The Wedding Chapel

by Rachel Hauck

  Taylor smiled, finally cooling off. Finally feeling herself. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  As the door slammed behind Emma, Taylor returned to her fanned post on the couch and tore open the envelope. Inside was a letter written in Granny’s elongated hand, and a weird old key.

  Taylor,

  If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I hope my funeral was nice but short, and that Mrs. Bath didn’t blubber like she did at Carl Bell’s service. What an embarrassment.

  Taylor laughed softly. “Pragmatic to the end.” No one could ever accuse Granny of being overly sentimental.

  So you hitched your wagon to the Forester kid? Here’s my advice. Speak up, say what’s on your mind, don’t assume. Enjoy the bedroom. Ahem. And well, sis, if it ain’t working, don’t hang around and waste your life.

  Granny!

  Anyway, as I’m trying to get into heaven where I will surely see my dear mamá and papá again, I want to right a very deep wrong. I’m not really sure how to go about it, or if I’m even making the right decision. So I’m passing the buck to you. Sorry, Taylor, hope you don’t hate me afterward. Then again, hopefully I’ll be in heaven and won’t care.

  In case you’re wondering, I’m giving this task to you because, well, the others are idiots.

  Taylor laughed through her tears. Granny, Granny, Granny . . .

  Besides, you’re my favorite. You’re wise and I like Jack. He seems to have his head on straight despite what his daddy did to him. What a despicable creature, Rise Forester.

  Taylor sat back. Jack. Her Jack. He’d be on the golf course with Lennon by now. Taylor embraced a pang of missing him.

  You probably know by now that I set your dad as my executor, but I’m leaving the house to you and the contents to Emma. Pretty savvy of me.

  Work together with her to ensure everyone gets what they want, and don’t fight over anything. It’s only stuff and not worth the family being torn apart. I should know. Family is the most valuable thing on earth, though Lord knows I didn’t live my life with that conviction. Remember that family isn’t just blood kin but anyone who fits into your heart.

  The key is for the box. If you find it, make a wise decision about its contents. Consider all involved and, Taylor, if you think it won’t help or if it’ll cause more harm than good, leave it be. Take it to your grave, as I have done.

  Either way I’m sorry. I really, really am. Keeping secrets hardens a woman’s heart. I didn’t realize how much so until it was too late.

  Taylor glanced at the key, then around the room. Was there a box with a lock in here? And what secret?

  All these years I had to keep quiet. But now, death has given me opportunity to speak. Not many folks can say that, can they?

  When you were in your teens, I saw how your parents’ divorce affected you more than Emma, and I just want you to know, if the saints of heaven really are praying and watching over, and I’m allowed in, bless the name of Jesus, I’ll be sure to pray for you.

  Taylor, I never said it enough, but I love you. I was always very proud of you. Be well. And if you can, hug Colette for me. Tell her I’m sorry.

  Granny

  Taylor reread the last lines, trying to discern the unwritten meaning. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

  About what, Granny?

  Tears swished across her eyes, spilling to the tops of her cheeks. She felt cheated, like someone had offered her an ice-cream cone, then snatched it away before she could take a lick.

  “Love you, Granny.”

  Taylor brushed her hand over her tear-touched cheeks and slipped the letter back into the envelope and palmed the key. Placing the Rumors album back on the shelf, she glanced about the room. Where would Granny stash a mysterious box?

  From down the hall, she heard her phone ring. Jack. Taylor rose from the couch, the sudden move draining her balance. Grabbing the arm of the sofa, she let the moment pass, then hurried to her room.

  “Hello?” She didn’t recognize the number.

  “Taylor?”

  “This is she.”

  “Keith Niven, Niven Realty. I understand you have pictures of the Westbrook property. I was wondering if you’d like to share?”

  “Share?” Taylor set the letter and key on the old dresser, then leaned against it. Seriously, no more Fry Hut fries. “No, um, sorry, I took those for a client.”

  “How about I hire you to shoot another set?”

  Architecture Quarterly didn’t ask for an exclusive, so . . . “What do you need them for?”

