The Wedding Chapel

by Rachel Hauck

  “Said the girl who eloped.” Emma weakened and snuck a handful of chips. “So, did you find the box belonging to the key? I wonder why Granny didn’t write me a letter.”

  Taylor shrugged. She’d keep Granny’s “idiot” remark to herself. “Not yet. I haven’t looked that hard. If it’s in the attic then I’ll never find it.”

  Emma sighed. “Okay, fine, I’ll look when I go up there next.”

  So far this week Taylor had learned AQ loved her shots of the chapel. Addison had deposited checks from the weddings she’d shot and from Melinda House. She’d also texted with Jack, who said Colette had agreed to do the FRESH job.

  WOO HOO.

  WOO HOO? Taylor smiled. Jack never said woo hoo. He must be excited.

  “Seriously, Taylor, what are you and Jack going to do with this place?”

  Taylor swallowed her bite, reaching for her water. “It’s not his decision.”

  “In part it is. You’re married now, Tay. Not a lone sailor at sea.”

  She frowned. “Sailor? Sea?”

  “You need to start thinking like a married woman. You still have a single gal’s mind-set. I may be divorced, but I know what it takes to be married.”

  “He still thinks like a single man, so consider my side of things self-preservation.” Taylor took a final bite of her sandwich. After this, she definitely wanted something sweet. “Hey, you want to go get ice cream?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Is Del’s still open? I’d love one of their blizzard things.”

  Emma patted the tabletop. “Yeah, let’s go get ice cream. I’ll drive.” She snatched the Lincoln car keys from the hook before Taylor could get up.

  “Hey, that’s my car.” Taylor wiped the mayo from her lips, running after her sister, shutting the back door behind her.

  “Granny left it to both of us.” Emma slipped behind the wheel, firing up the old classic before Taylor could protest further. She jumped in the passenger seat and shot her hands over her head.

  “Let’s go.”

  It was a textbook fall afternoon, the sun brilliant in a blue sky. The breeze was gentle and thin, with an edge of cool between sun-warmed layers.

  Switching on the radio, Taylor tuned to 101.7 for some oldies.

  “Wonder what’s in here.” She popped open the glove box.

  “Probably more sauce packets,” Emma said, laughing, the wind whipping her short auburn hair back from her face.

  “Yep, you’re right.” Taylor held up several packets of ketchup. “Granny, what love affair did you have with ketchup and soy sauce?”

  But underneath the fast-food packets and stacks of napkins she found a buttery-soft pair of Aigner leather gloves. “These are nice.” She slipped them on, peeking at Emma. “They fit. Are we going to fight over them?”

  “Nope. Take them. Wear them in good health.”

  Taylor made a face. “Why? What did you find? Something better?”

  Emma winced. “Gucci gloves. In her room.”

  Taylor gasped. “Cheater . . .”

  “Hey, she left the contents to me.” Emma barreled toward the light, braking hard when it clicked red.

  But the real treasure came last, when Taylor burrowed to the bottom of the compartment and removed an old black-and-white three-by-five photograph.

  “What is it?” Emma said, leaning to see, pushing Taylor’s arm down for a better look.

  “Looks like Granny when she was a teenager.” Taylor flipped it over.

  April 1950. Me, Spice, Jimmy, Colette.

  “She was what? Nineteen.” The light flashed green and Emma hit the gas, surging the big Lincoln forward, slowly picking up speed. “Looks like they’re sitting down in the dip below the grassy knoll. River Road Park. We had our senior pictures taken there.”

  “Yeah, I remember. It rained my year. My hair was like . . . frizz city.” But Taylor’s attention was captured by the image of the four sitting in the basket of the knoll. “When’d she marry Granddad? Nineteen fifty-one?”

  “Yeah, in the spring. They eloped.”

  “And you wonder where I got the idea.”

  “Sure, and look how they turned out.”

  “Divorce runs in our family. Should I just cut to the chase?”

  “No, good grief, Taylor. Have some faith. I hate being divorced.”

  Taylor grimaced. “Sorry,” she muttered, staring at the image, sinking into the scene, mystically searching for the third dimension below the flat, two-dimension image. Granny and Colette together? A sight she’d never seen in her twenty-nine years.

