The Wedding Chapel

by Rachel Hauck

  Jimmy followed her to her car. “Sisters fight, Peg. Say things they don’t mean. That’s all I’m saying. Maybe you said something that made her think she had to go. Let you have me instead.”

  “No, never.”

  “Then talk to her. ’Cause I never felt for you that way.”

  Peg slipped DJ through the open passenger window onto the seat, then walked around to the driver’s door, angry and pouting. “What was I thinking? If I lived with you I’d be haunted by Colette’s ghost. With that fairy-tale notion you have of her stuck in your head.”

  Dropping behind the wheel, Peg fired up the engine and reversed down the road with such force that little DJ fell backward in the seat, his little hand grasping at the top of the door.

  Darn that Peg. What was she thinking coming round, spouting of love, making indecent propositions? Jimmy glanced back at the chapel. But she got one thing right. He was living with a fairy tale.

  Striding toward the chapel, he figured he had just enough light to do what he came to do.

  He snatched up the gas can and was about to pour when he heard it. The push-thump, a syncopated whoosh-thump, whoosh-thump.

  He faded to pale. “Peg?”

  He scanned the perimeter, raising his gaze skyward from the ground, searching for the source.

  “Peg, is that you?”

  He waited. When he didn’t hear the sound again, he took up the gasoline. But when he was about to pour, he heard it again. A thrumming, whooshing, throbbing that went clean through him.

  Jimmy scurried to the door. “Who’s here?”

  But the torn-up yard, littered with chipped limestone and wood shavings, was empty save for the song of the evening birds.

  Though the army doc gave him a clean bill of health, and he’d not had a nightmare in months, this had to be shell shock, kicking in a bit late. What else could it be?

  Back to the gasoline, Jimmy tipped it to pour when the whoosh echoed over the chapel, raising gooseflesh down his neck and arms, clean to his toes.

  He tipped his face to the patch of blue exposed between the trees. “I’m burning her down. To the ground. You can’t stop me.”

  The hollow, haunting whoosh settled on and over him with an even whoosh-thump, whoosh-thump. He knew that sound. A beating heart.

  Jimmy stretched to his full height, squaring up his shoulders and hanging on to the gas can. He had fought in a war, but this moment carried more power than guns and ammo. It settled over him with its own brand of fear. Of reverence.

  The rhythm beat strong and clear, all around him. In him. Through him. Soon his senses lost all bearings. Where did the sound begin and Jimmy end? He had no gauge.

  Moment by moment he lost all strength and slowly sank to the hard, red dirt ground.

  Chapter Twelve

  TAYLOR

  At Granny’s, Taylor woke when light broke through the back bedroom windows where she slept.

  Siting up, she reached for her phone, well, Jack’s phone, and checked the time through bleary eyes. Eight o’clock. She’d better get a move on.

  But she couldn’t quite kick out from under the blanket yet.

  Flopping back on the pillows, she stared at the familiar swirls in the ceiling plaster. She’d spent a good number of happy childhood days in this room, her refuge as a teen when Mama and Daddy divorced and she didn’t want to pick sides. Granny declared herself Switzerland and Taylor transferred her citizenship there.

  Though Mama was innocent, a victim of Daddy’s wandering ways, Taylor refused to be mean to his face. As mad as she was at him, the daddy’s girl in her couldn’t do it. So she just avoided him. And over the years she got pretty good at it.

  The trip to Nashville last night was crazy. Flight delays due to a storm in the Midwest were compounded by the fact that Jack got out of the cab with her cell phone, leaving her with his.

  And since he didn’t have Emma’s number in his contacts, she had no way to call her and let her know the flight would be late.

  She also missed connecting with Ryan for the equipment. She’d have to make do without.

  Thankfully, Emma checked the flight online and was waiting for Taylor when she arrived, exhausted, after midnight.

  “I take back every bad thing I said about you when we were kids,” Taylor had said as she crawled into the passenger seat.

  But now it was Friday morning and time to work. Time to see this secret wedding chapel.

  Taylor snatched up Jack’s phone and texted him, well, texted herself.

