by Rachel Hauck
“So was I.”
When Mama and Daddy divorced, Taylor was a sophomore in high school and alone in the battle of the parents, caught in between.
Emma was a freshman at Vanderbilt, and an hour away from the drama. But she called Taylor every night, nine o’clock sharp, just to check in and make sure she was all right.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
From below, they heard the front-door chimes. Taylor reached for a toilet paper tissue. “You expecting someone?”
Emma went down the hall to the foot of the stairs. “Yeah, the secondhand dealer said he’d come by this week to take the picnic table.”
“No, not the picnic table,” Taylor said, following her down.
“You cannot be sentimental over an old wooden table, chewed up by squirrels and covered in bird poop.”
“Why not?”
The chimes sounded again. Emma bounded down the remaining stairs and across the living room to the front door. When she swung it open, Taylor peered over her shoulder.
Colette Greer stood on Granny’s porch.
Taylor moved around Emma. “Colette, hey, what are you doing here?”
“May I come in?”
“Please do.” Taylor stepped aside, letting her great-aunt, the great actress, into Granny’s humble abode. It was a far cry from a Park Avenue penthouse.
Colette walked past her, shoulders back with an air of confidence. But her pale complexion told another story. “Are you all right? What are you doing here?”
Taylor motioned for her to sit on the only piece of furniture left in the living room. The old Drexel sofa.
“Could I trouble you for a glass of water?”
“Water? Coming up.” Taylor headed for the dining table for one of Granny’s glasses. When she returned, she introduced Emma. “Colette, this is my sister, your niece, Emma.”
“My aunt Colette.” Emma took a seat next to her, not bothering to hide her wonder. “I think we met once, when I was real young.”
Colette nodded. “I believe so.”
Taylor reached for a three-legged stool and sat. “What’re you doing here?”
Colette said nothing until she consumed her drink in one unladylike gulp. When she finished, she inhaled and handed her glass to Taylor.
“I drove over from Nashville. I was at a meeting with the FRESH Water people.”
“So you agreed to be their spokeswoman?” Good for Jack. Oh, good for Jack.
“Yes, but I used a visit to the company as a ruse to visit Heart’s Bend.” Colette sat back, closing her eyes, drawing a long inhale. “I ducked out on them and drove over here myself. Mercy, I thought I wasn’t going to make it. I left my manager and your husband at the FRESH offices.”
“Jack’s in Nashville?” They’d been texting through the week but nothing more than saying hello and good night. See, communication grade F minus.
Then, as if on some choreographed cue, Taylor’s phone buzzed with Jack’s ring.
“Hey,” she said, low and intimate, walking to the bay of southern windows. A cut of the late-morning sun painted the edge of the porch in white gold.
“Please, by some wild chance, tell me Colette is with you.”
“Yeah. Just now.”
“Ford, she’s in Heart’s Bend. With Taylor. Yes, at Peg’s. Taylor, keep her there. We’re on our way.”
“Keep her here? When you two and the whole of FRESH Water apparently couldn’t keep her in Nashville?”
“Funny.”
She thought so. “Jack, what happened?”
“She went to the executive lounge to freshen up and never came back. Intel is she had a car delivered and drove off.”
Taylor went to the window. “Silver Mercedes.”
“Just keep her there until we come. Ford is worried about her. It’s not like her to just run off.”
“I’ll do my best.” Hanging up, her back to Emma and Colette, Taylor whispered to the dark screen, “Jack, I’m pregnant.”
She still didn’t like the sound of it. But give her a few more dress rehearsals and she just might. Just might.
“Are they on their way?” Colette’s trained voice brought Taylor around.
“Yes, they’re worried about you. Colette, why’d you sneak out on them?”
“You snuck out? To come to Heart’s Bend? That’s a first.” Emma’s rolling laugh did not amuse Colette.
“Oh, I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea . . . I wanted to come . . . needed to come. On my own. I suppose you don’t understand.” A bit of color had returned to Colette’s cheeks, and by the steel in her blue eyes, she intended to complete her mission. “And if those two were so worried about me, how come it took them over an hour to call?”
