The Chapel Wars

by Lindsey Leavitt

  Mom shrugged. “He’s a nice boy. Might be nice to settle on one guy for a while instead of dating an army of them.”

  “You’re dating someone in the army?” Dad asked.

  “You had to be there.” And I didn’t date an army. I had a policy on boys. I would go out with almost any boy who asked (well, there was a formula involved, but … I won’t go into it. Suffice it to say potential serial killers factored out of the equation). The more times I said yes—only to dinner, of course—the more boys felt comfortable asking. I wasn’t prettier/smarter/funnier/skinnier than any other girl. I was just approachable.

  By dating a lot, I avoided having relationship talks with guys, allowing me to say yes to another date at any time. No guy could object because we never had clear boundaries. Most guys didn’t go too far, because we weren’t together enough for too far to happen. Really, the theory was so golden, I could bottle it up and hawk it at county fairs. Men! Get your men here!

  The slogan wouldn’t stop Mom’s relationship chiding. At least she dropped the topic and fell into comfortable conversation while I waved and grinned at anyone within ten feet of our booth. No one came by. We were boring, our space was boring, we needed a gimmick, something—I don’t know—Spectacular!

  My parents didn’t seem too concerned about the lack of customers. Dad was telling Mom about his latest photography project—a series of fruit slowly rotting. He always had artistic projects on the side, though the chapel was his main gig. Mom told him about a local literacy charity she’d started to volunteer for and blah-blah-blah. They were married eighteen years, divorced almost six months. So why did their conversations sound like third-date stuff? Oh, you took a picture of a moldy peach? How fascinating! Yes, I like the color red as well. It’s so reddish. My, it is rather warm in this building.

  Do you ever repeat a question over and over again in your head that you wish you could just ask out loud? I constantly did that with my parents. Why did you get divorced? What if I just blurted that out during their conversation on lawn maintenance? Would it surprise them enough that they would give me an honest answer?

  Finally, a girl in a red sailor dress lingered near our booth. I set my grin to enthusiastic as she read through our brochure.

  “Hi! Are you a bride-to-be?”

  “I am.” She didn’t look up.

  “Well, great! Congratulations! We’re one of the oldest chapels in Las Vegas, family run, lots of class and charm. We’d love to be part of your special day!” I’d already reached my quota of exclamation marks, and I’d talked to her for only ten seconds.

  “Do you do musical weddings?”

  I leaned in. “Excuse me?”

  “Like, make the ceremony a musical instead of just saying it.” She stuck her hand on her hip in a theatrical pose. “Like Annie or Rocky Horror Picture Show or something.”

  I flitted a glance at my dad.

  “We don’t.” Dad gave his head a firm shake. “We’re a more traditional establishment.”

  She stepped back from the booth and gazed down the aisle. “Do you know who does?”

  “We don’t currently,” I corrected. “But if a musical ceremony is something that interests you, we’re happy to put on our jazz hands.”

  She flipped the brochure back and nodded. “Okay. Great, thanks. I’ll add you to my list.”

  My parents stared at me, gape-mouthed, as the bride wandered to the next vendor.

  “Put on your jazz hands?” Mom rubbed her eyes. “Did you start taking singing lessons and not tell us about it?”

  “Do you guys have a better idea?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Say no to musical ceremonies,” Dad said.

  Maybe it was sitting through my parents’ pleasantries earlier that made me so grouchy, or maybe it was the fact that they had yet to spring into action on behalf of the chapel, except for showing up at Bridal Spectacular and chitchatting the day away. “I don’t know if you can hear it, but there is a time bomb ticking, and at the end we all lose our jobs.”

  Dad frowned at Mom. “When did this one become such a realist?”

  “We know it doesn’t come from your side of the family,” Mom said.

  Dad brushed my bangs out of my face. “Honey. I’m glad to see your enthusiasm, but you know Grandpa hated kitschy.”

