The Wedding Chapel

by Rachel Hauck

  So if he had to choose . . .

  Jack scooted into the backseat of a yellow cab and gave the driver Colette’s address. He stared out the window at the traffic and pedestrians, grappling with Hops’s advice and the churning question—If he had to choose . . .

  Squirming in his seat, he stretched his starched collar, trying to inhale deep.

  He didn’t know. He just didn’t know. And in the face of his indecision, a slow-burning fear settled in his soul.

  The famous Colette Greer met him in the middle of a bright, square room where a wall of windows faced Central Park.

  “Come in, please.” She shook his hand and the power of her grip made him question her age.

  “Thank you for meeting with me.” Jack sat in the chair she indicated, a bit in awe of the soap legend.

  She had a presence about her, a savoir faire he didn’t find in most women, or men, for that matter. To his surprise, though, she reminded him of Taylor. Her countenance, her frame, the way she carried herself.

  He’d collected himself, stuffed away his conversation with Hops on the ride over, finally feeling composed on the elevator ride up to Colette’s penthouse.

  “Zoë, bring round some tea,” Colette said. “You like tea, don’t you, Jack?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He’d drink tea until his eyes swam in orange pekoe if it landed Colette for the FRESH account.

  She sat on the corner of the sofa, diagonally from Jack, who’d dropped into the nearest big and boxy armchair. Everything in the room was white except the dark furniture.

  “So what’s this all about? This FRESH Water opportunity?”

  “Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Greer.” Jack scooted to the edge of his chair.

  “How’s Taylor?”

  Jack moved to the edge of his seat, adjusting his jacket, focusing on Colette. “She’s fine. In Heart’s Bend, actually. At her granny’s house. She went down to take pictures of a wedding chapel.”

  Colette glanced away. “Wh-what is she doing at her granny’s house?”

  “Not really sure. Her granny, Peg, your sister, left the house to Taylor but the contents to her sister, Emma. Pretty unique situation.”

  Colette sat back. “I see. And this chapel?”

  “I don’t know much about it other than ole Coach Westbrook built it. Did you know him? Jimmy Westbrook?”

  “I-I believe I went to school with a Jimmy Westbrook.”

  “Apparently he built a wedding chapel but never used it. Ever.”

  “Tragic, isn’t it, how love can tumble a soul?”

  Tumble a soul. Jack considered the odd conclusion to Coach’s building a chapel. “I guess it makes one think.”

  In a flash, Jack saw himself as an old man, aging and alone, a curmudgeon like Scrooge. Bitter like Rise Forester. And panic kicked in. No! He wouldn’t let it happen, but sure as shooting, that would be his future if he didn’t learn to speak his heart.

  If he wasn’t sitting in front of Colette, he’d text Taylor now. No, call. He should call. Because Voss liked to text.

  “How is Taylor’s family? Are they all well?”

  “Her mom owns a production company and is pretty influential around Nashville. A couple of movies were shot on location in Heart’s Bend and she worked on those. Let’s see . . .” Truth was, Jack didn’t know all that much about Taylor’s family. “Her dad runs Branson Construction & Survey. She doesn’t talk much about him. Of course you know him—he’s your nephew.”

  “I’ve not seen him since he was a very young lad.”

  Colette’s assistant bounced in with a tea tray and set it on the table. She handed a cup and saucer to Jack, then one to Colette, before pouring from a glossy white china pot. She passed a plate of thin cookies.

  When she left, Colette sipped her tea, eyeing Jack over the rim. “Well, I suppose you came for some other reason than to discuss my family.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did.” Jack gulped his tea and burned his tongue. “I’d like you to be the spokeswoman for FRESH Water.”

  “So you said in your voice mail. Why me, Jack?”

  He squared his back and launched his pitch.

  You’re an icon . . . known around the world . . . infamous for tossing water in people’s faces . . . classic actress with drama and comedic skill . . . broad appeal.

  “Who do you want treasuring your water product? Colette Greer. The FRESH people think it’s brilliant.”

  “Interesting.” She reached to add a bit more cream to her tea. “I do like FRESH.”

  “And FRESH likes you. No, they love you.”

