The Everlasting Chapel

by Marilyn Cruise

  The Everlasting Chapel

  By

  Marilyn Cruise

  This is a work of fiction.

  All the characters, organizations and events

  portrayed in this novel are either products

  of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  First Edition, Mar 15, 2015

  ISBN-13: 978-1508747765

  ISBN-10: 1508747768

  E-Book ISBN: 9781311318428

  Copyright © 2015 Marilyn Cruise

  All rights reserved.

  Other Books By Marilyn Cruise

  The Black Chapel

  Book 1 in the Chapel Series

  Now available!

  The White Chapel

  Book 2 in the Chapel Series

  Now Available!

  Way Too Far

  A Steamy New Adult Romance

  About Scarlett’s best friend, Anne

  Coming Soon!

  1

  The brunette teller behind the counter raises an over-plucked eyebrow and glares at me like she thinks I’m trying to rob the bank or cash a check that obviously is a fake.

  “I’d like to deposit this,” I say with a trembling voice, although now, even I’m having a hard time really believing that the damn thing is authentic and that the funds will be available.

  Maybe this is all a cruel joke Diane is playing on me from beyond the grave. I certainly wouldn’t put it past her. She’s probably in Heaven, laughing her head off, congratulating herself that she was able to make me believe I had walked into a goldmine—her goldmine. Or maybe she faked her own illness and death, and this is a new game she has conjured up just to make her son’s life miserable. She could even be here watching me, getting a kick out of watching the poor stripper girl suffer. I stop myself from looking for her. I don’t believe Diane could do something so evil toward her son, even if at this point I almost think he deserves it.

  I suppose one shouldn’t speak of the dead in such a way, but with Mrs. Manning, I have a feeling she would delight in such gossip about herself. And in a strange way, I miss her.

  “You want to deposit this?” the teller asks as she holds the check, her eyes running up and down me.

  Judgmental bitch. “That’s what I said.” Obviously, I don’t resemble a billionaire at the moment, but she shouldn’t be giving me the ‘you-look-like-a-homeless-chick’ glare. I can’t help it if I look like shit today. Yesterday I worked at Ophelia’s and waited tables until 2:00 a.m., and then I had to be at the Portland Museum of Art at 6:00 a.m. to sort through the inventory, and now I’m on my lunch break just trying to deposit a check I feel kind of—okay, really guilty—about depositing.

  But those aren’t the only reasons I look like a worn out old crone. The last two weeks have been extremely stressful. I started work Monday before last, and have had to simultaneously train at two jobs while making sure my father is comfortable at the hospital. Whenever I had a spare moment, I interviewed nurse after nurse, trying to find a candidate who I feel comfortable leaving my father with while I’m at work—which is many, many hours.

  The moment Vivian Hall, my childhood nanny, applied for the position, I knew I had found the right caregiver. I have so many great memories of her, and as a child I remember asking my mother if Vivian was related to Mary Poppins. Vivian’s a sweeter-than-honey, no-nonsense, fifty-something, never-been-married woman. She has soft, rosy cheeks, black hair, thin lips, and most importantly, kind eyes. She starts on Sunday and will be taking care of my father—in-house and full time—when he gets home. I’d watch him myself, but I’m not sure if this check is real or not and don’t want to gamble on whether or not I can afford his chemotherapy treatments. Better to be safe than sorry. Especially when it comes to the Manning family and their money.

  I still have a small—okay, huge—part of me that doesn’t want their charity. But unfortunately, the larger part of me wants it more than the part that doesn’t, so here I am cashing in on my father’s life-saving medical treatments and a big, bright future for me. I mean, how can anyone blame me? Three fucking billon dollars with my name on it. Maybe once I’ve used what I need, I’ll donate the rest to charity. Now that would make Michael go completely insane since that’s what he was so desperately trying to avoid in the first place.

  “It’s real,” I say to the teller, my heart beating at triple speed. As imperceptibly as I can, I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants.