  “Website. We’ve listed the chapel for sale but the images my associate took don’t capture the essence of the place. Do you have time?”

  “I do, but I’m not sure I like the idea of Coach selling the place.”

  “I hear you, but he’s ready. We’ll get him fair market value.”

  “I don’t think it’s about the money.” Really, this wasn’t her business.

  “Listen, are you speaking for Coach or yourself? Because he’s the one who gave me your number. So I’m thinking he’s a go for selling. So, are you in?”

  Taylor rattled off her top fee, which Keith agreed to without a hesitating breath.

  “Can you come now? I’m at the chapel with Coach.”

  “Now? Yeah, sure.”

  She stared out the window, echoes of Granny’s letter drifting through her head, followed by images of Jimmy staring out the chapel window.

  What secret? And why was Coach selling?

  Pushing past the waves of queasiness, Taylor grabbed her purse and headed out.

  At the Lincoln, she checked to ensure her equipment was still in the trunk, then fired up the engine.

  The drive out to River Road cleared her head and relieved the effects of the French fries. By the time she turned down the chapel’s lane, she felt strong.

  “She’s beautiful today, Coach,” Taylor said, greeting the old man in the middle of the chapel yard.

  “She’s beautiful every day.”

  What’s going on?

  Accompanying Coach Westbrook was a lean man in what appeared to be a tailored suit. Professional, with eager eyes and an eager gait, he introduced himself to Taylor.

  “Keith Niven.” He shook her hand with a firm grip.

  “Taylor Branson.”

  Maybe between LA and New York she’d become cynical, but she didn’t like Keith. Too slick. Too smarmy.

  “Ready to take some pictures?” he said, pronouncing it “pitchers” and popping his hands together.

  “Let me get my camera.” Taylor raised the trunk lid, reaching in for her camera. “Hey, Coach?”

  “Taylor?”

  “You sure you want to sell this place.”

  He glanced away but nodded. Once. “It’s time. Ain’t getting any younger.”

  Taylor walked with Keith into the chapel while Coach waited outside.

  “We have some powerful interest in this place.” Keith paced down the center aisle, hands on his waist, suit jacket shoved back.

  “What does that mean? ‘Powerful interest’?” Taylor snapped on a lens and took a couple of test shots.

  “People with deep pockets wanting to buy.”

  “Why do folks with deep pockets want a wedding chapel?” Taylor moved through the sanctuary, searching for the angles and light she’d found yesterday. But the air in the chapel was different. Taylor glared toward Keith. She suspected the change was more about the absence of Coach than the presence of Keith.

  “I can sell this place within the month,” Keith said, his words puffed up. “I’ve got a group from Nashville and one from Vegas coming for a look-see. Destination weddings in smaller venues like chapels are all the rage. This place will be hopping.” He snapped his fingers, one-two-three.

  Taylor took a couple of shots, but her heart wasn’t in it. She ached for Coach to keep this place. When she positioned herself in the front corner for a wide shot of the sanctuary, Coach walked in.

  She snapped the shutter, capturing the old ma
n in his custom space.

  Tell me, Jimmy, what’s on your mind?

  From his expression, it wasn’t buyers from Nashville and Vegas.

  “Say, Coach,” Taylor said, walking toward him. “Ever think about running the place yourself? You could hire a manager to help coordinate it all.” She powered off her camera and removed the memory card. “Here you go, Keith.”

  “Taylor, Taylor.” Keith jumped between them. “Running a wedding venue is mega work. Coach is retired, enjoying life. He doesn’t want to run a wedding business.”

  “Coach, what did you have in mind when you built this place?” Taylor shoved the card at Keith, feeling mama bearish about Coach. Like he needed someone, her, in his corner.

  “What did I want? Get married, I reckon.”

  “So, why didn’t you?”

  “Listen,” Keith said, snatching the card from Taylor. “I hired you as a photographer, not an advocate for my client against me. I’m about to make Coach a lot of money.”

