The Dress Shop of Dreams Page 6

  He had never shown that book to Cora again. Not, she realizes, until the night he came to her window. It had been the same book, red leather and gold. How could she have forgotten that? The book must be something pretty special and she’s honored that he’d wanted to share it with her. But what was it? Cora makes a mental note to investigate the matter on her return home.

  The priest looks down at his fingers resting on the feet of the statue. St. Francis wears sandals, the nails of his ten marble toes smoothed away by thousands of hands over hundreds of years. Father Sebastian can’t remember how long he’s been standing there. What was he meant to be doing? What time is it? He’s hungry. It must be nearly midday. Confession. That’s what he’s supposed to do now. Before he stopped by St. Francis, Sebastian had been on his way to the confessional.

  He shuffles across the stone floor, his soft leather shoes sliding past the pulpit, shaking himself free of his memories so he’ll be able to listen to his parishioners. He knows most of them think he nods off while they talk, sleeping through their minor transgressions, dozing during their petty sins. Probably they’d prefer it that way. But Sebastian never sleeps during confession, despite the soft velvet cushions and dim light. It wouldn’t be right. And he tries to be as good as he possibly can, after the great wrong he once did, always vainly attempting to level his lopsided balance sheet, even though his heart isn’t really in the religion of it anymore. In fact, if he’s honest with himself, Sebastian’s heart hasn’t been with the church in a long time. He goes through the motions, the rituals, the pomp and circumstance, but at the end of each day he feels more detached, more alone than when he woke.

  Sebastian settles into his seat and leans his head against the wood, letting a small sigh escape his lips. He feels the presence of someone else alongside him, another soul seeking redemption. And, before he even speaks, Sebastian knows who it is. He can’t help a smile.

  “I’ve met someone, Father. A woman.” The words tumble out in a rush of excitement. “A real woman, one who actually looks me in the eye without laughing.”

  “Well, that’s a wonderful thing,” Sebastian says. “And I’m very happy for you. But, strictly speaking, you aren’t really supposed to be here, are you?”

  “I didn’t steal someone else’s place,” Walt protests. “There was no one waiting, so I just thought—”

  “But you’re not a Catholic, dear boy,” says Sebastian gently. “And you don’t have anything to confess, do you?”

  “No,” Walt admits. “But I like talking to you. You’re such a good listener.”

  The priest smiles again. He knows the real reason Walt comes to him. For, while he listens carefully to each of his parishioners, there is no need. He’s always been able to see people’s stories on their faces: their greatest regrets, fears, hopes and dreams, hanging in the air around their heads and hearts. He only has to look at a person to suddenly feel exactly what they feel. And so it was with Walt, ten years ago. But still Sebastian listens, because it’s the right thing to do and because, while he does so, he is able to forget about himself.

  “I think,” Walt continues, buoyant as a balloon, “I think she might actually … like me. Not just my voice, but me.”

  “But this is not Cora?” Sebastian frowns. “The one you’re in love with?”

  “No.” Walt sinks back to the floor. “Not her, I’m trying to forget about her.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Father Sebastian feels the sudden stab of pain in Walt’s chest as if it had just happened to him and decides not to pry. “And who is this new girl?” He’s vaguely aware that, in these politically correct days, he shouldn’t really call grown women “girls” but he can’t help it. Any woman not of his generation seems like a girl to him.

  “Milly.” Walt smiles. “Her name is Milly. And she’s nearly forty. Seventeen years older than me. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t even notice. She wrote to me. I called her. She’s really quite lovely.”

  “Oh.” Sebastian scratches his nose. “I see.” But that is a lie. Another sin to add to his infinite list, though of course there was only one that really mattered, the one he tries every day to forget.

  “I’m not being fickle,” Walt protests, as if finally giving up on a twenty-year-long unrequited love could be interpreted as being capricious. “I’ll always care for Cora, of course I will. But I’ve got to get over her. She’s never going to love me back and I need … I need to be loved back.”