  The gold urinals proved otherwise, but I didn’t address that. “I hate kitschy too. But that bride doesn’t.” I opened my arms to the crowd. “A lot of people here don’t. And if we want to make more money and save the chapel, we have to try new things. Even things we don’t like. Even things Grandpa wouldn’t have liked.”

  “Give them what they want.” Dax’s words weren’t something we had to live by forever, but why couldn’t my parents see that we were in survival mode here?

  “I guess a show tune or two wouldn’t hurt.” Mom looked to Dad for agreement. I almost told her that she didn’t need Dad to agree with her anymore. They weren’t married.

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” Dad furrowed his brow. “Dad gave you the chapel so you would honor it, not bring in show tunes.”

  “Grandpa gave me the chapel to save it.”

  Dad stretched his legs under the table. “Okay. Fine. We can … I’ll do some promotional photo shoots or something. Get us a bride and groom, go out on location. Stick it online.”

  “That’s a great idea!” Mom beamed.

  “Sure, that’s a start. But that’s not enough. We have to change our business model. We should be offering broader packages to all our couples. More destination weddings.”

  “You’re seventeen, Holly.” Dad’s voice hardened. “I’m sorry, but you don’t know business models.”

  I loved this chapel even more than Dad did. He only worked there part-time, snapping staged portraits in the little back room. Grandpa never taught him how to polish the pews or deal with disgruntled customers. I’d been business modeled my whole life. “Now I understand why I got the letter and you didn’t.”

  Dad’s breath hitched.

  Mom shut her eyes and shook her head. Dad stood. “I’m sure that letter didn’t instruct you to disrespect your parents.”

  “Of course not.” I rubbed my forehead with a shaking hand. How did our conversations keep turning into fights? We never had conflict before. We never had … anything. “Look, Dad, I’m sorry.”

  A bride walked up then and asked Mom a question, so we all had to turn on our smiles. Dad’s didn’t quite go full throttle. I hated that I hurt him when he already had the hurt of his dad’s death, but I had pain too and I wasn’t ignoring the facts.

  “Hey, I’m going talk to some vendors. Network and all of that. Are you guys good?”

  Mom flashed an exaggerated A-okay sign. Dad didn’t answer, didn’t look at me.

  I could see where James learned to handle conflict. Go, Dad.

  I found Sam tragically nacholess next to a catering booth, sampling penne pasta in little cups.

  “Where are my nachos?” I asked.

  “I’ll buy you some in a bit. I had to call Camille, and I didn’t want your chips to get soggy while you waited.”

  “How sweet. It would have been sweeter if you got me nachos instead of calling your girlfriend.”

  “Eat some penne.”

  The chef glared as we downed two more samples before hitting the convention floor. I literally pushed up the sleeves of my white work blouse before diving in.

  I worked that floor harder than a prostitute on Fremont Street. I dropped off business cards and brochures at Angel Gardens, the reception hall we referred our couples to who wanted dinner or dancing. Our unique collaboration set us apart from most chapels on the Strip. Then it was on to the dress tailors, florists, ice sculptors, and videographers. I gave them my number, gave them smiles.

  Basically, I was the business model.

  “Dang, girl, let’s not hike up our skirt too much,” Sam said in between the Priceless Memories booth and another reception hall.

&nbs
p; “These are dress pants,” I said.

  “I mean, you don’t need to be so easy. If you’re too eager, it’s going to look desperate.”

  I shoved my hands into my pockets. “We are desperate.”

  “We’re going to be okay. I promise, you’re doing a good job, and the chapel isn’t going to fall to the ground. At least not today.” Sam paused in front of a bridal lingerie booth. “By the way, if Camille’s parents call the chapel to check her hours again, she worked today.”

  “She’s not scheduled.”

  “And I’m off in thirty minutes. So it’s perfect.”

  I made a face. “You guys aren’t going to make out in a convention center, are you?”

  “We aren’t tacky,” Sam said. “We’ll go in my truck. Oh man, the Crystal Yummy Cakes booth.”

  Wedding Mecca. Free mini cupcakes. Sam and I always made up a story about our fake wedding if they asked questions, but we could get in a good three or four bites before anyone noticed us. I shoved a toasted coconut bit of heaven into my face. “I would get married just to eat this cake.”