“Men.” All three. In unison.
Colette tapped Taylor’s knee. “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to take me to this wedding chapel. I heard it was for sale.”
“The chapel? S-sure. And yes, it’s for sale.” Taylor glanced at Emma. Interesting. Then scrambled for her purse. “I can drive Granny’s car.” She motioned to the back door. “Looks like you’ve done enough driving for one day—”
“For a decade.” Colette stood, so regal and elegant, her wristlet swinging from her hand.
“Just let me get my camera.” She’d unloaded it from the Lincoln Monday evening. She had a feeling she was going to need it.
As she stooped for her camera bag by the dresser, tidbits of this and that shook together.
The chapel. Jimmy’s unrequited love. Colette leaving HB and never returning. The photograph. Granny’s strange letter.
Back downstairs, Taylor collected Colette, whispering to Emma, “Call Coach Westbrook. Tell him I’m on my way to the chapel to take pictures.”
She pulled out her phone. “Just you? Alone?”
“Just me. Ask him to meet me.” Taylor headed for the door. “Shall we, Colette?”
Emma followed, leaning into Taylor. “If you think you’re leaving me out of this, you’re crazy.”
The women piled in the car, Colette riding shot gun, Emma in the back. Taylor headed northwest for the chapel, the sun rising high in the blue Southern sky, the fall breeze dancing with the ends of her hair.
Taylor glanced in the rearview window, her eyes meeting Emma’s. Something was afoot. She started to speak, ask Colette if she knew Coach, but she just couldn’t get the words out.
She would just wait and see.
At the Niven Realty For Sale sign—an ugly thing—Taylor slowed the car and turned down the gravel lane.
When they broke into the clearing, Taylor parked in the shade and cut the engine. Turning to Colette, she could no longer hold her curiosity.
“You’re the one, aren’t you, Colette? The one Jimmy built the chapel for.”
Colette stepped out of the car, clapping the door gently behind her, her gaze fixed on the chapel wrapped in the afternoon light.
“He finished.” She took a step, clutching her wristlet close.
Taylor glanced at Emma, getting out of the car. “You’ve not seen it, then?”
Colette angled around, her somber expression softened by tears. “No.”
Joining Colette in the yard, Taylor said nothing, just let Colette be in the moment. She could hear Emma rustling behind her, then bumping her elbow, passing over her camera bag.
Taylor slipped the strap on her shoulder, peeking sideways at Colette. Her cheeks were dewy, her blue eyes bright, her countenance free of that stiff reserve.
“You’re the one.”
One nod. “Yes,” Colette said. “I’m the one.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
JIMMY
For some reason, he paused by the bureau mirror on his way out of his room and smoothed his hand over the silver waves of his hair. He frowned. What did he care about his hair?
He didn’t, but he did like his shirt tucked in nice and ne
at, so he double-checked that with a passing glance in the mirror.
Hmm . . . Jimmy leaned into his reflection. How had he gotten to be eighty-three when he was twenty-three just a day or two ago?
All this business of the chapel, and telling Doc his secrets, put him in mind of things he’d rather not recall.
But Keith Niven had just called, said to meet him at the chapel. He had a big fish on the hook. Big fish.
So Jimmy was heading out. This might be it. The end of an era, of his days with the old chapel.
He paused in his bedroom door, pressing his hand to his heart, breathing deep against a slight twinge.
After a moment he moved on down the stairs. Heartburn, was all.
In the kitchen, Jimmy cut off the coffeepot and checked the roast he had going in the Crock-Pot. But when he looked out the window, he saw her, a ghost image in the shimmering waves of sunlight.
Colette . . .
How could he truly say good-bye? Maybe he should call Keith and stop this whole business.
Or maybe see if Taylor wanted the chapel. It was a long shot, but she was the closest thing he’d come to Colette in a good while. She didn’t have to know he gave it to her as a way of “keeping it in the family.”
