The Wedding Chapel

by Rachel Hauck

  He collected the football to show his dad, but when he approached, his old man was fast asleep in his chair, a book open and pressed against his chest.

  Jimmy gently tapped his foot. “You’ll get a crick in your neck if you sleep like that, Pop.”

  “Wh-wha?” Orie Westbrook jerked upright with a snort, running his hand over his thick hair. “Hey, son.” Jimmy couldn’t gauge it really, but he considered his dad to be a handsome man, maybe even good-looking in a John Garfield kind of way. The gals in town seemed to take a second glance when he passed by and said his name all sweet like. “Heeey, Orie.” “When did you come in?”

  “Just now. Coach gave me the game ball.” Jimmy spun the ball between his hands, dropping to the sofa.

  Dad lowered the footrest, shaking the sleep from his head. “Congratulations.”

  “What say we do something, Dad? You know, celebrate.”

  “Like what?” Pop jutted his chin toward the ball. “I can build a shadow box for that if you want.”

  “S-sure, that’d be great.” So his moment of glory could fit into a glass box. Dad’s kind gesture deflated Jimmy’s enthusiasm.

  “Got that old wood from the trees we logged and stacked in the barn. Good solid walnut.” Pop eased up from his chair, stretching, yawning. “Any of that strawberry pie left?”

  Dad wasn’t much of a cook, but he loved pie so he’d mastered the art of crust making. The summer Nana taught him, Jimmy never ate so many dry, doughy, burned, runny cherry, apple, strawberry, peach, pecan, and pumpkin pies.

  He swore off pie for the rest of the year. But now? Pop’s pies beat the bakery’s.

  “Dad, let’s go to the movies. Or down to the soda fountain.”

  “We already saw the movie. Weren’t one I’d pay a nickel to see again. You know, in my day that’s all a picture show cost. A nickel.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “And what would I do at the soda fountain?” Jimmy heard the refrigerator door open, then close. “Got to be up early in the morning. So do you, boy. We’re pulling rock from Crawford’s field. I’m going to need your help.”

  “Pop, I don’t want to spend my Saturday digging limestone from Crawford’s field. I don’t know why you do either. You’ve got a good surveying job. Why do you have to work on the weekends? Don’t know what you’re collecting all the stone for anyway.”

  They had their own ten acres and then some that Pop never did anything with other than to ride a tractor over all summer, cutting the grass. He’d hemmed the property line with Tennessee limestone and that was that. Otherwise, he filled their barn with the stone and lumber he collected for no apparent reason.

  “Watch your tone.” Pop came through the kitchen door with a slice of pie on his plate. “You never know what good those stones will be one day.” He eyed Jimmy across the room. “I’m heading out at six. Be ready.”

  “Why do I have to break my back, spend my time and sweat on your stones?”

  “Because those stones are yours too. Ever think you’ll get married one day, have a family? I got six acres I’m planning to give you. The materials I’m collecting will build a nice house for your wife. Save you a boatload of money too. That is, if you can ever smell good enough for some girl to go out with you.” Pop arched his brow and wrinkled his nose.

  “Hey, I showered after the game.”

  “You still have to be ready at six tomorrow morning. I’ll buy you breakfast from Ella’s.”

  Food was a small motivator, but enough. “I’m getting extra bacon then,” Jimmy said, moving to the window, leaving Dad to shovel pie in his mouth.

  Pinning back the curtain with the nose of the football, Jimmy stared in the direction of the Clemson home. Three wide streets over there was a girl who made his heart flutter, and she just might be sitting on the sofa with another boy.

  A flame of jealousy burned the thin edge of his football hero confidence. Colette was the only girl who ever made him lose concentration in math class. Yet he never found the gumption to speak to her save for “hi” and “good-bye.” He needed to get up some courage or else he’d end up an old bachelor like Dad. After his wife left, he never even considered another woman.

  Jimmy didn’t call her Mama. Because she’d never been one. Just a woman who gave birth, then ran off to seek fame and fortune—

  From the window, Jimmy regarded his pop for a moment. The limestone, the lumber . . .

