The Wedding Chapel

by Rachel Hauck

  “But Sarah and I did. We told you as much. Maybe it was you who didn’t want to be a part of a family.”

  “That’s not true and you know it.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Jack laughed. “Me. There. Simple enough?”

  “You know Sarah and I always wanted children, but it just never happened. Well, until we met you.”

  “A fifteen-year-old baby? What a bundle of joy.”

  Sam laughed. “Well, labor and delivery proved challenging at first, but then yes, you were a joy to us. Still are. When you walked into my office, face all busted up from that horrid situation you were in, I knew you were my son. I called Sarah and said, ‘How would you like a beat-up, wounded, fifteen-year-old boy?’ ”

  “You never told me that.”

  “She said, ‘Bring him home.’ ” Sam leaned forward. “Jack, I’m going to tell you something and I want you to hear me. You were an answer to prayer.”

  “An angry teen with a broken face? That’s what you and Sarah prayed for?” Sam was the plastic surgeon who’d fixed his broken cheekbone, jaw, and split eye.

  “Not exactly, but we had such a desire for children. When we realized Sarah just couldn’t keep a baby full term, we began to pray, ‘Lord, we’ll take children any way You want to give them to us.’ We both felt kind of partial to a son. When you walked in, I knew you were the answer to our prayer.”

  An answer to prayer. Such a claim caused Jack to torque inside, messed with his right to be angry, to play the victim. Because if the God of all looked after him, even used him to bless someone else, then Jack had no excuse. God had a way of escape for him.

  “Did I ever tell you I knew your mother?” Sam asked suddenly.

  Jack perked up. “You did?”

  “She volunteered at the hospital when she was in high school. She was smart, kind, pretty. I always thought she’d do well in life.”

  “Yeah, well, she met the same force of evil I did. Rise Forester.”

  “And he destroyed her life, I admit. She made bad choices too, Jack. Some of the men she chose weren’t the best. But she didn’t mean to get killed the night she took off on a motorcycle.”

  “No, I guess she didn’t.”

  “She was just trying to heal her broken heart, find a man who could appreciate her. But she was raised in church. She knew the truth.”

  “What’s your point, Sam?”

  “You have to decide, Jack. Choose. What kind of man do you want to be? You have the Holy Spirit. I saw you after your first summer camp, saw the change. I recognized His presence in your life. You were filled!” Sam rolled his voice like an old-time evangelist. “You have a Father.”

  “Then I got empty.” Jack unlaced the gloves, tugging them off. “Never filled back up.”

  “It’s not easy being a believer in a world with so many distractions, where there are so many other ways to solve problems. But, Jack, if you want to get over your anger at your father and be the father you want to be—”

  “I don’t even know what that looks like.” Jack tossed the gloves onto the worktable.

  “—you’ve got to go to the Lord. Really give it. You’ll fail otherwise. Trust me. Because every little thing that happens will feed your fears, doubts, anger, and hurt. And it’ll grow until you are consumed by it. I had a friend once who felt jilted by his father, thought he favored his siblings. Got married and had sons of his own. But he was so focused on the wrong done him by his father, he couldn’t see he was doing the same to his own kids.”

  “Okay, I get it, Sam, I get it.”

  Sam’s sigh was muted by his great big grin. “Well then.” Sam opened a drawer under his workbench, pulled out a Bible, and tossed it to Jack. “Here’s your passbook to your million-dollar account. Take a withdrawal and stop trying to make a good life on the devil’s pennies.”

  Jack thumbed the pages. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “How about, ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God.’ John 1. Be yourself, Jack. He’s already seen the worst you have to offer and He still loves you.” Sam made his way to the garage’s sliding doors. “I’ll leave you to it, but when you’ve found some peace, come on inside and help me cheer for the Commodores. Sarah would love to see you.”

  “I will. Thanks, Sam.” Jack sat back in his chair, Bible resting on his leg.

  “Can I say one more thing to you?”

  “You have to ask?” Jack grinned. “Come on. Bring it.”