But sure as shooting she’d ask questions.
On the other hand, sometimes a man just had to admit his failures. No matter how long it took.
He could put the money to good use. Finally take the trip to Normandy, to see the American gravesite he’d been thinking about since the 1970s.
The chapel was the past that didn’t fit in his future. It was too late to fulfill the dreams that came with the chapel. Too late for children and grandchildren. Too late to leave his name, his father’s name, on the earth.
Well, darn if his eyes weren’t stinging. This maudlin thinking was getting him nowhere. Jimmy grabbed his keys just as the house phone rang.
“Coach here.”
“Coach? This is Emma, Taylor Branson’s sister. The photographer?”
“What can I do you for?”
“Taylor asked if you could meet her at the wedding chapel.”
“What for?”
“She didn’t say.”
Jimmy frowned. That’s odd. “I’m on my way there now. So I guess I’ll see her when I see her.”
Locking up, Jimmy headed to his truck thinking it’d be nice to see Taylor while he said good-bye to the chapel. She made him feel at rest, like they were old friends.
Braking at the bend in the drive, the popping gravel under his tires going silent, he reached for the radio knob and paused before turning onto River Road.
Vic Damone crooned a ballad. “. . . knowing I’m on the street where you live.”
Jimmy cut the wheel right, and instead of heading northwest toward the chapel, he took a southern detour. Toward the Clemsons’ old place.
Toward the street where she’d lived.
If he could do it all over, would he? Maybe he would’ve gone back to New York, not given up on Colette so easily. But she’d said no in a way that crushed him. First in her letter. Then refusing to see him that cold day he stood outside her studio.
Nevertheless, he stayed true. What price could he put on following his heart, keeping his vow, even if she didn’t?
He’d promised Colette Greer he’d love her to his dying day and darn it if he wasn’t abiding by it.
But that didn’t mean he had to hang on to the chapel. He’d spent more time away from Colette than with her, but that first day he laid eyes on her remained vivid and real. Like a technicolor motion picture. If he breathed deep and tried hard, he could even recall the fragrance of her hair.
Flowers.
The Clemson house sat dark now, save for a For Sale sign in the front. Ole Fred Clemson died before Dad. About twenty years ago. Jean had died in her sleep five years before that. But she’d never really recovered from Ted’s death. Then Clem getting killed in Korea. And Colette running off.
On occasion, Jimmy would see Jean at the market and once, maybe twice, she asked, “Do you hear from Colette? We never do. I miss her. Do you think she knows about Clem? Peg says she writes but Colette never responds. Did you see she was on television now?”
Jimmy gunned the gas and U-turned back to the main road, resentment growing at what Colette had done. How could he love a woman so cruel as to abandon her family? He might have dodged a bullet there. Might have married a woman just like his mama. At least they didn’t have no kid for her to run out on.
When he arrived at the chapel, he spied Peg’s Lincoln. Taylor must be here already. Parking behind her, Jimmy made his way to the chapel, kicking acorns out of his way, glancing around for her.
He unlocked the front door, grateful for the solitude, for the moment to say good-bye.
Walking the center aisle, he heard it. The soft, echoing whoosh-thump. He froze, his heart leaping and beating to the same rhythm.
His skin tensed with gooseflesh, then eased with a warm peace.
“I know . . . ,” he said, sliding into his pew. Third from the back, second from the front. “I’m sad too. But it’s over, ole girl. Your new owners will treat you kind, I’ll make sure.”
Since he’d first heard the heartbeat that day Peg stopped by, he knew the chapel was talking to him. He couldn’t make hide nor hair of it so he pretended otherwise. But he knew. God was breaking in. The supernatural world tapping into the natural.
“Lord, I reckon You’re looking down and knowing what’s going on.” Jimmy ran his hand along the top of the pew in front of him. “I give her to You. Probably should’ve done that a long time ago, but I reckon Colette and I didn’t exactly do things right. But I meant what I said to her that night. Before I shipped to Korea. I surely did.”