  “Dad,” he said, low, slow. “She’s not coming back, you know.” His old man stared at his empty plate. “Don’t know why you waste your time, breaking your back and mine, collecting materials to build her a dream house when she’s not come round here in a dozen years. And if she did, would we even want her?” Jimmy sure as shooting didn’t. Just thinking about it made his gut rot. “What about Miss Jackson, down at the bank? She’d go on a date with you if you’d—”

  “I’m a-warning you, James Allen—” Dad wielded his full name, piercing Jimmy’s bravado. He never used his full name. “You’re sixteen, but I can still take you to the woodshed if need be.” Pop moved to the kitchen, and from the clatter, it sounded like he’d tossed his plate into the porcelain sink. “Don’t ruin your big night by sassing me. Your grandpa would’ve already decked me across the room by now.”

  “I don’t mean any disrespect.” Jimmy collapsed against the wall, restless. He itched to move, do something. No, what he itched to do was to be around Colette. Not stuck in the dark with Dad. Not tonight.

  “What say I go over to Clem’s?” If he couldn’t talk to Colette on the night he was a hero, then he never would. “The kids gather over there, you know, after the games.”

  Jimmy went a few times last year, but he hated to leave Dad sitting home alone on a Friday night listening to Frank Sinatra or Bing Crosby croon love songs on the hi-fi. It seemed sort of pitiful. Jimmy shook his head. He didn’t get it. Dad loved the ballads but he never made a move toward romance.

  “Fred and Jean will be there?” Dad said, starting for the stairs.

  “Where else would they be?” Jimmy headed for the kitchen and his jacket, smoothing his free hand over his hair, the ball still under his arm. “Do you think they’d leave Clem home alone? With a bunch of football players hanging around?”

  “Guess not.” Taking one step up, Dad paused, his hand resting on the banister, his face lost in the shadows. “Don’t be angry, Jimmy, about your mama. You didn’t know her. She was a fine woman.”

  “She left us. How fine can she be?”

  “She was . . . full of life. A free spirit. Too pretty for her own good. And smart.” He whistled, shaking his head. “She’d have gone to college too if she hadn’t been expecting.”

  “That wasn’t my fault.” He’d heard the stories, about how Mama, the valedictorian, was pregnant the day she walked for her diploma. That summer Mama gave up her college scholarship to marry Dad—who had her father’s shotgun pointed at his head.

  “No, that one’s me. It was my fault.” Dad disappeared up the dark stairwell, not even bothering with the hallway light when he got to the top.

  Jimmy didn’t care whose fault it was. And while he didn’t have any experience with baby-making, he was pretty sure it took two to tango. It wasn’t right what Vera did, leaving, crushing Dad, and abandoning Jimmy.

  But Dad blamed himself. The burden of guilt left him with enough heart to work and come home. Not much else. He was an old man at thirty-five.

  Well, Jimmy wasn’t going to be an old man at sixteen. He flew out the kitchen door and jogged toward Clem’s. Tonight was his night. He was going to celebrate by talking to Colette. Because he’d be hanged if he’d choose a life like Dad’s.

  Waiting on a woman who weren’t never coming home.

  Chapter Seven

  JACK

  The apartment was silent and dark when Jack entered, not bothering to be quiet. Out of habit, and with skilled movements, he tossed his keys onto the table by the front door. They landed with a clatter ag
ainst the old, scuffed wood.

  Taylor had rescued the thing from a junk heap on the side of a street with the intention of “reclaiming it.” She said it had character and once she restored it, the table would be a hallmark of their apartment.

  However, it remained battered and scuffed. Not even the afternoon sun could get a shine from the thirsty wood.

  Jack dropped down to the club chair facing the fireplace, the muted glow of the city his only light.

  He felt sick. No, ill. Morbidly ill. Kicking off his shoes, he stretched his tie away from his neck and dropped it to the floor beside him. He shrugged out of his jacket, wadded it up, and tossed it against the white brick fireplace.

  Was he really so naive? How did he not see this coming? He never even suspected. Never. How could she?

  He shoved up out of the chair and paced to the balcony door. Pushing it open, he stepped onto the wide, tiled space. The mellow midnight air breathed a swallow of life back into his cold bones and stony emotions.

