starts to speed up. She is here and Milly is here, momentarily disappeared but likely to reappear at any moment. If she sees him with Cora, she might be able to tell how he feels. Women probably have a sixth sense about these things. Walt takes a breath and glances down at his book in an effort to calm himself.

  Cora looks at him, scrambling for something else to say.

  “I, er, just came to … Do you have any cherry pie?”

  Without looking up, Walt shakes his head. “Sorry. I’ve … I haven’t had time but—”

  Then he’s silent, eyes wide, staring. Cora glances about, wondering what’s going on. Into the frame steps a woman—the same woman who’d eaten her cherry pie—and Cora frowns. The woman seems to materialize, emerging miraculously from within a corridor of books to alight at the counter at Walt’s side. Regarding Cora with large blue eyes, she smiles. Cora looks back, wanting to dislike her, this sudden intruder, but she can’t. These are sweet, innocent eyes, the eyes of someone kind and loving, the eyes of someone Cora might befriend if she were so inclined.

  Cora watches as the blue-eyed woman slips her hand into Walt’s. As their fingers touch, he gives a tiny smile. Before she can see anything worse, Cora turns and walks away.

  Dylan sits at his desk at the radio station, a stack of letters and a half-eaten sandwich in front of him. Dylan’s finding it hard to stay awake. Last night his father had fallen in the bathroom and they hadn’t left the hospital until dawn. He hadn’t broken a hip, thank God, but the doctors urged again to consider putting Ralph in sheltered housing, something Dylan knows he will never do.

  Dylan rubs his eyes and chews his pen, wondering what to say to the woman who’s had three husbands desert her for their secretaries. Date a man without a secretary or find someone who’s unemployed is the first thing that comes to mind, though he doesn’t want to sound callous. Reading these letters gives him an intimate perspective into the female experience, and he’s saddened by much of it. It makes him think twice about asking another woman out. He had no idea they were so sensitive, so hopeful, so primed for love that they will imagine the possibility for it in every unintended gesture and word.

  Dylan isn’t proud of his past. Not now. It didn’t used to bother him before. Before Walt’s voice turned him into a soppy, silly romantic Dylan hadn’t given his rather rubbish relationship history much thought, but after a steady diet of Austen, Forster and Shakespeare he can’t remember those women without wincing. He’d acted like Mr. Darcy (early in the book) more than a few times, and even skirted a little too close to Wickham once or twice. The memories are enough to induce him to celibacy now. But, painful as it all is, the only benefit in hindsight is that Dylan can now write to Walt’s fans with a good deal of authority on the subject of bastards and fools. And so, after a quick bite of his sandwich, he picks up his pen to write to Louise.

  Dear Louise,

  I’m so sorry to hear about your experiences. No one should have to suffer such heartbreak. If it was in my power to take away your pain and memories and give you back your innocence and hope again, I would. I can say this: don’t give up. Not on love but, more important still, not on you. Never let yourself believe that you are unlovable or flawed in any way. You deserve to be loved. You deserve kind words and an unwavering eye. Men who can give you this are out there, trust me, I even know a few. You just have to keep looking and trust your intuition. Listen to that voice that tells you not to trust someone, even though he’s deliciously charming, remember Wickham & Willoughby & all those cads. And give another man a chance, even though he’s not your usual type—remember Mr. Knightly & Colonel Brandon & all those quiet heroes.

  When you forget that love is good and kind, let this letter remind you. And when you’re ready to fall in love again, look for a soft place to fall.

  Warmest wishes,

  Walt

  When Dylan signs Walt’s name instead, he’s nervous that the lie eclipses everything else, all the truth and kindness in the letter. He really hopes not. But perhaps he should start signing his own name, calling himself “Walt’s personal assistant,” or something like that. But he won’t, because Dylan knows that these women want Walt, the man with the magical voice who seems to sense the inner workings of their hearts and souls, and not some pretender who doesn’t know his heart from his head. That is what they want, what they deserve and what Dylan will give them.