  “I’ll need to have the manager clear this, but he’s out to lunch at the moment. Do you mind waiting?” she says, gesturing to the occupied seats behind me.

  Wait? I don’t have time to wait. I have to be back at work in fifteen minutes. “It’s okay. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “We’re closed tomorrow,” she says. “It’s Saturday.” She smiles as if she enjoys postponing my very large deposit.

  I should complain about her and get her fired. Fortunately for her, I’m not that cruel. “That’s okay. I’ll be back on Monday.”

  “Monday is Martin Luther King Jr. Day. We’re closed then, too.” She smiles again—a plastic grin.

  Maybe I will complain just a little. “Tuesday then,” I say.

  “Tuesday it is. Have a great weekend, Miss Hansen,” she says, handing me back the check and my ID. “We appreciate your business.”

  I just give her a clipped smile and walk toward the exit. Back to work.

  I am rather glad to be as busy as I am. It helps keep my mind off Michael and all the things associated with that ridiculous situation. It’s beyond anything I can really cope with at the moment. He’s called me a few times every day and left messages for me to call him back, but I haven’t been able to. Or really wanted to.

  At first I thought it was sweet, and I found myself hoping that maybe someday we could reunite, but with each passing day, it becomes increasingly clear that ending all association with him was and will always be the right thing to do. And now when he calls, I feel a bit frustrated that he doesn’t see that we both just really need to move on.

  Hell, I’ve already moved on, and I’m doing rather well considering all the craziness that’s been hurled at me. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, my alter-ego says. I have too! I snap back. I’m able to function at a healthy level, and do things like go to work and even shove some food down my throat once in a while. Anne says I’ve lost a little weight, but with my schedule, I just don’t have time to eat as much as I normally do. And to prove my point that I am perfectly fine, I’ve even considered the sensible option of changing my phone number just so I don’t have to backslide and feel as if I want to cry every time I see that he is calling.

  I’m well on my way to a perfectly happy life without the selfish, no-good scoundrel.

  On my way out, I pass a mother and her screaming five-year-old-ish son. Suddenly the kid vomits all over the tile floor, sending drops of puke onto my jeans and boots. I gasp as I jump backward, and instinctively hold my breath so I don’t inhale any of the floating spew particles.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am,” the mother says, her tired eyes filled with concern. “I didn’t realize he was sick, and…oh, dear.” She looks at my pants and boots. “I am truly so very sorry.”

  Unable to hold my breath any longer, I take a breath. The stench of the stuff fills the air. I hear a few people whisper, and everyone around me scurries off like cockroaches when the lights come on.

  “It’s okay,” I say, looking for something in my purse to wipe myself off with. Just don’t inhale. Just don’t inhale!

  A bank teller quickly brings paper towels, hands me one, and then starts to wipe the slimy stuff off the floor. I think I’m going to barf. The mother apologizes to me again, grabs the screaming child by
the arm, and disappears into the bathroom.

  This is disgusting. I have to go home and get cleaned up—there’s just no way around it. I’m sure Staci, the clerk at the Portland Museum of Art bookstore, will understand. But what I’m afraid of is, if this kid has a stomach bug, and I also get it, it makes me look like an unreliable employee if I take a few sick days right after I started working.

  Once I manage to clean myself off a little, I head for the exit, and as I walk through the doors, I hear someone yell my name.

  “Miss Hansen!” a male voice calls. “Scarlett!”

  Great. I really don’t want to meet anyone right now. I just want to go home and get cleaned up. I turn around, and there I see Doctor Jamison.

  Shit.

  Of course it had to be the handsome doctor Anne thinks I should have a fling with. He might even be the most gorgeous man I have ever laid eyes on, with his intense green eyes, his blond, wavy hair, the sexy cleft in his chin, his deliciously muscular physique, long legs…

  Okay, I better stop thinking about it. Right. Now. However, I mentally note that it is strange how my stomach doesn’t do that flip thing it does when I see Michael. I definitely think this man is just as gorgeous as Michael—if not even more gorgeous—and is a gift to all women who have the fortune of laying eyes on him. This guy is a little older than me, but no more than five to eight years I’m sure, and he definitely has his act together.