  Betrayed. He hated it. There was nothing worse. Nothing. This particular betrayal cut to the core.

  Jack slapped his palm down on the flat, cold metal railing. The small noise barely made a ripple against the sounds of the streets. From the river, a tugboat horn moaned. And the melody of lights bursting toward Brooklyn from the Manhattan skyline layered long, wavy sabers on the water’s surface.

  Raising his hand, Jack grabbed at the city—the buildings, the lights, the bridge, the teeming streets, the promise of success. It was supposed to be just that easy. Reach out, take what you want, and hang on.

  But no, he was Jack Forester. How could he forget? Life refused to let him all the way in. Everything he wanted got ripped away. Ripped. Away. Eventually. No exaggeration. He could write a freaking book about it.

  On top of losing a longtime 105 account today, Hops still pressured him about London.

  “What are you doing out here?” Taylor’s voice broke in, a soft chisel against the rock of his thoughts.

  He glanced around as she stepped through the door onto the balcony, the hem of her nightshirt barely brushing the top of her legs. Man, she looked good with her hair mussed up and twisting over her shoulders, the ghostly streetlights touching her profile.

  “It’s late. You should be asleep.”

  “It’s not late.” She came alongside him, propping her arms on the railing, leaning into the air. “It’s early. One a.m. early. Where have you been?”

  “Working.”

  He’d been bothered and jammed up that afternoon he ran into her on his way back to his ad agency after arguing with a client. The cold, along with the salting of January flurries, only aided and abetted his irritation.

  “Hey, watch out.” He tried to sidestep the human barricade coming around the corner of 67th, but she moved in the same direction.

  “Sorry . . . I wasn’t looking . . . Jack? Jack Gillingham?”

  When he glanced into her royal blues, the ragged edge of his tension eased. “Taylor Branson?” He hugged her and when her laugh kissed his ear, the growl in his chest silenced. “What are you doing in New York City? And it’s Forester. Gillingham was my foster parents’ name.” He stepped back, letting her go, but not wanting to as the cold claimed the spot on his chest where her warmth had radiated.

  “I’m here now.” She patted her photo bag. “I moved from LA in June.”

  “Why? Because all that sunshine was getting on your nerves?”

  She laughed again, and his ad man brain said if he could bottle that sound, he’d be a billionaire. “Needed a change of scenery. A friend lined up a couple of jobs and wham, I loaded up and drove across the country.”

  “How’s ole Heart’s Bend? Have you been lately?”

  “Christmas. And it’s fine. My granny’s not doing well, but it was . . .” She shrugged, a slight sadness invading her tone. “You? Been back lately?”

  “Naw, work keeps me busy. I’m an ad exec for 105.” The snow thickened and he detected a blue shiver on her lips.

  “105? Very nice. I’d love to get some work with them. But I hear Hops Williams is a bear to manage.”

  “He is, but if you know a few tricks . . .” He winked, loving her responding smile. “Say, I’m freezing. Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Tea? Something?”

  “Well . . .” She glanced skyward, assessing the snow clouds, then back at Jack. “My job just canceled on me. But what’s behind the door marked ‘Something’?”

  She captured him. Right then and there. “Lunch?”

  “Perfect. I’m starved.”

  Lunch turned to window shopping, a stop at a café, and then dinner. Then a meet-up for coffee in the morning. Dinner again. Dinner every night, actually, until their spontaneous wedding.

  “Jack?” Taylor’s touch ended the memory. “You were working?”

  “Yeah, sorry, I meant to call. How’d your day go?” Didn’t she have a shoot or something? Right, for Always Tomorrow. Brought to her by the arrogant Doug Voss.

  “Fine.” Her answer, in quick movements. “The Always Tomorrow shoot went well. Saw Colette.”

  “Yeah, what’d she say?”

  “Nothing really. I mean, we’re like strangers. Same blood in our veins, but that’s about it. Though Addison thought we looked alike.”

  “The power of suggestion. It’s an ad man’s best tool.”

  “And why we think a pill can make us skinny.”