  Maybe it was the ordeal between her and Jack. Or waking up this morning feeling puny. Or maybe it was because she just believed Coach needed someone to advocate for him, but Taylor had enough of Keith Niven.

  “Don’t push me or Coach. I only want to make sure he has a choice. That this is really what he wants. Can’t you see this place means a lot to him? Are you being discreet with potential buyers? Or are you bringing by any ole Elvis preacher who’d marry a chicken to a duck for the right price?”

  “You wound me.” Keith slapped his hand to his chest. “I’m not a two-bit hustler. I was agent of the year last year. I’m a professional. This is my career. It’s my duty to sell this extraordinary property to the right buyer for top dollar, making money for everyone.”

  “Taylor, Taylor, it’s all right.” Coach slipped his hand into hers. “I appreciate you sticking up for me, but I know what I’m doing. Keith is a good man.”

  She exhaled, deflating some of her ire, but didn’t withdraw her hand from his, not clear whether he held on to her or she to him.

  “Fine, but, Keith, do not treat Coach’s life’s work like a two-bit hotel. And what’s top dollar, by the way?”

  “Coach,” Keith said, laughing. “I thought you just met this gal. But you have a tiger in your corner. Top dollar is top dollar. At today’s prices, Coach will walk away with a mighty tidy sum.”

  Taylor peered over at Coach, who boasted a smile, but his slightly rounded shoulders cracked her heart a bit wider for him.

  “Coach.” She squeezed his hand. “Are you really sure you want to let this place go? I just feel like there’s something more here—”

  He squeezed her hand back. “Trust me, kiddo, I let go a long time ago.”

  A brush of light fell over the pews from the western windows, spreading a gentle wheel of color through the stained glass. A soft red, pale blue, and shallow green puddled across the floor.

  Then she heard it. The light whoosh-thump. Taylor whipped around toward the door, her middle taut with anticipation. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Coach said, releasing her hand.

  Taylor shook her head. “Nothing. Just the wind.” She turned to Keith. “You have some good shots. Keep the memory card, Keith.”

  “I need to pay you.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket but Taylor waved him off.

  “Just find the absolute best buyer for Coach. For this chapel.”

  “Trust me, I will, but I insist on paying you.” Keith pressed a wad of bills in her hand as he headed out. “I hate to be beholden.”

  I bet you do.

  Alone with Coach, Taylor smiled. “Guess that’s it for now.” Then she heard it—the whoosh-thump. The sound of a heart’s chambers.

  She tossed Coach a visual. Their gazes met and she knew. He’d heard it too.

  “Do you think buildings have a soul, Taylor?” He jutted out his square chin where a soft dusting of white whiskers caught the light.

  “A soul?” she said, raising her gaze to the ceiling. “I reckon not. Only humans have souls. But I suppose an old building just might have a heart.” She tossed it out there, waiting for him to respond, to confess he heard it too.

  He nodded and turned for the door. “You ready? I’ll lock her up.”

  In the yard, Taylor bid Coach a good day and climbed behind the wheel of the Lincoln.

  Coach could not, must not sell this place. Because Taylor innately understood any change of hands would end a dream that somehow still yearned to live. And the key of that dream was buried in the heart of one sweet old coach.

  Chapter Seventeen

  JACK

  Focus, Jack, focus.

  His mission Monday afternoon was simple. Convince Colette Greer to lend her legendary name to FRESH Water.

  Karli Jackson from FRESH had phoned over the weekend, gushing about how much the team loved Jack’s fabulous idea. Then she dropped the hammer.

  “No Colette Greer, no deal.”

  Jack was never so relieved than when Colette called Sunday evening just after he arrived home.

  Without any small talk, she agreed to meet with him. “Monday afternoon, one sharp.”

  Yessiree, he was not going to lose an account to Alpine & Schmidt.

  Now, pacing his office, Jack prepared to pitch his A game.

  Hops popped into his office. “I still need my best man heading up WhiteWater’s foundation.”