  HEY! DID YOU NOTICE YOU HAVE MY PHONE? NEED TO SWITCH.

  She waited for him to text her back, but when he didn’t she showered and dressed.

  Still no response.

  Gathering her gear, she tucked his phone in her pocket and headed downstairs, the nearly empty house eerie, echoing her footsteps.

  While Granny left the house to Taylor, she left the contents with Emma. As if to ensure they’d have to work together.

  But unlike Granny with Colette, Taylor and Emma got along. So far anyway.

  Emma had done a great job of clearing out most of the furniture, going through the interior, lining up Granny’s dishes on the dining room table, ready for someone to take. Otherwise, Emma wanted to sell them at an estate auction.

  Pausing in the doorway to the kitchen, Taylor looked back through the living room, a small ache in her heart.

  Miss you, Granny.

  She’d died so suddenly. An aneurysm.

  But Taylor didn’t have time to linger. From the hook by the back door, she snatched Granny’s keys and headed out.

  Unlocking the detached garage, she slid open the wide door, smiling when the chrome of Granny’s old Lincoln Continental convertible glinted in the sunlight.

  Setting her gear in the trunk, she glanced around the garage for items she might use for lighting.

  Finding nothing, she went back inside and MacGyvered a reflector using pieces of cardboard covered with tinfoil. Then collected two lamps from the living room.

  Back out to the car, she settled her makeshift gear in the trunk, slipped behind the wheel, and powered down the top.

  It was a beautiful day, and despite the bumpy beginning to her weekend, she was going to have the Tennessee sun warm her skin this morning. And have fun. Yessiree, fun.

  Later she’d figure a way to exchange phones with Jack. He was only an hour up the road.

  Spotting the street just before the turn for the chapel, she slowed the Lincoln, narrowing her gaze at the For Sale sign along the roadside.

  The tires crunched over the gravel as Taylor steered down the narrow lane toward the chapel, low-hanging tree limbs reaching for her. She gasped when she emerged into a small, open grassy area full of light and serenity.

  She eased the car behind the truck parked under a patch of blue sky, then popped the trunk, surveying the chapel and the grounds.

  “No wonder AQ wanted pictures.”

  But from the golden beams dancing in the air about the chapel, backed by an umbrella of white light, Taylor thought she might just have her first, perfect, natural lighting job.

  Way to give a girl a break, God.

  Maybe it was her imagination, but as she pulled her makeshift reflectors out of the trunk, she thought a bass You’re welcome buzzed through her.

  “Taylor?”

  Taylor peered around to see Coach Westbrook heading her way. He looked pretty much the same as the last time she saw him—white haired with lively blue eyes, a bounce in his step, and squared-back shoulders.

  “Coach?” She shook his hand. “I think you look younger than the last time I saw you.”

  He laughed. “Don’t know about that.” He reached to help her with one of the lamps. “Sorry, but I don’t rightly remember you.”

  “Don’t see how you should. I was the yearbook and newspaper geek in high school. Always hiding behind my camera.”

  “Well, when you hold your camera to your face, I guess I’ll recognize you then.” H
e laughed at his own joke, drawing her in immediately.

  Okay, she liked this man. A lot.

  He held up the lamps. “Don’t know what you had planned for these, but there’s no electricity out here.”

  “What? Really?” She sighed and opened the trunk, stepping aside for Jimmy to lay the lamps back on the fuzzy lining. “How do you see for ceremonies and stuff? Candlelight?”

  “Ain’t never had a ceremony, but yeah, candles, lanterns.” He rattled his keys and headed for the chapel steps. “The cupola up top lets a lot of light in. Like a funnel of sorts. This time of morning is good too. Not that I know anything about taking pictures.”

  “So, Coach, you’ve never had a ceremony or service out here? Ever?”

  He slipped the key in the door. “Nope.”

  “Can I ask why? And is that why you’re selling the place? I-I saw the sign.”

  “Just never got around to it. Keith Niven called, wondering if she were for sale, and I thought, ‘After sixty-four years, why not?’ ”

  Taylor followed him inside, looking for a staging area, pausing when the beauty of the interior captured her. “Coach, this is incredible.” She lowered her voice. “Serene. Beautiful.”