  “Are your folks in Heart’s Bend?”

  Jack tipped his head at the sudden change in conversation. “Mine? Um, yeah, kind of. It’s complicated.”

  Colette cradled her cup and saucer in her hand. “We have a few minutes.”

  Okay, but he was really on a roll with his FRESH pitch. Jack balanced his tea on his knee and shoved a cookie in his mouth.

  “My parents married, divorced, and I lived with my mom until she was killed in a motorcycle accident. I was nine.”

  “I lost my parents in the war.”

  “It’s no picnic, is it?”

  “Hardly.”

  “My dad claimed my mother cheated on him and that I was not his son. She, however, claimed his parents hated her because she was not of their social and economic class. Eventually they pressured my father into divorcing her.”

  “See? How often love is tragic.”

  Jack set his tea aside, uneasy at the way Colette’s philosophy mirrored Hops’s. Same sentiment. Different words. “Yes, tragic.”

  “Who’s your father?”

  “Rise Forester Jr.” He tagged the name with attitude.

  “Is his father Rise Sr.? I knew him. In high school.”

  “That’d be the one. I never knew him.” They showed no interest in him. Ever.

  Colette seemed to ease down further in the sofa. “But you want to talk about FRESH, don’t you?”

  “This is a great campaign, Colette.” Jack surged forward into his racing lane and settled in, describing the youth and vitality of the FRESH Water bottling company.

  “And I get to toss water in someone’s face?”

  “In the way only Colette Greer can.”

  “Or Vivica Spenser. She invented that move.” Colette’s laugh floated over him.

  Jack’s hope slowly rose. “So you’ll do it?”

  “Why not? It sounds fun. And at my age, a girl never knows how many days of fun she has left.”

  Jack contained himself enough to offer her a proper handshake and a professional, “It’s an honor. Welcome to the fam.” He grinned. “You’ve made my day.”

  “And you mine.” She returned his hearty handshake.

  “Thank you for this. You’re going to love working with 105, and FRESH.” He retrieved two business cards from his wallet. “Here’s my card, and one from FRESH. Please call them if you have any questions. Otherwise, we’ll move forward. Have your manager call me. We can go from there.”

  “Will do.”

  When she didn’t reach for the cards, Jack deposited them on the table. “Thank you for your time and the tea.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Striding down the wide, grand hall to the elevator, Jack did a jig and tugged his phone from his pocket. That was almost too easy. But if being “family” plied Colette for him, he’d take it.

  He never tired of winning an account. It felt like Christmas every time. Joy to the world!

  Calling Taylor, Jack deflated some when her voice mail answered. Hanging up, he opted to send a text.

  JUST MET W/YOUR AUNT. SHE’LL DO FRESH CPAIGN. ASKED A LOT ABOUT THE FAMILY.

  He entered 105 walking a few feet off the ground and informed his team they’d beaten Alpine & Schmidt and won back the FRESH account with Colette Greer as their spokeswoman.

  Cheers all around.

  In his office, Jack checked his phone for a response from Taylor.
Nothing.

  Energized, he made calls to the clients he’d been neglecting recently, but by midafternoon, he’d still not heard from Taylor.

  He pinged her with a YOU THERE? text.

  Nothing.

  By the time he made his way home late that evening, through the angles of city shadows and lights, his slow-burn fears about his life with Taylor threatened to become a blaze.

  TAYLOR

  The last time she had stood outside her daddy’s Heart’s Bend office peering in the window, she’d been fourteen, maybe fifteen, and he was her hero.

  She’d not intended to stand here now on this Monday afternoon, but all weekend she battled the idea that Coach Westbrook needed her. If not her, then someone.

  Despite her personal feelings toward her father, he was the perfect one to look in on Coach. Because no one adored his old football mentor more than her daddy.

  She played her Saturday exchange with Keith over and over in her mind all weekend, convinced the man didn’t have one sincere bone in his body.

  On Sunday she intended to go to church but overslept. She still fought the Fry Hut bug. She slept most of the day, waking up barely in time for dinner at Mama’s.