  Sebastian traps another sigh—of deep longing—in his chest and holds it there. He’s always had very strong willpower, been good at fasting, at holding secrets, denying himself sustenance and rest. But not love. He’s never been able to stop loving someone simply because he should. If only. Then the last fifty years of his life would’ve been considerably more bearable.

  “Of course you’re not fickle,” Sebastian says, suddenly realizing the boy might interpret his silence as judgment. “No one could say that of you. And I’m happy. You’ve found someone. If you’re lucky you’ll fall in love. I’m happy for you, I truly am.” The priest’s nose twitches again and he scratches it. Another lie. He’ll have to chant Hail Marys while polishing the vestry windows tonight.

  “Thank you,” Walt says. “I’m happy too.” But, although this is certainly true, although Walt feels happier than he has in his whole life, something the priest said is starting to trouble him. Will he fall in love again? Is it possible? Because, since he decided to finally let go of Cora, he hasn’t felt his heart at all. Not a quickening, not a skip, nothing. It just sits in his chest, beating out its dull monotone, ticking out the time for the next fifty years, until it reaches its last beat, never to be moved or touched or captured again. And Walt is starting to suspect that perhaps neither he nor his heart is actually capable of loving anyone else.

  Cora stands on the steps of the Oxfordshire Police Station. Now that she’s actually here, she’s unsure whether she wants to go in. It has taken her all morning to get there. When the bus dropped her off in the city center, Cora had intended to hurry directly to her destination. But instead she found herself dragging her feet, forgetting directions, taking wrong turns. She lost hours counting leaves and bricks and cigarette stubs dropped on the streets, drifting around Oxford, avoiding personal places and stumbling across famous ones: Bodleian Library, Balliol College, Ashmolean Museum.

  Cora can’t remember the house she lived in as a girl, so she couldn’t purposely avoid it, but she stayed clear of New College, where her parents worked. She has no memories of being there either yet isn’t ready to confront any memories that might return to her, now that she knows things weren’t as she’d always thought.

  “Are you all right?”

  Cora blinks and brings herself back. She’s standing on the steps—on the 7th of 17—of a police station. A tall young man is standing beside her with a slight look of concern.

  “Are you all right?” he asks again.

  Cora nods.

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  She frowns at him. “Are you a police officer?”

  He nods. “I’m a detective.”

  It seems to Cora that he wants to touch her arm, to reassure her of something though he doesn’t know exactly what. Over the last few days she’s been getting these senses of strangers, little snapshots into their hearts, and wonders if it’s normal. She’s spent so much of her life disconnected, wrapped up in her head, that she doesn’t know what it’s like to connect, to see and know other people.

  “I want,” Cora begins, “I’m here to talk to someone about … my parents.”

  The police detective nods and waits.

  “They died twenty years ago,” Cora says. “Here in Oxford, in a fire. It was ruled an accidental death but … I’m not entirely sure it was.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. “Please, then, follow me.”

  Twenty minutes later Cora is at the police officer’s desk, holding a plastic cup of tepid tea between her palms, sitting forward in
her chair. She watches Detective Henry Dixon’s fingers as he types and stares at his computer screen. When it seems as if he’s completely forgotten she’s sitting there at all, he looks up.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “it takes a while to access some cases and—”

  “I should really be going through all sorts of procedures and paperwork before anyone does anything,” Cora interjects. “So please don’t apologize. I’m very grateful. Really.”

  She’d overheard Henry quietly arguing with another police officer while she sat in the waiting room, so she knows he shouldn’t really be doing this.

  Henry gives a quick smile. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

  Etta sits at her sewing machine, stitching the hem of a bright blue silk dress, her foot tapping restlessly against the leg of her chair. She’s trying not to worry about Cora but can’t help it, her thoughts keep pulling back to her granddaughter no matter how hard she tries to wrench them away. Etta wishes a customer would come into the shop and distract her but the bell above her door hasn’t rung in hours. When Etta finishes the hem she threads shimmering beads onto a needle, two at a time. Then, as she pulls the needle through the silk, she suddenly hears the blessed bell. Etta jumps up from her table, nearly knocking over the sewing machine, and hurries into the shop.