  The light falling through the cupola fanned through the tiny sanctuary like illuminated ribbons, creating a sense of floating. Of moving. She assembled her camera, eager to capture the light before it moved.

  “She’s an old friend, I guess.”

  “Then why are you selling?”

  Coach eased down into the last wooden pew, his hands cupped over his knees. “Like I said, I guess it was time.”

  With each word, Taylor felt him. Kindness wrapped in sorrow and regret.

  A beam draped over his shoulder as he stared toward the window and Taylor aimed her camera, capturing the vulnerability of the moment.

  He glanced her way. “Ah, now I recognize you. Girl with Camera.”

  Taylor lowered her Canon and regarded him. “Yes, Girl with Camera. How did you know?”

  “You entered a black-and-white of yourself in a county art show. Called it Girl with Camera.”

  “That’s right . . . You remember?”

  “I was one of the judges. Made an impression on me. Reminded me of someone I used to know.”

  “My granny? Peg? You went to school with her.”

  “That’s right. Peg.”

  “You coached my dad in football. Drummond Branson Jr. Only they called him DJ when he was a kid.”

  “I remember your daddy. He was a solid player.”

  “You must remember my aunt Colette too.” Taylor captured two more shots of Jimmy. He was interesting. The sanctuary was gorgeous, but there was more, beneath the surface. The room almost seemed to respond to Jimmy. As if it knew . . .

  “Have you been keeping this place a secret?” Taylor checked the camera’s display, paging through the shots she’d taken, her excitement rising. They looked perfect. It was odd that such flawlessness had come with so little effort and no artificial lighting. She wondered if editing these images might be altering something sacred.

  “A secret? No. Just never told no one. Being out of town, back off the road, hid by the trees, I didn’t get many inquiries.”

  Taylor walked the length of the center aisle, brushing her hand over the top of the pews, her footsteps soft against the slate floor. “You built this yourself?”

  “My father helped. A few friends. Mostly me.”

  At the kneeler, Taylor paused, running her hand over the smooth, carved wood splayed with a prism of colors. She raised her gaze to the large stained glass window behind the altar and stepped back, aiming the camera. Any other time, this would be a cover shot, but today the source of beauty in this room was Jimmy himself.

  “The stained glass is beautiful,” she said.

  “I rescued it from an old church in downtown Nashville when the postwar construction commenced.”

  “And the pews?” She dropped to one knee and aimed for a shot down the main aisle, giving the image movement and depth.

  “Built them myself, from the wood I rescued. What’s it called today? Reclaimed?”

  “You’re quite the craftsman.” The side windows, with their square panes, let in a blend of light and shadow that shifted when the breeze swayed the tree limbs.

  “How long did it take to build?”

  “Ten years, give or take. Got interrupted by Korea. Then college.”

  “But you never married? Here or anywhere else?” Taylor made her way back toward Coach, trying to identify the unseen feeling that drew her to this place.

  “You married, Taylor?”

  “I am. To Jack Forester. He grew up here.”

  “I know Jack. Know his daddy too. Rise Forester.”

  “Don’t let Rise hear you call Jack his son.”

  Coach harrumphed and she knew she’d just found a comrade.

  Their conversation faded as Taylor captured the room, finding the shots she wanted, already eager to review the proofs. AQ wanted them by Tuesday.

  “There’s a feeling here . . . I can’t put my finger on it.” The sound of a distant whoosh-thump, whoosh-thump passed through the chapel, through her, electrifying the hair on her arms. What was that? “Coach?”

  But he was gone, the chapel door wide open.

  “Coach? Did you hear that sound?” Taylor moved to the door, glancing around for where the sound might have originated.

  He stood in the yard in a dome of light, facing his truck. “You about done?” he said.

  “Yeah . . . I thought I . . . I’m about done. Are you all right?”

  “Fine, just wanted some fresh air, is all.”

  Taylor glanced back at the chapel. Did she expect to see someone, something, chasing after her? “M-maybe I could come back tomorrow?” The whoosh-thump echoed through her, familiar yet disconcerting. She’d heard God’s heart before but never like that, so loud and powerful.