  In any case, this is not the best time to meet a handsome doctor, especially since I actually have been considering Anne’s naughty suggestion. I give him a thin smile.

  “Funny to run into you here of all places,” he says.

  “Yeah, I was just…doing some banking.” There’s an awkward pause. “And this kid just vomited all over me.” I huff.

  “Seriously?” He doesn’t look disgusted, only concerned. Must be a doctor thing, because if I were him, I sure as hell would be stepping away from the person covered in upchuck.

  “Yeah, well I just need to go home and get cleaned up,” I say.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks.

  Really? Wow, I like this guy. “No, but thanks for the offer. Oh, and thanks for being such a great doctor for my father.” He has been very attentive, and has answered any question I have had.

  “Of course. He’s a strong man, and with great support from you, I’m sure he’ll be back to himself in no time.”

  “Well…I had better…” I say, pointing toward my car.

  “This is kind of out of the blue, but I wanted to see if you’d have dinner with me sometime?” he asks.

  For a moment I just stand and stare. Dinner? As in a dinner date, or just eating a meal across a table and engaging in conversation? Something tells me it would definitely be a date. The way the doctor’s eyes drink me in tells me he’s not into casual dinners.

  This is not good.

  Dates lead to hugging, and hugging leads to kissing, and kissing leads to fondling, and fondling leads to… Oh, dear. I realize I’m light-years ahead of myself, and light-years ahead of his intentions too probably, but now that I’m one step closer to a fling, I’m suddenly terrified. I feel like I would be…cheating on Michael. Which is ridiculous! He divorced me, and hell, we didn’t even have a real relationship.

  “Or…maybe lunch?” he asks.

  “I…I’m really busy. I have two jobs right now, and…”

  “Coffee?” he asks, smirking playfully.

  I laugh. I suppose I have to eat, and it would be nice to eat with someone else instead of just alone. “Maybe lunch. They do let me out once in a while from the Portland Museum of Art.”

  “How about this coming Monday?” he asks.

  Wow, he really wants this. “Okay.”

  He pulls out his phone. “What’s your number?”

  I give it to him, and he calls it.

  “I left my phone in the car,” I say, trying to explain why it isn’t ringing in my purse, making sure he doesn’t think I’m giving him a fake number.

  He smiles and waits until my voicemail picks up. “Hi, this is Spencer Jamison, the guy who just mauled you at the bank.” He winks at me.

  Uh-oh. Okay, I should have said no. He’s already flirting with me, and I’m not ready for that. Besides, my new mantra is: guys are a thing of the past. Unless it’s a friends-with-benefits type relationship, my alter-ego suggests. What? Okay, this has got to stop. Besides, a respectable man like Dr. Jamison wouldn’t be interested in an arrangement like that, would he? More importantly, could I actually do something so crazy? Desperate times call for desperate measures, my alter-ego says. No! I am so screwed. What? No! I’m not going to screw him, dammit!

  He stares at me intently as he leaves a message on my voicemail. “I wanted to remind you, Scarlett, that we have a lunch appointment on Monday. Please let me know if you are allergic to anything before that time, or if you have any food aversions. I look forward to it.” He hangs up.

  “I’m not allergic to anything and I’m not picky,” I say.

  “Before I let you go, what’s your favorite color?” he asks.

  “Uh…I don’t really have one,” I say, thinking that question is really weird and completely out of the blue.

  “Okay. Well, I don’t want to keep you from, you know…” He gestures to all of me. “I’ll see you on Monday. Can I pick you up at the Portland Museum of Art?”

  “Sure. Noon is when I usually take lunch.”

  “Okay. See you then.” He opens the door to the bank and vanishes into the building.