  Cora slips the T-shirt over her head. “It’s pretty,” she says. “Thank you.”

  In truth, Cora doesn’t care one way or the other for pretty things. But it’s a gift from her grandmother and, as such, she loves it.

  “Will you wear them often?” Etta asks.

  Cora eyes her grandmother suspiciously. “Are they special T-shirts?”

  “Of course they are,” Etta says, with an offended frown. “I made them.”

  “You know what I mean.” Cora raises an eyebrow. “Are they special?”

  Etta shrugs, but her granddaughter can tell by the way she won’t look her in the eye that these are no ordinary T-shirts. She stands with her grandmother in the middle of the shop surrounded by dresses on every side, while Frank Sinatra sings “I Get a Kick Out of You.” The green-blue silk walls are slightly tinged with yellow at the edges, signaling that summer is on its way. The shop has been very quiet lately. It’s April, not particularly a season for shoppers, but still Etta is a little worried. Ever since she was unable to work her magic on Milly, unable to make her see that Walt isn’t the man for her, Etta’s scared that she’s losing her touch and somehow her customers can sense it.

  Etta adjusts the T-shirt across Cora’s shoulders. “A perfect fit.”

  Cora nods, absently rubbing the lace hem between her fingers. “Yes, I—” She stops, mouth open, blinking several times before squeezing her eyes tight shut, gripping the lace so fiercely her fingertips turn white.

  The image is so clear she might be watching a film. Her father, standing by a long, deep desk entirely camouflaged with papers and books in the biochemistry lab at Oxford University, is laughing.

  “This is it, Maggie,” he exclaims. “This is it! We’ve done it, we’ve finally done it!” Then Robert Carraway starts dancing, holding his arms out, his features eclipsed by an almighty smile. “Dance with me, Mags.” He laughs. “This is the moment. This is the moment just before we change the world!”

  The scene vanishes and Cora opens her eyes.

  “What?” Etta stares at her granddaughter. “What is it?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” Cora says. “But whatever it is you were trying to do with this T-shirt, I think it just worked.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Walt stares at his mother’s notebook. It seems to stare back at him. He feels himself being watched, perhaps by his mother’s spirit, though that’s probably just wishful thinking. Walt picks up the notebook and holds it to his chest. He hasn’t opened it in weeks. The disappointment of constantly trying and failing to decipher his mother’s messages hurts too much to repeat too often. Instead he uses it like a talisman, a silent oracle to inspire and guide him.

  “I need help,” he says softly. “Please.”

  Of course the notebook doesn’t respond. Walt gives it a slight shake.

  “I’ve got one woman in my heart and one in my hands. What am I supposed to do?”

  The notebook remains silent and still. Finally, Walt gives up and stands. He’ll have to talk to the priest, even if the subjec
t matter is strange for someone who’s celibate. He places the notebook on the sofa and glowers at it.

  “One of these days,” he says. “One of these days …”

  “I’m confused,” Walt says, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “What is it now?” Father Sebastian asks, feigning a sigh.

  “I suspect I’m still in love with Cora,” Walt admits. “Even though I’m trying very hard not to be, it isn’t that easy. But now, I think, Milly is falling in love with me. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I see.”

  Sebastian’s voice is neutral, bland as butter without a single hint of spice. Which is exactly why Walt comes. He could confess anything to this man and he wouldn’t bat an eyelid or think any the less of him. Which is because of who Sebastian is as a man, not because of his profession.

  “I care for Milly, I really do,” Walt says, relieved to at last be talking about it. “But Cora—I don’t know—with her it’s more even than love, I just …”

  “Ah,” Sebastian says. “Well, that’s the thing.”

  “What’s the thing?” Walt frowns. He’s not a fan of cryptic advice.

  “Love can be tricky. The heart wants what it wants and I’m afraid there’s not much you can do to convince it otherwise.”

