The Wedding Chapel
Page 4
“Yes, the book.” She’d agreed to the book but only because she was angry with Peg, who in light of her sickness had suddenly wanted to make amends. To undo the past sixty-plus years as if nothing had ever happened. Colette forgave her, then threatened her with a tell-all if she didn’t leave things be.
But she’d never write such a memoir. Not while Peg was alive. Because it wouldn’t fix anything, change the past, or bring back those Colette had loved and lost.
“I don’t know the first thing about writing a book, Ford.”
He sighed, angling forward as the driver surged through traffic and through a yellow light. “You have a cowriter, Justine Longoria. Remember? You tell her your stories and she handles the writing magic.”
“I can’t imagine anyone wanting to read about me.”
“Everyone wants to read about you, Colette,” Ford said, exasperation molding his thin features. “You’re an award-winning actress, a patron of the arts, a world traveler, a spokeswoman. You acted on the same show for six decades. Yet your personal life is a mystery. You’ve had many suitors but no husband. No children. You’ve lived in the same penthouse for fifty years. You don’t even own cats or dogs.”
“Animals die.” She’d had enough death in her life. People. Dreams. Love.
“They also bring joy and comfort.”
“And I have children.”
Ford laughed low. “As Vivica Spenser? That doesn’t count, Colette.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m one sentence away from the old folks home, Ford. The actors who played Vivica’s children feel very much like my own. Caron Seitz and I talk once a month, at least. And Jenn Baits has her children call me Granny.”
“Sweet stories, but you can’t lie to me. No one really knows you.” Ford said this while answering a text to his phone. “I’m not sure I know you all that well.”
“You know me as well as anyone.”
“Then tell me. How do you feel about the show ending? That the last episode airs this month?”
“I’m . . .” Colette paused. What words fit the swirl in her soul? Sad? Lost? Lonely? Such pitiful words for a woman who had a life others envied.
But really, there were days Colette Greer didn’t know where she ended and Vivica Spenser began. The women were one and the same. One’s reality was the other’s fantasy. She was the blended shade of her real life and TV persona.
“You’ll have to read about it in my autobiography.”
Ford’s laugh filled the cab. “Touché. So you’ll do the book?” He flashed his phone. “I’ll get Justine scheduled. How’s Monday?”
“Fine, but not too early. I like mornings to myself.”
“Noon it is. The publisher will be thrilled. I can hear the ka-ching of foreign rights dollars. You’re practically a goddess in Latin America.”
“They don’t love me, Ford. They love Vivica Spenser.” Was that it? The world loved Vivica, not Colette. So the show’s end meant the end of the only love she knew?
“Of course they love Vivica. But who is Vivica without Colette Greer?” Ford’s big hand covered hers. “It’ll be therapeutic. Writing. You can exorcise your demons.”
“You think I have demons?”
On Colette’s last word, the taxi eased alongside a curb with nothing in view but brick buildings.
Ford offered the man his credit card while she stepped out of the car without waiting for assistance, raising her face to the thin, crisp morning breeze, to the sights and sounds of New York.
Fall in the city was magical, with a kind of cool-breeze ethereal energy that reminded her of her youth. When she had skipped down the sidewalk, turned cartwheels on the lawn, and collected gold, red, and orange leaves for a treasure box.
“Top floor,” Ford said, pointing to the building as he joined her by the curb, tucking away his wallet.
Colette wobbled with her first step, the ground beneath her quaking. So this was it. Her final call with the cast.
The End.
Nothing but the blinding glare of endless blank days ahead.
“I can’t—”
“Excuse me?” Ford glanced at his ringing phone, then tucked it away. “You can’t what?” He cupped his hand against her elbow and tried to inch her forward.
“I can’t go up there, Ford.” Her voice warbled and she sounded feeble, old, like she was a hundred and one instead of vibrant and cultured at eighty-two.