  “Camille and I are doing lemon on our top layer. Vanilla for the borings, maybe red velvet bottom.”

  I almost choked on the coconut. “Sam, you haven’t seriously talked about wedding cakes, have you?”

  “I’m eighteen, Holls. We’ve been dating for fifteen months. It’s not a weird conversation to have.”

  “Grown adults who have been dating for years don’t even talk like that. You haven’t picked out baby names, have you?”

  “Well, of course we’re doing Sam if it’s a boy because it’s family tradition.”

  I swallowed. The crumbs stuck in my throat. “Oh, Sam. No.”

  “You’ve never had a boyfriend,” Sam mumbled. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “True love.”

  I almost spewed on him. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “You are my girl best friend. This isn’t the kind of reaction you’re supposed to have, especially at a bridal convention. Five minutes here and girls will marry a hairbrush.”

  “So?”

  “So you sound too much like Grant and Porter. Don’t razz me on this.” He flicked some crumbs off his cheek. “Camille is the real thing. She’s my forever. As soon as we’re both out of school, we are getting married and leaving Vegas. We need to get away from her parents.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. They’d only been dating fifteen months. You can’t know forever in fifteen months. And how could they know each other at all when they spent 81 percent of their time together hooking up? I gave Sam’s arm a squeeze. How could a kid with such big muscles be so stupid soft? “I’m just worried that if things don’t work out, you’re going to crash hard.”

  Sam shrugged me off. “Then I do. Just because something might not happen later shouldn’t stop me from making plans now.”

  “But why make them before—”

  “I think that guy is waving at you.”

  I followed Sam’s gaze. That guy was Dax, and he was a mere fifty feet away at the tuxedo booth. He saluted me again. The combination of delicious food and a delicious Dax almost made me faint. I could never accuse Camille of acting Victorian again.

  Sam patted my back. “You okay?”

  I wiped off my mouth. “That’s Dax,” I said.

  “Dax who?”

  “Cranston.”

  Sam whirled around. “Why is a Cranston saluting you? Who salutes?”

  “Don’t embarrass me. He’s coming over.”

  Sam narrowed his eyes. “Tell me you’re not serious.”

  “He’s just a guy I’ve talked to, like, twice. And he’s in the wedding business, so we’re going to run into him. No big deal. Act professional.”

  “Professional? You look like you’re undressing him with your eyes. Does he look good naked?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “I swear, Sam. I swear I will rearrange your schedule so you don’t ever work with Camille again.”

  “Fine. Jeez. Protest much?”

  Dax weaved around a booth until he was only, what, three feet away from me? It had been eighteen days since I’d seen him. Those eighteen days had treated him well.

  I’m not going to pretend that I hadn’t thought about Dax. I wasn’t pining away, but I did see his chapel every day, and naturally that was going to lead me to think about who was inside. I kept wondering if things would be different if we had met in another way. If he wasn’t him and I wasn’t me. What if he was just some guy at my school, lending me a pencil or sitting at the table behind me in the cafeteria? Could there be more between us then? Would he want that? Would I?

  “Hey, Holly. Glad to see you here.” His smile was lazy and self-assured. His accent made my name sound like a ballad.

  Yes. Given different circumstances, I would want more. There was a lot to potentially want when it came to Dax Cranston.

  “Of course she’s here.” Sam slipped his arm around me protectively. “We always attend Bridal Spectacular. It’s a competitive market. Have to keep being excellent if we’re going to stay on top.”

  “Agreed,” Dax said.

  I squirmed away from Sam. “Dax, this is Sam.”

  “How you doing, man?” Dax held out his hand.

  Sam wrinkled his nose before giving Dax a limp shake. “Decent. Holls, we better go.”

  I gave Sam a look. He gave it right back. We actually had a ten-second conversation consisting of grunts and grimaces. Finally, I said, “Sam is my employee. We were just tasting cakes, but we’re done. Sam, why don’t you skip on back to the booth?”