  “Sarah and I love you like a son. I’m sixty-six, thinking of retiring in a few years. A surgeon’s hands get kind of shaky after a while.”

  “Not you, Sam. You’re steady as a rock.”

  “So far . . . But we’ll have some time on our hands. We’ve got some mission plans on the table, but to be honest, we’d like to spend time with family, be around our son, his wife. And their kids.”

  Jack shook his head. “Sam, think about what you’re saying.”

  “I’ve thought about it for almost fifteen years. You’re our son. Angry, sad, mad, or happy, that’s how we see you, feel about you.”

  “Then you got cheated. I’m a horrible son.”

  “It’s not too late to change, Jack. Thing is, you have to ask yourself if you want grandparents for your kids. And do you want parents? That’s the crux of it right there. Are you ready to give up being angry? Because anytime you want to become a Gillingham, Jack, we’ll go down to the courthouse and make it all legal.”

  “I’m thirty years old, Sam.”

  “I don’t care if you’re a hundred. I’m telling you, I want you as my son. Wouldn’t it be nice to know you are a son right before you become a father?”

  Jack glanced at Sam, who nodded, then turned for the house. “Take your time.”

  He might have been gone, but his confession hung around the garage, drilling through Jack and tapping his tears. “I want you as my son.”

  Pressing his head to the smooth leather Bible, Jack exhaled and let go of the first cord roping down his heart—the right to be angry—slipping from the chair to his knees as one freeing sob after another rolled over him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  TAYLOR

  When the doorbell rang, Taylor hammered down the stairs from the bum room.

  “Jack?”

  He went silent when she dropped the baby news, asking her a half dozen times if she was sure, and everything sweet and romantic about him turned sour and cold.

  When he dropped her off at home, he asked to borrow the car with a curt, “I got to do something.”

  She’d spent the last two hours putzing about the house, trying to sort through boxes, getting nowhere. She called Colette with no answer but left a voice message. Hopefully she was safe with Ford. Or better yet, Coach.

  Jogging across the big, boxy, empty living room, she swung open the front door. “Where’ve you been?”

  “At home.” Daddy stood on the other side.

  “Hey, wow.” She pressed her hand to her thudding heart. “What are you doing here?” She didn’t move but remained planted, leaning against the door.

  “Can I come in?” he said.

  “Um, yeah, sure?” Taylor glanced over her shoulder . . . at nothing . . . There was no excuse to deny him. “Is this about the chapel?”

  “No, nothing new on that front, but I’ve made some calls.” The heels of Daddy’s loafers skipped over the hardwood. “I take it you were expecting someone? Just not me.”

  “Jack. He . . . he went out on an errand.”

  Daddy nodded with a “Hmm” and left things there, making his way over to the one chair in the room. “Emma did a good job of clearing things out.”

  “Granny has an odd sense of humor, giving me the house and Emma the contents.”

  “Knowing her, she had some reason behind it. She always did.” Daddy hesitated, then adjusted the pull of his slacks around his knees before perching on the edge of the chair. “Seeing Coach made me think o
f how she badgered him into mentoring me after she and Dad divorced. She got it stuck in her head I needed a male mentor and Coach was the man for the job.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Poor Coach. Mama called him every night until he said yes. I was twelve or so, embarrassed, eavesdropping from my bedroom, muttering to myself, ‘Leave him be, Mama.’ I had Dad. He was just across town. She had some mysterious ways. Well, you know that, being as she left you that letter. And what was it, a key? Find anything yet?”

  “No.” Taylor took a seat on the sofa. “I have a feeling the search will take me to the attic.”

  Daddy chuckled, nodding. “Her secret cave. Chances are, you’re right.”

  “Was it weird meeting Colette?” Taylor repositioned, trying to relax. This common ground was a good place to reassess her feelings for her father.

  Daddy shrugged. “A little. Mostly like meeting a long-lost relative, no context, no connection. Interesting about her and Coach, though.”

  Yeah, it was, and somehow that story was pinging in Taylor with the one Daddy just told.