  A very beautiful redhead steps onto the carpet and “Let’s Twist Again” starts to play. Etta smiles. It’s one of her favorite songs and she knows this customer is going to be fun. The woman walks slowly around the shop, lingering over each dress as though she wants to buy them all and can’t bear to choose just one.

  “Which one would you like to try on?” Etta asks, not needing to be tentative.

  The woman turns with a brilliant smile, still holding the hem of a bright yellow minidress, and fixes her bright green eyes on Etta.

  “I want to wear them all,” she exclaims. “I want to take them all home.”

  Etta laughs. “That’s exactly why I live above the shop.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised. So would I. It’s quite the loveliest dress shop I’ve ever stepped into, and I’ve stepped into a lot.”

  “Compulsive shopper?” Etta asks.

  The woman shakes her head. “Costume designer.”

  “Oh.” Etta brightens. She knew this was going to be fun. “For films?”

  “Not yet, but I’d love to.” The woman holds out her hand. “Greer Ashby. It’s lovely to meet you.”

  “Etta Sparks. My pleasure.” Etta gives Greer a quick glance, assessing her situation with an expert eye, but can’t see anything in particular, no missing pieces, that her customer needs. “So tell me—since, embarrassingly enough, I can’t seem to figure it out—what can I do for you?”

  Greer smiles. “I’m up for an award, for a play.”

  “How exciting. What’s it called?”

  “Ninety-nine Nights,” Greer says. “My sister-in-law wrote it and asked me to do the costumes. It’s a gorgeous play. You should see it.”

  “Oh, I will,” Etta says, “I will.”

  “Anyway, I need a very special dress. And I can see I’ve come to the right place.”

  “Indeed you have,” Etta says, thinking that she might just stitch a little red star inside the lining of the dress Greer chooses, an extra shot of confidence to spur her in the direction of those films. “Indeed you have.”

  Milly stops walking outside A Stitch in Time. She’s on her way to see Walt, but the window glittering with dresses brings her to a halt. It’s filled with dozens of dresses draped over each other in every shade of blue. They sparkle and shimmer, every inch of fabric scattered with sequins, glitter and beads giving the effect of ocean meeting sky on a bright summer day.

  Milly is not a fan of dresses. She can never find a flattering one and now just usually buys garments without first trying them on, because it’s easier and less painful that way. But there is something about this shop. It almost seems to be an art gallery rather than a dress shop, a place that will make you feel serene just by stepping inside and breathing in all the beauty.

  “Bye Bye Love” fills the shop as Milly opens the door. Etta looks up from behind the counter to see her new customer: wearing a baggy dress two sizes too big, a heavy woolen coat and clumpy shoes, her mousy brown hair cut in an unflattering bob around her round face. She wears no makeup but her skin is clear and her eyes are bright. These eyes widen as she glances about the shop, mesmerized and slightly scared. Slowly Milly approaches the closest rack of clothes and reaches out to touch a dress. Etta watches her. This customer is exactly the opposite of her last one; this one she’ll have to treat with kid gloves.

  When Milly’s fingers touch the lapis blue silk she pulls back, as if having just received a slight electric shock. For a long moment she stares at the dresses until a slow smile creeps onto her lips. Milly reaches out again, this time letting the silk slip over her fingers like water. Then she turns to go. But Etta is beside her before she finds the door.

  “You haven’t tried anything on.”

  Milly stares at Etta as if she’s seen a ghost.

  “None of them would fit me,” Milly mumbles. “I’m far too old and fat for pretty dresses.” She hates clothes shopping. The hours of despair searching for something remotely suitable, the few seconds of hope, the bitter disappointment when the mirror reveals every dimple of cellulite, saggy skin and rolls of belly fat. In fact, she can’t now imagine why on earth she stepped into the dress shop in the first place. What was she thinking?

  “Don’t be silly.” Etta laughs. “You’ll look beautiful. I promise.”

  “No.” Milly shakes her head. “They’re far too glamorous. They’d look ridiculous on me.”