  Which brought her to now. Daddy’s office in downtown Heart’s Bend. The sign on the window read the same as always.

  “Branson Construction & Survey—Founded 1977. Serving the central Tennessee area and beyond.”

  Taylor ran her hand over the thick white-painted letters. These were new. Not the ones she helped him paint on the glass when she was twelve.

  Peering through her own shadow, she saw Daddy bent over his desk, working. She might not respect his moral choices, but she could not deny he was one of the hardest-working men she ever knew.

  When she was little, they had a little routine when he came home. As he pulled into the driveway, she’d burst out of the house, run down the sidewalk, and leap into his arms. He’d catch her, always catch her, and twirl her around.

  Never once was she afraid of leaping. Never once did she fear he’d not raise his arms to catch her.

  Then she saw him with another woman and her relationship with him became like papier-mâché. Hardening with time.

  Taylor reached for the handle and let herself in. Daddy looked up from his legal notepad, a yellow number 2 pencil in hand.

  “Mercy, mercy, if my eyes do tell.” Marabelle, Daddy’s longtime secretary with the bottle-red hair, shoved away from her desk, approaching Taylor with her arms high and wide. “What in the world? Drummond, you didn’t tell me Taylor was in town.”

  She braced herself for a face-smothering grandmama of a hug.

  Daddy slowly rose to his feet. “Guess not, Marabelle.” How could he? He didn’t know.

  “Hey, Daddy.” Taylor waved at him from under Marabelle’s plump, ample arms.

  “Taylor.” He nodded her direction. “What brings you around?”

  “I need to ask you something,” she said, wiggling free from Marabelle’s embrace.

  “You want a cup of coffee?” Marabelle pointed to the coffee cart. “We’ve got a couple of those fancy creamers. And there’re some donuts from Donut Haven.” The red-lipped secretary pinched Taylor’s side. “I see you can afford to put on a few extra pounds. Drummond, I don’t think they have food up there in Yankee land.”

  “Now, you know they do, Mara. Some of the best restaurants in the world are in New York City.”

  “Well, sure, they charge you a hundred bucks for an ounce of pâté and call it a meal.” She tsked and loaded up a paper plate with a selection of donut holes.

  But really, Taylor wasn’t hungry. Even if she was, nothing sounded appetizing this morning.

  “You all right, Tay?” Daddy sat back down at his desk, propping his hands on its computerless top. Daddy still worked with paper and pencil and the old-fashioned telephone. Last year Emma talked him into a smartphone, which now sat to one side of his desk, the screen dark.

  “Sweetie pie, eat, you look green.” Marabelle set the plate of sweets in front of her.

  “I’m fighting the flu bug, I think. Catching what Alena had. Mara, do you have any bottled water?”

  “Sure do. Sit tight.” She hurried around the wall to the kitchenette. “You know I heard on the news something was going around.”

  “So, how can I help you?” Daddy said. “Everything all right with Jack?”

  Not really, but that was the last thing she wanted to talk about. “Do you know anything about a wedding chapel out on River Road? Coach Westbrook built it. Started it in the fifties, I think. Took him years to build.” Where was Marabelle with that water?

  “I’ve not heard of it, no, but I actually saw it a few years back.” Daddy leaned back, calling over his shoulder, “Mara, when did we do the surveying for the county off 251, River Road?”

  “Ninety-two.”

  Daddy grinned. “Who needs a computer? I got Mara.”

  “Yeah, but can you back her up in case she crashes?”

  Daddy’s laugh burst from his chest, a confetti of colors and tones. It hit Taylor in a familiar yet dry place and slaked the edge of her thirst. “She keeps meticulous records, but if you mean this place would be lost without her, you got that right.”

  Marabelle hurried toward Taylor with a bottle of water. “What’s got y’all so tickled?”

  “Taylor says I can’t back you up. You’re not a computer,” Daddy said.

  “Darn right.” Mara huffed, digging her fists into her round, wide hips.

  “So if you crash . . .”

  “It’s called job security, Taylor. Don’t forget it.” Marabelle returned to her desk. “Drum, I’m heading to the bank. They messed up the automatic draws again. Looky here, Taylor, this human has to go fix what their computer did.”