  “What about you?” Sam asked.

  “I was just headed over to the fashion show if you wanted to go?” Dax asked.

  I’d witnessed the bridal fashion show before. Under any other circumstances, I’d rather gouge out my eye with a bridal veil comb than attend. But here was an excuse to talk to Dax for a bit. Just talk. He may have been off-limits when it came to physical things, but he might prove to be an excellent resource when it came to … brainstorming effective business models.

  “That’ll be great. See you, Sam.”

  Sam pulled me to the side. “What’s with the fake Southern accent?”

  “It’s not fake.”

  “Where’s he from then?”

  “I don’t know. I told you, I barely know the kid.”

  “If he goes Cranston on you, I swear I’ll drive my truck into their lobby.”

  “That’s your solution for everything,” I said.

  “Just because it’s always my answer doesn’t make it the wrong answer.”

  “You are such a country song.”

  He looked at me sharply. “Camille told you to say that.”

  “There happen to be some things Camille and I agree on.”

  “I just … I have a bad feeling about this guy.”

  I let out an exasperated breath. “And what feeling do you have exactly?”

  “Like … this doesn’t end well. For anyone.”

  “It’s a bridal fashion show, not a Shakespearean tragedy.”

  Sam huffed away.

  Dax let out a low whistle once he was out of earshot. “Boyfriend?”

  I made a face. “Gross. No.”

  “Ex-boyfriend?”

  “No, he’s practically married, and I am very not interested.” I wanted to do something girly then, like flip my black hair, but a pixie cut didn’t give me anything to flip. “Sam is my best friend. Sometimes best friend, except when he acts like that.”

  “Well, is your boyfriend here, then?” Dax asked, peering around the convention center.

  My stomach dipped. Checking on my relationship eligibility. I should have said Sam was my boyfriend so this little flirty flirt would end cold. “No, he hates wedding events.”

  Dax deflated slowly, like a hidden leak in an air mattress. Which I hated, so I tried to make him smile again. Up you roll, emotional yo-yo.

  “
Because … he went to the shooting range before his cage-wrestling match,” I said. “We’re going to eat dead animals with our bare hands later tonight.”

  Dax rewarded me with a smile. There was a dimple under the stubble. I tried to shield myself from all that adorable. It was a thick shield.

  “Sounds like a keeper.”

  “He would be if he were real. A girl can always dream.”

  Dax started walking toward the stage. “So Sam is an employee?”

  “Well, I mean, we work together. With his girlfriend, Camille. They’re fun when they aren’t sucking face. Do you have any friends at your chapel?”

  “Not unless you count Minerva, at the front desk. She makes me peanut brittle sometimes.”

  “I met her, I think.”

  “No, that was Millicent. She’s Minerva’s twin sister. They’ve worked for us since we opened. Besides those two, we have pretty high turnover. My poppy isn’t the easiest person to work for.”

  “Then is Millicent your friend?”

  “No. She hates me. She asked me to bird sit for her once and somehow I traumatized Mr. Tompkins.”

  The fashion show was already in full swing, which would be 34 percent swing if you were to compare it to any real fashion show. Dax raised his chin so he could see over the crowd. I counted nine girls with “I’m the bride!” nametags.

  Models in wedding finery twirled down the catwalk while an MC shouted expressions like “Gorgeous! Dynamic! Breathtaking!” One groom burst into the splits during a nineties hip-hop song. Spectators catcalled and fanned themselves with wedding brochures. It was, to say the least, the worst.

  “I love this dress!” The announcer’s voice was one pitch away from a dog whistle. “Looks like she’s walking on a cloud.”

  “Clouds are just visible vapor, so if you walked on them you’d fall through and die, and it would be a humid death,” I said.

  Dax grinned. “Unless you were wearing a cloud sweater, remember?”

  “That’s a large ‘unless.’ ”

  “So I take it you’re not in love with the fashion show?” Dax asked.

  “We don’t sell dresses, and we already refer to a bridal rental store. This isn’t applicable to our chapel.”