  “That’s just it.” Walt sighs. “I thought my heart didn’t want to love Cora anymore. I thought it had given up. That’s why I met Milly in the first place. And now … now I’m in a bloody mess.”

  “Well …” Sebastian begins, drawing out the word while he tries to think of something helpful to say but fails.

  Walt sighs again. “I’m a horrible person.”

  “I beg to differ.” Sebastian can’t imagine anyone less horrible than the young man currently taking refuge in his confessional, including all and every one of his genuine parishioners. “And if you were, then you wouldn’t care about it, would you?”

  “What am I doing here?” Walt sighs again, long and deep, so his whole body shivers with it. “No offense, Father, but I suppose you’re not really qualified to give advice on love, are you? You’ve never been responsible for someone else’s heart. You’ve never broken anything that didn’t belong to you.”

  You have no idea what I’ve done, son, absolutely no idea. The words are on the tip of Sebastian’s tongue and he has to press his lips together before they can push past his teeth. They sting his throat as he swallows them. The desire to confess his secret to someone, anyone, no matter how inappropriate, has been building up in him over the years, gathering force like a storm. One of these days he’s going to blurt it out to Mrs. Collins while she confesses that she prefers her Jack Russell, Charlie, over her husband, or to Mr. Wallace who does inappropriate things with vegetables, or to the phantom parishioner who sits in his confessional for twenty minutes every Sunday, breathing rapidly and coughing occasionally but never confessing.

  “I think Milly’s falling in love with me,” Walt repeats over Sebastian’s thoughts, “and, if I could love her back, I know I could make her happy. Cora’s even—”

  “Sorry, what?” the priest asks, realizing he’s drifted off into his own past.

  “I don’t know what it is exactly,” Walt says. “Lately she seems different somehow … But, anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is she doesn’t love me and Milly might. That’s the point. And, in order to be worthy of Milly, I need to sweep Cora out of my soul. I must. Do you see? It’s just—I’m trying and I don’t know how.”

  Father Sebastian feels an ache in his chest and touches his wrinkled palm to his heart. If he’d ever had a son, he would have wanted him to be just like this young man. He wishes now, as he often does when a wounded soul seeks comfort in his confessional, that he could just rip out the wire-mesh window separating them and pull Walt into a tight hug. He’s tired of this artificial separation from his fellow human beings. Sebastian once believed that becoming a priest was the best and most beautiful way he could serve humanity but, though that may be true for some, it’s not true for him. Not anymore. He has nothing of real value to say to those who ask, no wisdom to impart, no inspiration. Indeed, Sebastian wonders sometimes why he still has the job, why his superiors, or God, haven’t thought to take it away from him.

  “My dear boy,” Sebastian says softly, “if I could help you, well, I’d do it without a second thought. But if I could help with that sort of thing then I’d probably have a queue down the street of people wanting my advice.”

  “Yes,” Walt says halfheartedly. “I suppose you would.”

  Though that doesn’t help him at all.

  Cora lies in bed, waiting. In a few minutes he’ll be continuing Jane Eyre and she can’t wait. She wants his words now, more than ever. She wants to remember her parents, she wants to … She hasn’t been into the lab. She’s just been worrying about what to do next, trying to suppress her rising panic, counting everything she sees: cigarette stubs, bottle tops, leaves, cars … Behavior that, of course, is creating absolutely nothing constructive.

  Cora fingers the edges of her special T-shirt. Big Ben strikes the hour of ten and, after the program is introduced, Walt begins to read from where he’d left off the night before:

  “For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sisters …”

  Her mother. Cora closes her eyes, her hand resting on the lace trim of the T-shirt. All Cora can see now is the past. Her parents stand side by side in the laboratory doorway, heads bent together, whispering. Cora tiptoes across the Formica, until she’s close enough to hear them.

  “We’ve got to be careful who we tell,” Robert says. “We can’t trust anyone. Not until we’ve published our findings. Not until we’ve got a company on board.”