  “Sure, if you need.”

  Back in the small, square sanctuary, Taylor packed up, her hands slightly trembling as she listened. Would she hear it again?

  Just as she got to the door, she heard it. Whoosh-thump. She stopped, breathing deep. Whoosh-thump. The rhythm timed with her own pulse, resonating through her.

  Lord?

  “Let’s get a move on, Taylor.” Coach motioned for her to exit, swinging the door closed behind her and locking the chapel.

  “What time tomorrow?” he said. “My real estate agent wants to talk to you about taking pictures, but you ain’t obligated.”

  Coach brushed past her down the steps. Taylor reached out, grabbing his arm. “Coach, you can’t sell. There’s something special about this place. Something . . . alive.”

  Coach stared off, shaking his head. “Whatever was alive is dead now.” He peered back at her. “Trust me now. Come on, let’s head home.”

  Taylor settled her camera in the trunk, eyes on the chapel, feeling her way through her thoughts, through what just happened in there. Did Coach hear it too?

  Either way, she felt changed somehow. As if encountered by the Divine.

  JACK

  Standing at the head of the conference room table, Jack gathered the attention of the FRESH drinking water executive team. Directly facing him, at the other end of the table, sat Lennon MacArthur, drumming his fingers with expectation.

  Next to him sat Karli Jackson, FRESH Water’s dynamic head of marketing. She was beautiful, hip, and a marketing whiz kid. The exact kind of partner 105 thrived on. In fact, 105 might need FRESH as much as FRESH needed 105.

  Forgoing mundane introductions, Jack launched into his pitch.

  “A friend of mine is a triathlete,” he said. “He trains six mornings a week.” From the conference table, his phone buzzed.

  He’d known since last night that he had Taylor’s phone, but he didn’t mind because he’d hoped to hear back from Colette. Still talking, he read Taylor’s screen.

  “Health is more than just a
passing fad for my friend. It’s his life.” Doug Voss’s name blazed across the phone. Jack dropped it to the table, his fingers burning. “My friend can’t win, can’t excel—” The phone buzzed again. “Unless he’s fueling his body with clean, natural foods and—”

  . . . MEET ME IN LA. AFTER THIS PHONY SHOOT

  “Jack, are you all right?” Lennon leaned forward, his expression impatient.

  “I’m good. All good.” But sweat trickled down his sides and the churning in his chest made him feel as if he just might explode.

  “FRESH Water has been the icon of clean living and clean drinking. Aubrey James brought your mission of clean to the world with her commercial, ‘Please make mine FRESH.’ ”

  Jack sang the little ditty as Taylor’s phone vibrated once more. He restrained the impulse to fling the thing against the wide, thick window.

  “Jack, do you need to get that?” Lennon’s firm tone lacked graciousness.

  “As a matter of fact . . .” Jack swiped open Taylor’s phone for a reply text.

  THIS IS JACK.

  He hit Send. No need to say more.

  “Let’s all take five,” Lennon said, pushing away from the table.

  “Colette Greer.” The words fired out of his mouth without regard to what he would say next. But he had to do something. If he let this team take five, half of them wouldn’t return. He took a slow breath. “Colette Greer.”

  “The soap actress?” Jack had earned Lennon’s attention.

  “One and the same. She’s iconic, just like FRESH. Instead of narrowing FRESH’s market to the health conscious, let’s go for the semi–health conscious. The busy mom, the businessman shuffling through the airport. He stops at a kiosk and says, ‘Make mine FRESH.’ ”

  “All right, you have me. How does Colette Greer play into this broader brand?”

  “She’s an adjective. An instant image comes to mind when we say her name. ‘She’s the Colette Greer of our family.’ Immediately we know that means a tough broad who’s also a refined woman of taste.” He’d found his stride, no thanks to that blowhard Doug Voss. “A friend of mine won several awards last year. She said, ‘It’s a Colette Greer kind of year.’ ” Jack snapped his fingers. “I knew instantly what she meant.”