  Jack glanced up from his notes. He liked to jot down his ad libs. “Fine, fine, let me get through this FRESH business and I’ll give you an answer.”

  “Sooner rather than later, Jack.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Rocking back in his chair, Jack stared at his glass wall, watching Hops disappear into his office.

  London. He’d not even brought it up to Taylor. What if he wanted, needed, to go to London, but she insisted on staying here? Jack’s chest constricted with the idea of leaving his wife in New York while that snake Doug Voss slithered through the streets.

  Try as he might, he could not trust. He’d been burned by that match too many times.

  He woke up this morning with an odd line running through his head, rocking his confidence.

  “If it doesn’t work out we can walk away, no fuss, no muss.”

  Who said that? Taylor? At their wedding? His memory played a recording of her voice saying, “No fuss, no muss.”

  Know what? He didn’t have the emotional time to dwell on it. Jack reached for his phone and slipped on his suit jacket.

  If he didn’t leave for Colette’s now, he’d be late.

  Grabbing a fourth cup of coffee, Jack stopped by Hops’s office. “I’m on my way to Colette Greer’s.”

  “Fine, keep me posted.” Hops remained focused on the document he was reading.

  “I’m not losing this account to Alpine & Schmidt.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “Why don’t you hire someone who’s already in London? To head up the foundation?”

  “Because I hired someone in New York who said he’d do anything and everything I asked.”

  Ah, speared by his own confession. “That was a long time ago.”

  Hops glanced up. “What’s changed?”

  “Me. I’m experienced now. Married.”

  “Which is exactly why you need to be in London. As a photographer your wife must be dying to go.”

  Jack kicked out one of the chairs in front of Hops. “I haven’t told her.”

  Hops reached for his 105 coffee mug, using it more as a prop than to drink coffee. “Things not going well between you two?”

  “We’re adjusting.”

  “Want some advice? From a man who’s been married three times?”

  “Not really.”

  “Third time’s a charm, Jack.”

  “I don’t want to be married a third time. Or a second.”

  “You may have no choice.” Hops set his cup down and leaned on his elbows. “Jack, if your job is sexier than your wif
e, then it’s time to cut her loose.”

  “Excuse me?” Where was he going with this?

  “You come in early, stay late. Bust your butt to win back an account I’m not all that keen on keeping.”

  “FRESH has been a key account for ten years. Besides, I’m trying to build a career here.”

  “So you lose one account, Jack. It happens.”

  “Do you hear yourself?” Jack jumped up. “Cut the wife loose, cut a key account. Well, no, I don’t want to lose FRESH.” Or Taylor.

  It wasn’t so much that he hated to lose—he hated the . . .

  Rejection.

  “I’ve been where you are, Jack. Believe me,” Hops said. “I know exactly how you feel. So trust me when I say sometimes you have to let things go, move on, scale higher mountains. Before your marriage you’d have beaten down my door for the London spot. Again, what’s changed?”

  “I have a personal life.”

  “Yet here you are, at the office morning and night, spending your weekend on a B-level account. If that is more enticing to you than whatever is waiting for you at home, then cut your losses, Jack. Elope out as quick as you eloped in.”

  “That’s your sage advice? ‘Elope out’?”

  “Took me three marriages to figure it out, but yes, that’s my sage advice.”

  Jack regarded Hops, searching for a response, finding none. His words felt dry and void, his heart pinging with the buried truth in his boss’s odd logic.

  From his pocket, Jack’s phone buzzed, reminding him to leave for Colette’s or be late.

  “I’ve got to go.” He backed toward the door.

  “Good luck. But, Jack, after you fix this FRESH thing, it’s off to London. I’m not asking anymore. I’m telling.”

  Jack stepped over Hops’s verbal gauntlet, tension twisting through him. If he had to choose between London and his marriage, between his boss and his wife, he’d sink. Drown in indecision.

  After riding the elevator to the street, Jack whistled for a cab.

  While the idea of losing Taylor stole his breath away, his job meant everything to him. For the past five years, Hops and 105 had been his family, a constant in his life, a place of security and success.