His prayer, his confession weighted his heart. He’d had plans for this place besides his own wedding.
He’d wanted to see friends marry here. His children and grandchildren.
Whoosh-thump. Whoosh-thump.
I’ll miss you too. Jimmy pressed the back of his wrist to his watering eyes, memories surfacing with every breath.
JANUARY 28, 1951
THE GREAT NASHVILLE BLIZZARD
The Tennessean predicted clear skies, but on Sunday afternoon, as Jimmy turned down the narrow lane leading to his hideaway, the old Ford engine winding down, snow fell from blanketing gray clouds.
The wipers stuttered back and forth across the cold windshield, keeping the quarter-sized flakes from collecting.
The truck hit a hole and Colette laughed, bouncing in the seat next to him. “Where are we going, anyway?”
“You’ll see.” Jimmy turned on the defrost. Rats, it wasn’t supposed to snow.
He’d set up the chapel for his scheme on his way home after church—when the skies were blue and the temperature a balmy fifty.
But by the time he headed to the Clemsons’ to collect Colette, the temperatures had plummeted and snow thickened the air.
In the back of the truck, he had his secret picnic basket of fried chicken and hot chocolate. At the chapel, he’d set up a wrought-iron bench Dad had salvaged, along with a stack of blankets. He’d built a fire pit and stacked plenty of wood.
But snow? The chapel didn’t have a roof. Jimmy was counting on the canopy of trees to catch the precipitation and keep the chapel clear.
“Do you have a surprise for me, Jimmy Westbrook?” Colette snuggled close to him, making his pulse thick and heavy.
“Just hold your horses.”
She kissed his cheek and rested her head on his shoulder. Yep, his heart could burst this very minute and he’d die a happy man.
He was more confident than ever his idea to bring her here was right. Even if her surprise was not complete.
He’d planned to show her the chapel when he was finished. He’d been sneaking off to work on it every spare hour, sometimes fibbing to Colette about his whereabouts on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, saying Dad needed him to work.
But Uncle Sam called him up two weeks ago and he couldn’t wait any longer to tell her. He realized last night when they went to the pictures with Clem and his new wife, Marie, he’d made a mistake not telling her right away.
Clem shipped out tomorrow, and Marie cried all through the show.
So he made up his mind to tell Colette today. And to show her why he’d not already proposed. He prayed the stone walls of the chapel would demonstrate his love for her and hold her heart until he returned.
The truck hit an icy patch and skidded forward, the back end fishtailing. Jimmy gripped the wheel and eased off the gas, straightening out the truck’s trajectory. Colette laughed, a free, sweet refrain.
“Lovely driving, Mr. Westbrook.”
He soared. There was nothing like being a hero to the woman he loved. Made his blood pump and his heart ping.
Then the walls of the chapel came into view. He felt shy and nervous. What would she say?
“Here we are.” He pulled up and cut the engine.
Through the gray light and flurrying snow, the chapel walls reached for the clouds, confident, ready to become what they were meant to be. Jimmy turned to Colette, slipping his arm around her shoulders. “If it’s too cold, we can go.”
“Go? After all you’ve done? Darling, I’m an Englishwoman. I lived through a war and plenty a cold night on a Carmarthenshire farm. Whatever this adventure you’ve planned, I’ll not miss it.” She scooted forward, peering through the windshield. “What is this?”
Jimmy nestled her close, the small light from the dash contouring the curves and planes of her face. Colette warmed his coldest corridors. She brought light where shadows had always lingered.
Her eyes searched his. “What’s up with you? You’re worrying me.”
“You’re beautiful. You know that, Colette?”
Her eyes glistened. “I believe it when you tell me, Jimmy.”
He brought his lips to hers, the first tender touch igniting a fire that would heat him all night. She arched up, slipping her hand around his neck, returning his kiss with one of her own.
When they broke apart, he tapped the end of her nose. “Ready?” He had to keep moving or he’d whisper the words he’d been holding on to for over two years. “Marry me.” He refused to utter them in the heat of the moment.