  In this scene the sisters, with their beautiful forties hairstyles, neat, crisp dresses, and saddle oxfords, appeared to be friends.

  Spice and Coach were young, good looking, kind of brawny and masculine. “What do you suppose they were doing? Saying?”

  Peg, Spice, Colette, and Jimmy.

  “Picnic. Hanging out. Saying and doing what young adults do.” Emma slowed, turning the car.

  Taylor glanced up to see Walgreens instead of Del’s Ice Cream. “What are we doing here?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  Emma slipped the picture from Taylor’s hand. “Bring me a Diet Coke. A cold one. Get one from the back of the cooler and—”

  “Excuse me? Why am I running your errand?”

  “—a pregnancy test.”

  “What?” Taylor regarded Emma for a long moment. “Please don’t tell me you’re sleeping with your ex-husband. That’s reaallly bad for the divorce.”

  “I am not. And the test is not for me.”

  Taylor made a face. “Then for who?”

  “You.”

  Taylor laughed, slapping her hand over her heart, shaking her head. “It’s happened. You’ve lost your mind.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re in denial.”

  “How can I be in denial over something that isn’t true? I’m not pregnant.”

  “Then get the test. Prove me wrong.”

  “I’m not falling for that trick,” Taylor scoffed. But the conversation bugged her. Was she? Pregnant? “We’ve only been married six months.”

  “Oh, right—” Snap-snap. “The six-months rule,” Emma said. “What is that, exactly?”

  “It’s too soon to be pregnant.”

  “Maybe? But have you two been, you know, dancing?” Emma raised her voice and wiggled her eyebrows.

  Taylor snatched the photograph from her. “Yes, we’ve been dancing. That’s one of the best parts about being married.”

  “And you’ve been using birth control?”

  “Y-yes . . .” Taylor squirmed. Most of the time, but not always.

  “Well, nothing is a guarantee. Seems the piper has come for his pay.”

  “Well, he’s getting nothing from me.” Taylor squeezed her hands together. “This can’t be . . .”

  “You’ve been queasy all weekend.” Emma held up one finger.

  “So was Alena. Did you buy her a pregnancy test?”

  “She’s four. Don’t be daft.” She popped up a second finger. “You’ve been skipping breakfast every day but eating like a horse at night. How many helpings of spaghetti did you have at Mama’s?”

  “One . . . two.”

  “Three. I counted.” Emma held up a third finger. “Taylor, that’s exactly how I was with both girls.”

  “Emma, this is typical when I’m on a deadline.”

  “Your deadline was finished this weekend.”

  “Or stressed.”

  “What stress? You’re on vacation. When was your last period?”

  “Emma, good grief—”

  “Tell me. When?”

  “I don’t owe you an answer. Man, you’re the bossiest sister ever.”

  But when was her last? Taylor couldn’t remember. She and Jack were pretty careful. They’d married so quickly, they didn’t have time for ironclad preventions, but they found a method that worked for them.

  “When
, Taylor?”

  “I don’t know, I’m not a freak list-maker like you. I don’t keep a chart.”

  “Six, seven weeks ago?”

  Taylor shoved open the door and stepped out. “If we’re not getting ice cream, I’m going in for Milk Duds.” Stress made her crave chocolate. And Emma was definitely stressing her out.

  “Don’t forget my Diet Coke and your pregnancy test!” Bigmouthed Emma.

  “Shout it to the parking lot, will you?” Taylor moved through the automatic doors.

  What did Emma know? Pregnancy? Impossible. Babies weren’t even a germ of a dream. She and Jack were still figuring out marriage. Jack’s obsession over Doug Voss created an awkward wedge between them.

  Their communication skills earned an F minus.

  At the candy aisle, Taylor stared at the rack of Milk Duds and slowly pressed her hand over her abdomen.

  They’d talked about kids. Once. When they sat next to a noisy family at dinner one night.

  “Pretty noisy, huh?” Taylor said, smiling at the baby. He was a cutie with his round face and dimpled cheeks. His mother called him Levi. “What do you think about the name Levi?” Taylor liked it.