  “Do you think Peg loved Coach? Before she married Grandpa?”

  “If so, she never said.”

  “But she was a woman of secrets.”

  Daddy leaned back, relaxing a bit. “Got me there, kiddo.”

  If she let herself not be mad, she liked Daddy. He was smart, funny, caring, handsome. A good citizen. And as far as she could tell, from her distant life perch, he was a good husband to Ardell.

  More than that, he was her child’s grandfather. A sweep of sentiment dusted the crusty edges of her fourteen-year-old offense.

  “Can I talk to you?” His tone drew a serious shade in the room.

  “S-sure.” The tremor in her gut told her this was going to be personal.

  “I don’t mean to put you on the spot, Taylor, but I guess this chapel business and seeing Coach with Colette sparked something in me. I just have to know . . . What’s wrong between us? I know it has something to do with the divorce, but, darling, I can’t figure why you’re so angry with me but not your mother.”

  Her vision glistened with tears. “Daddy, I can’t—”

  “I know this is hard, but I don’t want this wall between us. I’ve asked Emma, your mama, and they don’t know. Your mom blames the divorce and I get that. I was from a divorce too, Taylor. But I didn’t hate one parent over the other. Did I do something—”

  “Yes, and you know you did.” She fired off the sofa, her emotions raw from the events of the day. “You and Mama wouldn’t have gotten divorced if it wasn’t for you and Ardell.” Anger gas-pedaled her truth to the surface.

  “What? Taylor, I didn’t start up with Ardell until six months after the divorce.”

  “Really? That’s the story you’re sticking to?”

  “It’s the truth.” The red tinge of frustration splashed his cheeks.

  “I saw you. In your study. Kissing her.”

  “What? When?” He was on his feet now, hands propped on his belt.

  “You were my hero, Daddy. How do you think it made me feel to see you in another woman’s arms? Kissing her. And in your own home too.” She walked around the couch, the conversation feeling so foreign. She’d imagined this moment but she’d never played it out.

  “When was this?”

  “You know when, Daddy. It’s okay, you don’t have to pretend. I know.”

  “Then tell me. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Are you serious? In your study, about seven o’clock at night, fourteen years ago. Come on, you . . . Ardell . . . hugging . . . kissing.”

  Daddy frowned. “And you saw that?”

  “I was hiding behind the door, waiting for you. Mr. Ellison gave my print photography class an assignment to photograph someone we admire. Our hero. I decided to do a candid shot, you at your desk working . . .” Taylor eased back down to the couch. “Because that’s what you did, work to take care of us. Make us feel loved and safe.”

  “Oh, Taylor—”

  “Instead, I learn you’re a cheater.”

  “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

  “I was fifteen, Daddy. What was I supposed to say?”

  “ ‘What were you doing with Ardell?’ ”

  “Right, and you’d have done what? Told me the truth? Apologized? Made it all better?”

  He jutted out his chin. “No, no, I’d have told you it wasn’t your business.”

  “Exactly. I got an F on that project because I couldn’t think of another hero in time and I refused to turn in the one of you in the den.”

  “As I recall, that room didn’t have a lot of light.”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “Did you see that she was crying? That I was comforting her? And yes, I did hug her and kiss her cheek.”

  “Well, it looked like lips from where I was standing.”

  Daddy sighed, sitting forward, pressing his forehead to his hands. Taylor’s heartbeat counted the seconds as she waited. “Ardell came to me for advice. She’d found out her husband was having an affair.”

  “What? But I saw you—”

  “Comforting an old friend. Taylor, this is why you’ve been angry at me all these years?”

  “Yes, you cheated. So I thought. So I saw. I lost my family. My dad.”

  Daddy exhaled, rubbing his hand over his face. “Taylor, you’re going to make me say things I don’t want to say.”

  “I’d like the truth.”

  “Why don’t you go talk to your mama?”

  “Mama?”

  “She had a hand in our marriage failing too.”

  “Like what? Wanting a faithful husband?”