  “These aren’t ordinary dresses,” Etta assures her. “No one looks ridiculous in them, only completely and utterly fabulous.”

  Milly laughs then, a full deep laugh, and Etta knows she’s in.

  Etta sticks a small hand into a rack of crimson ball gowns and plucks out one of her loveliest creations. The bodice is made of spiderweb lace, thousands of roses embroidered over herringbone, ending at the waist with waterfalls of dark red silk cascading to the floor.

  “Oh my goodness,” Milly gasps. She takes a tiny step backward. “Oh, no. No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t possibly—”

  “Just try it. For me,” Etta says with a smile, ushering her toward the changing room. “Make this old woman happy, then I’ll let you go. Please.”

  Milly gives a sigh, relenting, as Etta knew she would. Her current customer is a chronic people pleaser, absolutely incapable of refusing a direct request.

  “Wonderful, thank you.” Etta grins. She waits outside the changing room, standing guard to be sure Milly doesn’t discard the dress too quickly after putting it on. She needs to coax her out into the open, to help her have a closer look; she needs to make a few adjustments and add a secret red star into the lining with her little needle and thread.

  Chapter Eight

  After half an hour, Henry sits back from his screen and rubs his eyes. “I’ve found your parents’ file,” he says. “They died in a fire, on March fourteenth, 1993, right?”

  “Yes.” Cora nods.

  “Okay,” Henry says. “So, the inquest gave a ruling of accidental death. The fire wasn’t arson. It wasn’t set on purpose. The police investigators didn’t find any accelerant, anything of the sort to suggest that someone intentionally started it.” He glances back at the screen, then gives Cora an almost apologetic look, his dark brow furrowed. She notices that his eyes are a bright, bright blue. “The police report concluded the fire was caused by an unattended candle falling onto a pile of papers and books.”

  “Oh,” Cora says, not sure whether she’s disappointed. “Okay.”

  “Was that not what you wanted to hear?”

  Cora shakes her head. “No, it’s not that. It’s just, my grandmother … she thinks it wasn’t simply an accident. She thinks that perhaps someone else was involved.”

  “
She thinks they were murdered?”

  Cora shifts in her plastic seat. “No, not exactly. Well, I’m not sure. She’s not sure. I just wanted to see what I could find out.”

  “Does your grandmother have any evidence?”

  Cora shakes her head. She grips the side of his desk, suddenly feeling like a three-year-old telling a grown-up that fairies are real. What evidence does she have, what proof? Cora wants to jump up from her chair and run away. What is she doing? What is she doing asking to see the details of a case about which she knows nothing? Now she looks like an idiot. Or a lunatic.

  “Family members often can’t bring themselves to believe that the death of their loved ones was a tragic accident,” Henry says softly. He reaches across the desk, resting his heavy solid fingers on her light, jittery hands, grounding her, bringing her back to reality. “It’s not unusual to want someone else to be responsible. So they have a person to blame, to hate. Cruel twists of fate can be harder to—”

  “Yes, of course,” Cora says, about to stand up and excuse herself, when all of a sudden, a memory rises up within her: she’s sitting at one end of a small oak dinner table, kneeling on a chair to read a book. Her father sits at the other end of the table and, in the middle, her mother. Both smile, completely absorbed in their own books, stacks of papers piled up around them. The room is dark except for candlelight flickering from five candlesticks dotted about the table.

  Cora pulls her hands away from the desk and the warmth of his fingers. She jumps up, knocking the plastic chair back so it hits the floor. She turns to pick it up.

  “Sorry,” Cora says, “sorry, I’ve wasted your time. I didn’t mean, I thought perhaps …” And, in a puff of embarrassment, she hurries out of the room, leaving Henry staring after her, before she can finish the sentence.

  Milly’s smile is radiant, gazing at herself, a beautiful figure resplendent in the crimson gown of lace and silk. Etta grins, compliments swallowed when she sees they’re clearly not required.

  Only silence is needed now, to let Milly’s shock and delight sweep away sorrow and self-doubt. “I can’t, I don’t …”