  “Fine.” Jack was fixed on his phone. “For another man’s kid.”

  Taylor lowered her head to see his face. “No kids?”

  He peeked up at her. “No kids.”

  “Ever?”

  “You know how I was raised, Taylor. Besides, you said yourself this world is no place to bring up a kid.”

  Yeah, she had said that once. But she didn’t mean it.

  Taylor snatched up a box of Milk Duds. Then another and another until her arms were laden. She headed to the checkout with no intention of swinging by the pregnancy tests. She had no room to carry one.

  Jack’s wedding day confession boomeranged through her. “If it doesn’t work out we can walk away.”

  Then what in the world were they doing?

  Taylor passed the soda cooler. She arched her back, balancing her Milk Duds, opening the cooler with her fingertips. Grabbing a Diet Coke—first one in the row—she got in line and scanned the magazine headlines. Doug’s Gossip was front and center with a cover showing a baby-toting celebrity. Taylor glanced away.

  But all the magazines featured stars with their babies, and the cast of a new sitcom, Love ’Em or Leave ’Em, in which the real-life actors were spitting out babies like springtime bunnies.

  Love ’em or leave ’em. That was what it boiled down to, wasn’t it? Love or leave. But what if she loved and he wanted to leave? He never said he wanted to go, but it was something Taylor felt in her gut. All the time. The time for guessing was coming to an end. She needed to talk to her husband.

  Turning away from the headlines, Taylor came face-to-face with a display of pregnancy tests. On sale!

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  “Next!”

  Taylor stepped forward. Only one customer was in front of her. Her heart raced. Did she really need to buy a pregnancy test? She couldn’t be pregnant. She refused to be pregnant.

  From her shorts pocket, her phone rang. Probably Emma telling her to hurry up. But it was a New York number. One she didn’t recognize.

  Jack? Was he okay? “Hello?”

  “Taylor, this is Justine Longoria, Colette Greer’s cowriter for her autobiography.”

  She exhaled. “Hey, um, how can I help you?”

  “I hope you don’t mind, but she gave me your number. Said you were at her late sister’s home and I thought, ‘Perfect!’ The publisher would love to have photos of Colette from when she was young. Any family pictures? Perhaps taken in England? It’s weird, but Colette doesn’t have any of her own.”

  “Wow, good question. I don’t know. But I’ll look around.” Well, she did know of one. In the car.

  “That would be fantastic. You have my number now so you can text me if you find any.” Justine repeated her name and hung up.

  Taylor hung up, tucking her phone in her pocket. She or Emma was going to have to go to the attic now. Granny’s photo albums were up there. She knew only because Granny told her once.

  Moving forward to check out, Taylor spied the bank of pregnancy tests again. There had to be fifty of them. Were they expecting a pregnancy epidemic in this town?

  She couldn’t remember her last cycle. Or when she had started waking up slow and tired, the fragrance of Jack’s morning coffee making her nauseous.

  Still, they were careful . . .

  Until that dinner . . . two months ago . . .

  Taylor moaned and stepped out of line. “Go ahead,” she said to the woman behind her.

  The evening in July was one for the memory bank. Jack had called around six. His client had been delayed and wouldn’t make a scheduled dinner meeting at an upscale Manhattan restaurant. So, he said, did she want to join him? If so, he’d send the car for her.

  She didn’t hesitate. Absolutely. She slipped into a slinky black dress that accented a few features Jack liked best. She had her neighbor, a beauty school student, fix her hair in an updo. Jack’s expression when she stepped out of the car filled her with flutters.

  He, in turn, looked incredible, wearing his best blue shirt, the top button open and his sleeves rolled up, his blue eyes snapping beneath a wave of his dark hair.

  “You look amazing, babe.” He never called her anything but Taylor. Until that night.

  “Back at you, babe.”

  He offered his arm, kissing her as they walked into the restaurant. But it was noisy, packed, exuding a different vibe than what moved between them. So Jack grabbed her hand and led her out to the street, hailing a cab.