  “Taylor—”

  She was pushing and knew it. “Say it, Daddy. Like what? You came over here to clear the air between us, so . . .”

  “She was the one having an affair. With Ardell’s husband, Trevor.”

  The truth punched her, plopping her against the sofa. “Mama?”

  “That’s right, Vicki had the affair. Not me. I wanted to work it out, as did Ardell with Trevor, but they both wanted out. Don’t you remember him coming around after I moved out?”

  “Yes, but I thought he was taking sides with her against the two of you.” Daddy’s truth brought light to the shades and shadows of Taylor’s understanding.

  “We never said anything to you girls ’cause we figured it wasn’t something to put on your shoulders. Of course, I didn’t know you saw me with Ardell.”

  “I-I don’t know what to say.”

  “What’s to say? You didn’t know.”

  “But I’ve been mad at you for fourteen years. I watched you and Mama fall apart and thought, ‘Wow, marriage is rotten. Men stink.’ ”

  “I never intended to divorce your mom, but if it’s any encouragement, Ardell and I have been happily married for twelve years. Still going strong. And other than after a good workout or a day in the yard, we menfolk don’t stink too bad.”

  A joke. He was easing the tension with a joke.

  Taylor surrendered her rising, soft laugh. “Oh, Daddy . . . I don’t know what to say.”

  “How about we can be friends again.”

  “Yes, yes, Daddy, I’m really sorry for the way I’ve been.” She slipped from the couch as he stood, his arms open. Leaning into him, her head to his chest, Taylor sensed a shift in her soul and for the first time in a very long time, her world seemed to turn on the right axis.

  “Kiddo, I wish you would’ve talked to me sooner.”

  They stayed there for a long while, hugging, rocking back and forth, wounds exposed and healing in the fresh light of truth.

  JIMMY

  Restless. Irritated. Frustrated. Overwhelmed. Mad. Astounded. Awed. Confused. Hurt. Remorseful.

  Jimmy paced around his living room through each rising emotion into the kitchen and back again, doing his best to make peace with the news Colette had just dropped on him.

  Drummond Branson was his son.

 
He sat in his recliner, positioned exactly where Dad’s old chair used to sit, then popped to his feet again.

  James. Colette had named the boy James.

  Pacing, his adrenaline too hot for sitting, Jimmy let his gaze cruise past the curio cabinet, then back, stopping on the football tucked back on the top shelf behind the glass.

  Walking over, he retrieved the old ball from its resting place. Dad’s shadow box to encase Jimmy’s game ball from ’48 turned into a much bigger project. Clearly.

  But for over six decades, the cabinet had been the ball’s home. Coach took it out once a year, at the beginning of the football season, to inspire the boys.

  Reaching in, he palmed the ball and tossed it between his hands. Walking over to the window, he shoved aside the curtain with the nose of the ball.

  She was out there. Hurting. He couldn’t console her once she confessed. She’d shrugged off his touch, assuring him she was the most despicable woman on the earth.

  Finally she left. He waited until she pulled out of the driveway, then he followed her. So he knew Colette was in Heart’s Bend. At the inn.

  He came home thinking he’d leave her be, but the more he paced, the more he thought—the more time ticked by, the more he changed his mind.

  Tucking the ball under his arm, he marched for the kitchen, snatched up his keys, and fired out the back door.

  If ever in his life he needed to score the winning touchdown, it was today. Right now. He’d heard Colette’s story and now she was going to hear his.

  At the inn, he asked for Colette’s room and the clerk rang her from the desk.

  “She’ll be right out,” she said.

  So, more pacing. Back and forth through the lobby, tossing the ball in his hands, Jimmy prepared to have his say.

  “I love you and it’s high time we got married. In our chapel.”

  But when he turned to see a silver-haired, New York–looking man heading his way, he lost a bit of his nerve.

  “Jimmy?”

  “And you are?”

  “Ford, Colette’s manager.” He offered his hand, which Jimmy took. No reason to be rude.

  “Where’s Colette? I need to talk to her.”