  I should have said no. I really should have. I am so not over Michael, and it wouldn’t be fair to Spencer if he’s looking for someone who is emotionally available. I’m about as emotionally available as a moldy piece of string cheese. And trying to use him, like Anne suggested, just so I can get over Michael is really quite evil.

  So I have decided: I need to cancel my date with him. Just let him know it’s too much right now with my two new jobs and with my father moving back home again.

  * * *

  Early Sunday morning I head for the hospital to pick up my father. Doctor Jamison has the day off, and I find myself feeling a little relieved not having to deal with the whole lunch date thing while I’m super concerned about an ill parent. I really regret saying yes to Spencer, because I don’t want to go. At all. I don’t think it’s him—he’s absolutely gorgeous and is a fine catch—but I think it has more to do with where I am in my life right now, and a relationship is the absolute last thing on my mind.

  It’s not a relationship, Scarlett. Just lunch, I remind myself every time that annoying, whiny voice starts to complain.

  The stand-in doctor gives me the rundown on all the things I need to remember to do when I get my father back home. Fortunately, Vivian has spoke to Dr. Jamison several times about what my father will need, so she knows exactly what to do.

  When I get home, Vivian is waiting for us on the front steps. She’s wearing a red coat, black gloves, a black hat, and is clutching her floral bag in a way that again reminds me of Mary Poppins. When she sees us, she waves and smiles. I park in the driveway, get out of the car, scoot around to the other side, and open the door for my father.

  “Welcome home,” I say, feeling the weight of the world melting off my shoulders. I realize it will be a long road yet, but after having found decent work, this is another huge step toward where I want my life to be.

  I offer him my hand, and he takes it. The poor man probably only weighs a hundred and fifty pounds, which is far too little for his six-foot frame.

  Vivian comes over, and together we assist him up the front porch stairs and all the way inside. Carefully, we help him onto the couch, and I lay a blanket across his lap.

  “I appreciate how you are doting on me, Scarlett, but I’m not a complete invalid,” my father says.

  “I know you’re not, but will you let me take care of you just a little bit?” I say, sitting down next to him, wrapping an arm around his bony s
houlders. My heart squeezes.

  “Today it’s fine, after that—”

  “I’ll be at work so you don’t have to worry about me after today.” I kiss him on the cheek, stand up, and walk into the kitchen where Vivian is waiting.

  “Thanks for being here on time,” I say. “I’m sorry we ran a little late. It took us a while longer to get out of the hospital than I thought it would.”

  “Oh, no worries,” she says, her light blue eyes softening. Today she’s wearing her long, dark, silver-streaked hair back in a low ponytail, and she smells of gardenia perfume. “I’ll go ahead and get the bags from the car and unpack his things. Where is his room?”

  “Upstairs, and straight ahead,” I say. Suddenly, I feel slightly light-headed and have to support myself on the counter so I don’t lose my balance.

  “Are you alright?” Vivian asks, placing a hand on my shoulder.

  “Yeah, I just…it’s been really stressful these last few weeks. I guess I haven’t had time to really rest.”

  “When was the last time you ate a proper meal?” she asks.

  I don’t remember. “Last night…?” I had a protein bar on the go.

  “Well, let me make you something to eat. Why don’t you go lie down and I’ll take care of everything here,” she suggests.

  “No, I’ll be fine. I probably just need to eat something.”

  “Shush, girl. Go upstairs and I’ll bring you some food. You’ve been pushing yourself way too hard and for far too long, if what Dr. Jamison said is true.”

  “Did he set you up to this?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

  “No, although he is concerned about you, and so am I. Now go to bed and I’ll be up in a little while.”

  I roll my eyes, but do as I’m told. Before I head upstairs, I mosey into the living room again. My father is already sleeping, and I watch him for a second. His face turns blurry with my tears when I think about how thankful I am to finally have him back home. And even though I don’t want to accept the Mannings’ money, I am grateful that it does offer a future to what’s left of my family.