Ford shielded his eyes as the morning sun fell between the buildings. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”
“It’s just . . . over.” Colette regarded Ford for a moment. Then without so much as a deep breath, she evoked Vivica Spenser. The old broad had twice her strength. “Well, shall we?” She smiled, raising her chin, stepping toward the building. “Bart Maverick will never let me live it down if he arrives before me.”
“Colette?”
She glanced back at Ford. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“More than anything.” A famous Vivica Spenser line that served her well.
Ford led the way to a bright, well-lit studio. Music with a light, toe-tapping melody added texture to the atmosphere. A smooth tenor sang about being happy.
Some of the cast had already arrived, including ninety-seven-year-old Wilma Potter, who played Colette’s first mother on the show. The two never got along. Wilma greatly resented playing Colette’s mother when they were only fifteen years apart.
Greeting the cast, both old and new, current and retired, Colette walked in Vivica’s shoes and postured herself as the dame she was and drew the room under her spell.
All the while, however, she avoided the slender blonde working with an equally slender brunette setting up behind the camera. She’d face Taylor soon enough.
She joined in the jubilee when the legendary Bart Maverick arrived, who played the rich and handsome Derek VanMartin, Vivica’s first and truest love, and patriarch of the VanMartin fortune.
“Gorgeous Colette.” Without missing a beat, Bart swept Colette backward and kissed her, making a show of it for everyone.
Applause rose and floated around her, through her, never landing. Never finding space in her heart. Because she never craved applause. Colette craved the escape of being another character. Of living a life written by others.
When Bart released her, Colette swatted at him. “Such a ham, Bart. Don’t you ever change? Act your age.”
“This is my age,” he said with a wink, turning to greet the rest of the cast.
Still a charmer, that Bart. Colette realized how much she missed him. He’d left the show in the late nineties due to a heart condition, and, well, the show had never been the same. At least for her.
“Are we all here?” Taylor stood in front of them, looking trim in a pair of jeans and a fitted top. She was gorgeous. So like Colette’s memories of Mamá. She had the Greer eyes and full lips.
Annoying, telling tears burned in Colette’s eyes, threatening to expose her. She batted away the sheen and held her smile in perfection, nodding when Taylor’s gaze swept past her and back again.
Oh my, she was beautiful. And when she smiled at Colette, the floor crumbled from under her feet, sending her tumbling through time.
Standing on the stool next to the London house stove, watching Mamá cook supper, laughing as Papá’s deep bass song filled the house. Happy Christmases by the fire before the war. Running home after church, the melody of God’s love in her heart.
Cozy nights listening to Mamá reading bedtime stories, Colette curled up in bed with Peg. Dressed in lace and ribbons for Mimi Blanton’s wedding. At that old chapel in Nottingham. Summers at the shore. On the boat with Peg to America, so scared, yet so full of expectation.
Aunt Jean and Uncle Fred, Clem, and the warm welcome of their home.
Jimmy. Every moment with him.
Seeing Heart’s Bend disappear on the horizon as Spice’s old Ford headed north out of town, tears dripping from her chin, soaking her blouse.
“Colette, good to see you.” Taylor offered her hand and Colette escaped her reverie.
“It’s good to be seen.” It was the first answer that came to mind. What else could she say? “Are we sitting here?” Colette motioned to the large, red velvet sofa. To her own ears, she sounded distant and a bit snobby. But that was the voice of ancient walls.
“Yes, if you don’t mind. Colette, here, in the middle.” Taylor deposited her on the cushions.
“Naturally,” Bart said. “Colette is the sun and we are her moons.”
“Hush, you, and sit next to me.” Colette patted the soft surface, avoiding Taylor’s face, avoiding the storm surge of emotions pounding against her.
“Perfect. Bart Maverick?” Taylor said, offering her hand. “I’m Taylor Branson.” She smiled and had old Bart mesmerized right off.
But was she still going by Branson? Colette gave Taylor the once-over. Wasn’t she married? To an ad man, if memory served.