  “Yes, but how will we do that without telling anyone?” Maggie asks. “We have to make inquiries first. We have to find out the best way to do this.”

  “I know, I know.” Robert nods. “We’ve just got to be careful, that’s all. We have to protect it. We have to make sure it’s in safe hands.”

  Maggie giggles. “You sound like someone in those silly spy books you love so much.” She kisses him. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine. And we’ll do something absolutely wonderful with what we’ve discovered.”

  “I hope so,” he says. “I hope so, I really do.”

  “Oh, my darling.” Maggie kisses Robert again. “You worry too much.”

  Cora blinks and her parents disappear.

  Milly has invited Walt for dinner. He hasn’t been to her place before. They’ve always met in the bookshop and ended up at his flat in the evenings. But today she wants to be at home. She needs to be on her own territory for this; it’s time to tell him how she feels and what she wants.

  “What’s wrong?” Walt asks. “Are you okay?”

  Milly looks up at him. She’s cooked spiced chicken and sweet potatoes with chocolate mud pie for pudding. They eat on the sofa, the plates on their laps, since Milly’s flat is too small for a dining table. It’s a studio flat with a bed in the corner, a minuscule bathroom, a fridge, cooker and countertop. She doesn’t earn much managing the Craft & Curiosity Shop but what she misses in wages she makes up for in a staff discount at 75 percent. She’s bought so many beautiful things, cushions, throws, bags, pictures, that stepping into her house feels like stepping into the shop.

  Milly opens her mouth. It’s time. She’ll tell him. Right now.

  “Yes,” she says softly, “I’m fine.” Though of course she isn’t, she’s a coward. She loves, though, that he notices how she’s feeling and that he cares.

  “You haven’t eaten your pie. Don’t you like it?” he asks.

  “I’m afraid it’s a bit burnt on the bottom,” she says. “Sorry.”

  “No,” Walt says, “not at all. It’s delicious.”

  So thoughtful, so kind. Milly smiles, in spite of herself. “Thank you.”

  Walt sets his empty plate on the floor. Gently, he takes Milly’s plate from her hands and puts it on top of his own. The
china clinks—a bell sounding the start of something. Cora pops into his head and, gently, he pushes her out. He opens his arms.

  “Come here.”

  Milly shifts closer, discarding a silk pink cushion between them, and rests her head on his chest. Walt’s breathing is slow, soft, and it soothes her. He holds her, stroking her hair, until her eyes close and she feels herself falling asleep. Walt whispers words into her ear. At first she doesn’t realize what he’s saying and then she hears:

  “I long for, a little life, a splash of sunlight …”

  Milly sits up, eyes open. “How do you know that poem?”

  “I don’t,” Walt says. “It’s framed on your wall.” He nods toward her bookshelves (mostly adorned with pretty boxes, origami stars, white feathers and bouquets of dried flowers instead of books) where the poem hangs alongside a garland of purple paper butterflies.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Milly says. “I forgot.” She thinks of days: the day they met, their wedding day, the day he died.

  “Did you write it?”

  “What?”

  “The poem.”

  “Oh, no,” Milly says, returning to him. “I found it. It arrived at our shop the same day my husband did. It became something very special to us.”

  “Tell me about him.” Walt brushes a strand of Milly’s hair from her face. He wonders if Milly’s heart broke at the loss of her husband in the same way that Cora’s did at the loss of her parents when she was a girl, though this isn’t something he can ask either of them.

  “Are you sure?” Milly asks.

  “Of course, I want to know all about you, not just who you are now but who you were before I met you.” Walt sits up. He can do this, he thinks, he can learn to love her, he can. “Everything. All of it.”

  Milly smiles. “Okay,” she says, “if you insist. But it’s mostly very boring, I warn you.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “It’ll send you to sleep.”

  “You forget, I’m a creature of the night. Nothing sends me to sleep,” Walt says with a cheeky grin, “not even Jane Austen.”