  They ate in the Village, at a small, homey restaurant he’d been dying to try. The food was amazing, the atmosphere romantic and intimate. When Michael Bublé’s soothing voice came over the speakers and melted the atmosphere, Jack offered Taylor his hand.

  “Dance with me.” He led her to the garden, into the light of the moon, his arms, his heart.

  Even more than their honeymoon night, she felt his love for her. A rare experience.

  Between the melody and the movement, their walls came down. She became vulnerable, willing to let Jack see all of her. And in a husky, sweet, raw voice, Jack apologized for working too much, forgetting he had a wife at home.

  “I want to be a good husband. I don’t know how, but I want to try.” He cradled her, touched her, overwhelmed her.

  “I’m trying too.”

  “Let’s go home.” Jack hailed a cab and they cuddled in the backseat, barely making it home before the fireworks began.

  Later, she luxuriated in his arms, smoothing her hand over his chest. “Isn’t the moon beautiful? I think it’s shining just for us.”

  Jack raised his hand to its light. “The moon doesn’t shine, babe. It just reflects the sun’s light.”

  “Ha, you know what I mean.”

  He laughed and kissed her, settling between the sheets, his breathing even and content.

  So this was love . . .

  “Next!”

  Taylor snatched up the pregnancy test and dropped it on the counter.

  The night did not end as romantically as it began. Jack popped out of bed, panicked that their impromptu lovemaking would result in a baby.

  “Taylor, we didn’t . . . I mean . . . I don’t want kids, Taylor.” He cut his hands through the air, pacing, raising his voice. “I do not want kids.”

  As the cashier rang up Taylor’s order, she hoped, prayed, that as she was feeling particularly negative at the moment, the pregnancy test would be good enough to reflect the same.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  COLETTE

  Thursday morning Colette strode into the FRESH conference room flanked by Ford and Jack Forester feeling anxious yet determined, her spirit bolstered with the kind of strength that comes when one finally faces her fears.

  While she appeared to be following Jack’s plan for the visit, she had one of her own.

>   Jack leaned to say something to her, but for the life of her she could not focus on anything about this trip to FRESH. Only the matter beating in her own heart.

  She thought it would be simple to sit through the FRESH presentation, then escape to her plan, but the enormity of what she was about to do settled on her aged shoulders heavier than expected.

  But she’d set everything in motion before leaving New York and she refused to back out on it now.

  Because if she did, she’d never find the courage again.

  “Good morning, everyone.” Evoking the bold and self-focused Vivica Spenser, Colette walked into the boardroom, straight to the head of the table, like she’d done a million times on Always Tomorrow.

  The team rose to their feet and chorused, “Good morning.” A dozen well-dressed men and women lined the elongated glossy conference table and the perimeter of the room. A handsome gentleman approached, offering his hand.

  “Lennon MacArthur. Welcome to our humble company. We are thrilled you’ve agreed to be our spokeswoman.”

  “I’m a fan of your product.” That was Colette speaking, not Vivica. But since both women had lived in her soul for ages, Colette could hardly make the distinction. She scanned the room, taking in each face, making a mental note that they appeared to be honest, fresh folks.

  She teetered on her plan. Could she really do it? Leave this safe place for one unknown?

  “Please, Ms. Greer . . .” Lennon offered her a seat.

  “Call me Colette, please.”

  “Colette, we have a lovely presentation for you.”

  But she remained standing. Courage, Lettie. If not today, never. “I appreciate that, Lennon, but I don’t need a song and dance.” She smiled for them all. “I’ve already heard the melody and I like it.” She made a show of glancing around the room. “And I like you.”

  The room expanded with a collective exhale.

  “Excellent. Then, what?” Lennon glanced at his team. “We can move on to the plant tour?” He motioned to the exit. “We do our own bottling right here, Ms. Greer, I mean, Colette.”

  “So I’ve heard. I read up on your practices. Very impressive.” Colette noticed the large cake in the middle of the table. “I’ll tell you what I’d like. A piece of that cake. It looks divine.” She pressed her hand to her lean belly and angled toward one of the older women at the table. “One thing about getting older, you don’t care about your figure quite as much.”