“Addison?” Taylor called to the brunette. “Why don’t you set up the cast while I test the light?”
Watching Taylor, Colette battled a rising heat of regret. Since arriving in New York the spring of ’51, she’d never allowed herself to look back, to dwell on the past. Because the pain threatened to be her breaking.
But for a split second, in this moment, she pinged with a sliver of truth. All of her life’s work and accomplishments were rubbish compared to what she could’ve been, what she should’ve been. And nothing reminded her more than beautiful Taylor Branson.
Chapter Five
JIMMY
HEART’S BEND, TENNESSEE
SEPTEMBER 17, 2015
Well now, wasn’t that weird? Twice in one week? What turn of events had the Lord brung his way?
Jimmy settled the kitchen receiver on the phone’s base and stared out the window over the sink. His chapel. Left dark and alone, silent for sixty-plus years now, suddenly had folks popping out of time for a gander at it.
With the chapel tucked back off River Road, he didn’t reckon anyone knew about it except him, his dear departed dad, and the property appraiser.
But some fella from Architecture Quarterly had called wanting to send a photographer down. Said they were doing an issue on classic American wedding chapels. But Jimmy didn’t have a pie-eyed guess as to how they discovered his place.
When Jimmy inquired, the man said he didn’t know. But if Jimmy indeed had a wedding chapel tucked up in the woods, they’d like to feature it in their magazine.
“We heard it was a beauty.”
From who? Property appraiser Arnold Rowland didn’t have Architecture Quarterly connections. Of that Jimmy was sure.
It was a mystery, to be sure.
And just now a real estate agent called. Keith Niven said he wanted to look at the place and if Jimmy was interested he had a buyer.
“I’m out here on your property, and boy, Coach, what’re you doing with this thing?” Keith had whistled loud and shrill, giving Jimmy the impression he was wowed by the place. Or was that strictly salesman hype? “Do you want to sell?”
“No,” was Jimmy’s gut response. But he held off saying it. Maybe it was time. After the Architecture Quarterly photographer showed up next week, he was bound to get all kinds of interest. He might as well give the lead to Keith.
“I’ll head on out there. Give me ten minutes.”
“Fantastic.”
So with this quagmire on his mind, Jimmy fished his truck keys from the fruit bowl by the kitchen door and stepped into the midday sun, summer’s grip still hot and strong on the passing September days.
But that’s the way it was in Middle Tennessee. He’d spent more than his share of autumn afternoons baking under the sun’s rays, running football practice, building boys into men.
Then one day God would flip the switch, drop the temperatures, color the trees with the beauty of heaven, and cheer up life with full-on football weather.
He missed those days. Missed filling his life with meaning. But nine years ago, when he turned seventy-four, he heard the bong of time in his chest and knew it was time to hand over the reins of Rock Mill High’s football program to a younger man.
Tom Meyers was doing a good job of it too. Hadn’t won a national title yet, but it was harder today than in Jimmy’s day.
As he walked to his truck, his thoughts bounced from football to the chapel, to Keith’s proposition. He was a young buck, this real estate agent, and a good man as far as Jimmy knew. His daddy had played on one of Jimmy’s championship teams.
Settled behind the wheel, Jimmy fired up the engine, then paused with his hand on the gear shift. His old chapel . . . The memories surfaced . . .
Shoot fire, he had forgotten the chapel key.
Leaving the truck engine idling, he traced his way back to the house, crossed the kitchen to the living room, then made his way up the stairs. In his room, under the dormer eaves, he opened the narrow half door leading to the attic and climbed up.
Stooping down, he reached through the dark, retrieving a small cedar box. When he raised the lid, the scent of the wood enhanced his memory.
“What are you going to do with the place?” Dad had followed Jimmy into his room, not willing to leave it be.
“Lock it up.”
“After all your hard work? Jimmy, let it be useful—”
“I’m locking it up since you wouldn’t let me burn it.” Jimmy searched his dresser for something, anything, he could use to store the key. He spied a dust-covered cedar box he’d made in Sunday school eons ago. Popping it open, he dropped the key inside.