  She leaned near him and he exhaled a bit of his anger, but not enough to move him from the edge. He was comfortable there. Lived most of his life there. “Did she say anything about your granny’s death?”

  “Nope. She introduced me to one of her costars as her niece, but otherwise you’d never know we were family. Oh, Jack, she’s gorgeous. Looks like she’s still seventy.”

  “How old is she?”

  “A year younger than Granny. So, eighty-two?”

  “Hmm. Probably took a pill to keep her young.”

  Taylor bumped him with her hip. “Very funny.”

  “What’d you decide about Voss?” The edge was back in his voice. He heard it. He felt it.

  She stepped back. “What do you mean, what did I decide?”

  “Are you shooting the Emmys?”

  “Really, Jack? You’d want me to go to LA with Doug?”

  “It’s a job.” He heard himself. And he sounded stupid. But he wanted to be confident. Let her know he could handle whatever came his way. “I don’t have anything to worry about, do I?” If she still had feelings for Voss in some way, then by all means, let them surface.

  “You can’t be serious.” He felt the heat of her sigh. “Jack, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  She slid to the right, away from him. “By the way, the Architecture Quarterly people called. Thanks for the job. Said they needed me next weekend. Guess where?”

  “LA?” Sarcasm was his default.

  “Okay, Jack, fine.” Taylor turned for the door. “Be out here brooding by yourself. I don’t have time for this.”

  “Taylor, wait.” He reached for her, his fingertips brushing the soft underside of her forearm. “Bad day. So, where is this AQ shoot?”

  “It’s okay, Jack. You don’t have to care.”

  “I care. Look, I just . . . Things didn’t go well at work.”

  “What do you mean, ‘didn’t go well’?” Taylor gasped. “Did Hops get angry with you for giving me the AQ job?”

  He laughed. Her sincerity moved him. “No, he didn’t get angry.”

  Hops was the opposite of angry. He wanted Jack to move to the London office. And really, Jack should tell Taylor sooner rather than later. But fear of rejection inspired all kinds of procrastination. If Taylor refused to go, then what? Did he go without her?

  Just how committed were they in this six-month-old marriage? The one that bloomed from passion and spontaneity on a Martha’s Vineyard beach.

  When he proposed they hadn’t even talked abou
t things like finances or kids. Or how she might feel about moving across an ocean. But for now, in the immediate, Jack must focus on winning back an account.

  “We have a kink in the FRESH Water account. So, where’s this AQ shoot?”

  “What kind of kink?”

  “The shoot, Taylor. Where’s the shoot—”

  “Heart’s Bend.”

  “Heart’s Bend?” Jack glanced down at her, surprised. “Good ole HB? What’s the job? Photos of decrepit Main Street buildings?”

  “A wedding chapel, if you must know.”

  “A what? There’s no wedding chapel in Heart’s Bend.”

  “Apparently there is. Off River Road. Jimmy Westbrook built it.”

  “Coach Westbrook?”

  “I guess . . .”

  “He built a wedding chapel? Off River Road?” Jack scanned the back roads of his memory. He used to hunt out in the meadows, stealing away from one foster home or another.

  Until Sam and Sarah took him in. Then he picnicked out there with their extended family. All one hundred of them eating fried chicken and collard greens. But he never saw a chapel.

  “So, you’re going home?”

  “Looks like it. Guess it’s serendipitous since I’ve been meaning to get down there, deal with Granny’s house.”

  Taylor had inherited her granny’s house, but she’d only been home once in the past four months to deal with her inheritance. Her sister sent updates on things she’d taken or given away, but Taylor was needed to finish up. But like Jack, she seemed happier avoiding their hometown. Avoiding memories. For Taylor, it was her parents. Mainly her father.

  “I thought I’d stay down there for a week, deal with the house. I’ve been leaving all the work to Emma.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Y-you want to come with?” Her question came softly, tentatively.

  “To Heart’s Bend?” Jack shook his head. Once he left, he never looked back. “No, I’ve got work here. We lost the FRESH account.”

  “Oh, Jack, I’m sorry.” She lightly brushed his arm and he accepted her comfort, though he otherwise remained ticked off. “How could you lose an account you’ve had for so long? Didn’t they like your presentation?”