  Taylor saluted the woman with her water. “Give ’em what-for, Mara.”

  “So, what about this chapel?” Daddy focused in on Taylor.

  She shrugged, picking at the water bottle label. FRESH. “Coach Westbrook built it. Did you know about it?”

  “I might have. How’d you find it?”

  “I came down to do a shoot for Architecture Quarterly.”

  “No kidding?” Daddy nodded, impressed. “That’s one of my regular reads.”

  “AQ heard about it and wanted to feature it in their Chapels of America edition.”

  “Well, I’ve seen the chapel. On the outside.” Daddy whistled, shaking his head. “It was impressive. I came on it out of nowhere, traipsing through the woods. I knew the land belonged to the Westbrooks, but that chapel wasn’t on any of the drawings or specs I ever saw.” Daddy tapped his pencil against the desk, his gaze shifting between his yellow legal pad and Taylor. “What’s going on? Did the shoot not go well?”

  “No, it went great. Beyond great.” Their eyes met for a second, then Daddy looked away.

  He wasn’t comfortable. But could she blame him? She’d kept him at arm’s length for fourteen years. But today she chose to lower her arms. For Coach. And if she was honest, it was good to see him.

  “Listen, Daddy, Coach is selling the chapel. Keith Niven is the real estate agent. Do you know him?”

  “I do. He’s a good man. Knows his business.”

  “He told Coach he would get him top dollar, but I have this feeling in my gut Coach shouldn’t even be selling. He built that chapel for a reason, but something happened and he never used it.”

  “Then maybe it is time to sell. Coach is getting on in years. He might think someone could get use out of it.”

  “I know, but something doesn’t seem right to me. Not only is the wedding chapel a masterpiece, but it’s on all that land. The land alone is worth a lot. I have a feeling Keith is going to lowball him.”

  A feeling was not a good argument. Or even a reason. Not logically, anyway. Not to mention she was going to bat for a man who didn’t ask for, or want, her help.

  “You realize the higher the price, the more commission Keith makes. I�
��d trust he’s pricing it for the current market.”

  “I guess so.” Taylor twisted the cap from her water and took a glorious swig. The cool water eased the flashes of heat spiking beneath her skin. “It’s such a beautiful place. I hate to think of him selling. It’s as amazing on the inside as the outside. The light is almost otherworldly, if that doesn’t make me sound crazy. I didn’t even have to edit any of the photos I sent to AQ.”

  The twist in her gut told her Coach put more than time and sweat into the chapel. He’d left his heart and soul there.

  The walls, the windows, the floors, and the light all reflected him. His love for whoever . . .

  “What do you need from me?”

  Taylor peered at her father. Thank you. He could’ve told her he was busy, to get lost, to not stick her nose where it didn’t belong. Because that’s more or less what she’d done to him for the last half of her life.

  “Will you look into it?” she said. “Find out what Keith’s up to? Maybe figure out what the land and the chapel are worth. If anyone knows the value of land and a building, it’s you. Besides, Coach is one of your favorite people in the world.”

  Daddy tapped his pencil against his palm. “All right, if it means that much to you.”

  “It does.” She sat up straight, relieved, smiling. “Thank you.”

  He regarded her for a moment. “Ardell is making her famous sloppy joes for dinner. She’d love to see you, Taylor.”

  “I can’t.”

  Daddy nodded, clearing his throat. “Well, if you change your mind—”

  “Emma and I are going through the last of Granny’s stuff. If there’s anything you want—”

  “I got everything I want.”

  Taylor stood to go, tapping her leg with the water bottle. “You know, I found a letter addressed to me hidden among the LPs. She wrote it not long before she died. Like she knew her time was near. Did she say anything to you about it?”

  “No, sorry, Tay. What did it say?”

  “Funny things . . . You know Granny. But she claimed she had a secret.”

  Daddy laughed. “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me? Mom embodied secrecy. Did she tell you the secret?”

  “Sort of. She left me a key, said to find a box, and if I felt like it was worth sharing . . . whatever I found . . . I could share it. Otherwise she said to take it to my grave like she did.”