“You won’t always feel this way,” Dad said. “She might come back.”
“Yeah? Did Mama?” It was a low blow, but anger threw mean punches.
“What have I been telling you? Don’t be like me. Move on. Find another gal.” Dad moved to the door, his wide, large shoulders rounded down with the weight of the conversation. “Just promise me you won’t throw away the key.”
He wasn’t talking about the metal piece in the cedar box. Jimmy knew it. Falling on his bed, stretching out, locking his hands behind his head, he nodded. “I won’t . . . I won’t throw away the key.”
Returning the box to its hideaway, Jimmy shook away the fragrance of the past. But he had thrown away the key. To his heart. While the physical key to the chapel remained, Jimmy kept the letter of the law but not the grace.
He squeezed the key against his palm. “Sorry, Daddy.” Even at eighty-three, he missed his father.
But today represented a new chance. To pass the key on, give the old chapel the life it never had. It was too late for his heart but not for the chapel’s. Not his dreams for her.
But did he have the courage? Jimmy wouldn’t know until he opened the door and stepped inside his past for the first time in a long time.
With that in mind, Jimmy left the house, nurturing a sense of purpose. Perhaps the Divine was intervening, answering an unspoken prayer in his heart.
He drove slowly down the street, the slightest touch of fall painting the edge of the green hills.
He jutted his elbow out the open window and caught a whiff of burning firewood. Change was in the air, and it had him hankering for something he could not see nor touch.
Turning off Dunbar Street onto River Road, Jimmy headed north for three short miles.
Along the sloping hills, another housing development seemed to have popped up overnight. Heart’s Bend hardly looked the same in recent years, what with Nashville expanding her borders and stretching northwest, posting new construction all over Jimmy’s rolling hills and along the Cumberland River.
He’d lived out this way for so long he felt personal about the land. Back in the day, he’d wanted Daddy to buy the property surrounding their house. He managed to set money down on the first track when ole Rise Fores
ter Sr. came along and gobbled up the rest.
Now his son, the scalawag Rise Jr., was selling to anyone who could buy. Word was he had no choice. He’d blown through the family fortune in a couple of decades. Not to mention he was a mean cuss. What he did to his kid, Jack . . .
Jimmy shifted in his seat, twisting his hand on the wheel. He’d coached hundreds of kids in his forty-five-year career, but Jack Forester remained a standout in his mind. Jimmy had gotten the chance to coach him right before he retired. The boy worked hard, played hard, studied hard. Did everything that was asked of him all the while being tossed from foster home to foster home. And his durn daddy watching it all go down, doing nothing.
The road to the chapel peeked out from underneath overgrown summer shrubs and Jimmy steered onto his property, a gem of a place smack in the middle of Forester’s holdings.
Down a short, lean path, the truck broke into a bright, magical clearing, and the chapel rose from the earth and commanded the devotion of everything around her.
Jimmy breathed in. She was a beauty. Like her inspiration.
Majestic with her stone walls and weather-worn beam trim, the chapel drank in the sunlight through the cupola, then reflected it back out through the windows. The canopying beech and cottonwood trees stretched leafy branches over the slanted slate roof, creating a thicket of serenity.
Pulling alongside a thick carpet of late-summer grass, Jimmy stepped out of the truck, easing the door shut. “Hello, old friend,” he said, a cord of emotion in his voice.
The breeze shimmied through the trees and coiled on the ground as if in response. Hello to you too, old friend.
His boot heels crunched on the gravel as he made his way to the pebbled concrete walkway—the final touch he’d put on the chapel thirty years ago. He used to visit about once a year, making sure she still stood whole and unbroken.
But one year had turned to two, two to three . . . Now Jimmy reckoned he hadn’t been out here in six or seven years. And when he did come, it was only for a quick inspection. He hired Andrew Votava to keep the grounds trim and in shape. But otherwise . . .