The Forgotten Dress Chap 2

The morning light slipped through the attic window, pale and cold. Emily hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep curled against the cedar chest, the wedding dress still draped across her lap. Her neck ached, her eyes were swollen, but the ache in her chest was sharper than either.

She folded the gown carefully back into the trunk and carried the bundle of letters downstairs. Coffee hissed in the pot as she spread them across the kitchen table, arranging them not by ribbon but by postmark.

Vietnam. Stateside hospitals. Military post offices. The handwriting grew shakier as the months wore on, his hope dwindling with each letter. She forced herself to trace every detail — each return address, each faded stamp.

Her gaze lingered on one in particular, the envelope marked 106th Army Hospital — Cam Ranh Bay, Vietnam. Another bore the heading Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Washington, D.C.

She grabbed her phone, her thumb hovering over Marcy’s name before she pressed dial.

Marcy answered groggily. “It’s not even seven, Em…”

“I think I found something,” Emily blurted. “The letters — they list the hospitals. That’s where he was. If he came home, if he survived, there’ll be records.”

Marcy was silent a beat before she said, more awake now, “Then that’s a good place to start.”

Emily’s hand tightened around the phone, her pulse hammering. “I don’t know if I want to find a gravestone or a man. But either way, if he’s my father — well, I have to know.”

Marcy yawned audibly. “Fine. But let me go back to sleep for just an hour, okay? Unlike you, I don’t thrive on three hours and coffee fumes.”

Emily managed a smile. “Sleep your life away then. I’ll call later.”

When the line went dead, the kitchen felt empty, leaving Emily sad and alone. Her thoughts quickly turned to her mother, and she whispered, “Oh, Mom, I wish you were here. I sure could use one of your hugs.”

The smell of coffee filled the room, bitter and rich, as Emily spread the letters more neatly across the table, the postmarks forming a timeline of hope, despair, and silence. She was still tracing the faded ink when a knock came at the back door.

Emily hesitated, not yet ready to face the daily grind of living. When the knock came again, she opened it to find Mrs. Carter holding a basket covered with a linen cloth.

“I brought muffins,” the woman said quietly. “Blueberry. Your mother’s favorite.”

Emily stepped aside. Mrs. Carter placed the basket on the counter, smoothing the cloth with trembling hands. For a moment, neither spoke. Finally, Mrs. Carter turned, her eyes soft.

“I owe you an apology, Emily. Yesterday I wasn’t fair. I’ve carried your mother’s request for so long — not to speak of what she’d endured — that I couldn’t seem to let it go, even with her gone.”

Emily swallowed, her throat thick. “So, you did know.”

Mrs. Carter nodded slowly. “Not everything. But I knew she loved him. I knew losing him nearly destroyed her. And—” She hesitated, folding her hands tightly. “There’s something else. Something your mother once admitted, and something I later saw with my own eyes.”

Emily’s heart jolted. “What do you mean?”

“Your mother once thought she saw him in Fairhaven. We were out shopping, and she froze mid-step, certain it was Will. By the time she turned back, the man was gone. After that, she told herself it had only been a trick of the heart. She couldn’t bear to believe otherwise.”

Mrs. Carter’s voice softened. “But months later, I passed through Fairhaven on my own. I caught sight of a man outside a woodworking shop, sitting at a table, smoothing a piece of wood. For a moment, I swore it was him. The way he bent his head, the set of his shoulders — it was Will. I wanted to go closer, but something held me back. If he hadn’t gone to your mother by then, maybe he never would. And I couldn’t bring myself to raise her hopes only to see them crushed again.”

Emily stared at her, the letters trembling beneath her fingers. “So, he might have lived.”

Mrs. Carter reached out, laying her hand gently on Emily’s arm. “He might have. And if he did — I think Margaret wanted to find him, but couldn’t bring herself to shatter the life she had built for the two of you.”

Emily closed her eyes, the weight pressing deep. The words slipped from her lips, “He might have made it home then. But why not to us?”

Mrs. Carter’s hand lingered on Emily’s arm, then let it slip away. A few minutes later, Emily heard the back door click shut, leaving only the tick of the kitchen clock and the faint hiss of the coffeepot.

The letters still lay in neat rows across the table, their postmarks blurring through her tears. She brushed her sleeve across her eyes and forced herself to look closer. One envelope, tucked near the bottom of the stack, carried a date that made her heart stumble — March 2, 1969.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled it free and unfolded the fragile page.

March 2, 1969

My Dearest Margaret,

They’re moving me stateside soon, closer to home. It frightens me, how much I long for and dread that word all at once — home. You remember Fairhaven, don’t you? My father still keeps the woodworking shop on Main Street — “Bennett & Son.” He says the name feels foolish now, with no son to help him run it, but he keeps it painted above the door anyway.

I told him once that when the war was over, you and I would walk through that door together, hand in hand. It was a silly dream, maybe, but one I clung to when the nights grew long. Now, I know it will never be mine. Still, I hold it, clinging to what was supposed to be our future. Life changes things, and I’m sorry.

Always,
Will

Emily’s hand shook as she lowered the page. She grabbed her phone again and called Marcy back before she could talk herself out of it.

Marcy answered on the second ring, her voice muffled with sleep. “Em, I swear—”

Emily cut her off, her words tumbling out. “He names it, Marcy. Bennett & Son. A woodworking shop on Main Street. It’s right here in the letter.”

Silence stretched a beat, then Marcy’s tone sharpened, fully awake now. “That’s perfect. A family business in a small town? Someone will remember it, even if it’s long gone.”

Emily pressed her hand to the paper, her chest tightening. “He wanted her to walk through that door with him. And she never got to.”

Marcy’s voice softened, all traces of grogginess gone. “Maybe you can, Em. Maybe it’s not too late to at least walk through that door yourself.”

Emily let the words settle deep. Was he there, or was it just her wishful thinking?