by Rachel Hauck
He regretted his absence now, seeing how beautiful she became with time.
Stepping up on the minuscule portico, he pressed his hand against the sun-warmed gray stone.
She was part of him, this place. He’d deposited his sweat, his tears, and his heart here. And buried them with time.
At one point he saw the chapel only as a monument of sorrow. He’d intended to burn her to the ground until Daddy intervened.
“Finish what you started. Make peace with it, son.”
He’d finished the construction but never made peace with it. No, for years he clung to anger and fed bitterness like a hungry bear. Until he woke up one day, looked in the mirror, and realized he’d become the man he never wanted to be, never even tried to become the man he dreamed to be.
He’d been content in his crotchety ways, being the tough yet winning coach, the old bachelor.
Then Peg Branson died four months ago, which sparked a new interest in religion for Jimmy. He realized he was an old man hoping to get into heaven but doing little to ensure his entry. He’d been darkening the door of Grace Church ever since. Even managed to read through the New Testament. Jesus had a whole heap to say about the dangers of being bitter.
Peg’s funeral stirred something else in Jimmy—a desire to make peace with her sister, Colette. He’d searched the packed sanctuary for signs of her coming to say good-bye to her sister, but to his disappointment she only represented herself with a large bouquet of flowers.
The river of hurt ran deep between the sisters. Though Jimmy never understood all the whys. He had his own river to manage.
“Mr. Westbrook, Coach . . .” Keith Niven approached, waving, with a young African American woman accompanying him. So engrossed was Jimmy in his reverie that he hadn’t heard Keith’s car pull in.
“This place . . . Wow!” Keith shook Jimmy’s hand with a force that needed reckoning. “This is Lisa Marie, my associate. Man, Jimmy, when did you buy this place? I didn’t even know it was here.”
“Nice to meet you.” Ignoring Keith, Jimmy shook Lisa Marie’s hand. She was pretty, with a sharp eagerness and an intelligent glint in her eye.
“Mr. Westbrook,” she said. “This chapel is incredible.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you build it?” Keith shoved back his jacket to anchor his hands on his belt. “I’m like, bam, blown away.”
“Dug up the foundation the summer of 1949, right after I graduated high school.”
Keith whistled. If he wanted to win over Jimmy, it was working. He loved anyone who loved his chapel. “What in the world . . . Summer of ’49, huh? What inspired you?”
“A photograph, really.” And a girl. But Jimmy would leave off with the short, simple answer. “I had a drafting class in school and made the wedding chapel drawings my project.”
“So it is a wedding chapel?” Lisa Marie said, swatting at Keith. “I told you.”
Keith narrowed his gaze at Jimmy. “Why a wedding chapel?”
“Because—”
“What’s her name?” Lisa Marie said.
Jimmy cleared his throat. “H-her name?”
“Of the girl who inspired a high school boy to design a wedding chapel.” So he wasn’t so transparent.
“What’s this?” Keith elbowed his way between Jimmy and Lisa Marie. “There was a girl?”
“I told you, I was inspired by a photograph.” Now it was Jimmy’s turn to prop his hands on his leather belt. The same one he’d slipped through his jeans’ loops for the last thirty-six years. The belt was probably older than this whippersnapper, Keith.
“What makes it a wedding chapel, though?” Lisa Marie asked a downright good question. “Why not just ‘a chapel’?”
“Because I said she was a wedding chapel.” Jimmy jutted out his chin. End of discussion. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to meet Keith here.
When he designed this place, he had more than a plan for a building, but a plan for his life, one that included her. Because he’d loved Colette Greer more than himself.
And she’d loved him.
“Can we take a look inside?” Keith motioned to the front door.
Jimmy slipped the single key from his pocket, unlocking the door. “Here she blows.” He stood aside to let Keith and Lisa Marie go in first. They exhaled their “Wows” in harmony.
Jimmy moved just inside the door, the emotion in his throat thick and rough. It felt like yesterday that he’d brought her here, snow falling all around, the world white and quiet. The world turning just for them.
Lisa Marie glanced back at Jimmy, holding up her phone. “Do you mind if I take some pictures?”
He shook his head. If he was going to sell the place, he’d best let go, let them do their job.
“The craftsmanship . . .” Lisa Marie aimed at the vaulted, exposed beam ceiling, stone walls, and slate floor, capturing image after image. “Did you cut the stones yourself?”
Jimmy nodded toward the part of the chapel’s stone wall he could see from the tiny foyer. “Every one.” And set each one in place too. With joy.
“This is fantastic.” Keith stood under the stained glass window depicting the scene of Christ at a wedding. “Where did you get this?”
“An old church in downtown Nashville. It was torn down during the reconstruction years after World War Two.”
Keith whistled low, trying almost too hard to impress Jimmy. Slipping into the back pew on the right side, Jimmy rubbed the ache out of his old bum knee and inhaled a long breath.
The midmorning light cascaded through the cupola to the chapel floor where tiny diamond sunbeams floated and drifted in the wide swath.
“Coach, what did you intend to do with this place?”
Marry my girl. The thought no sooner skidded across his mind than he heard it. The resounding thump-thump of a heartbeat. So strong, so thorough, Jimmy gripped the pew in front of him and struggled for a deep breath.
“Coach, you all right?”
Jimmy nodded, rising, inching his way out of the pew and toward the door. The drumming . . . the reverberating thump-thump . . .
He had to get out of here. Escape. How was it possible? That sound? After so many years.
“Jimmy . . . Mr. Westbrook?” Lisa Marie’s call trailed him through the chapel.
The first time he heard the thumping was sixty years ago, when Peg came by that day with her boy. He thought he was trapped inside an episode of the Haunted Hour. Or was experiencing a latent bout of shell shock. He’d only been home from Korea a couple of years.
But the sound was . . . real. All too real. Too close. Resounding in his chest. In his ears. And in a way Jimmy couldn’t explain, it felt life-giving.
The sound, from wherever it came, gave him hope. But that hope fruited nothing except to make him wonder if he’d darn near lost his mind.
And he’d been to Korea. Faced the enemy’s gun. But nothing spooked him like the sound of a living heart beating.
As far as he could remember, he’d not heard the sound since that day with Peg. Now, after sixty years, he heard it again?
Outside, he gulped the air. Dang if he wasn’t too old for this sort of shenanigan.
In the yard, Keith and Lisa Marie caught up to him. “Coach?”
“It’s yours if you want to buy it.” It was time. At eighty-three he needed to be rid of lingering, silly boyhood dreams, rid of that sound. He’d be the very definition of a crazy, foolish old man if he didn’t let her go.
“Yeah, we want to buy it.”
A stony sensation filled his chest. “Wh-what’re your plans?”
Lisa Marie glanced back. “I didn’t see any electricity—”
“Ain’t none. Gotta use candles and lanterns.”
“Oh my,” she sighed, smiling at Keith, then at Jimmy. “This is the most romantic place I’ve ever seen. Keith, we can sell this.”
“Coach, we can have it listed by next week.” Keith leaned toward him, encroaching on his personal space.
Jimmy gave him a light shove in the chest.
“Hold up now, let me think about it.” Maybe selling didn’t appeal as much as he imagined.
“Talk to me. What would it take to make you sell?” Keith folded his arms, angled backward, and waited.
Jimmy tucked his hands in his pockets and walked around the dynamic real estate duo and faced his ole girl, his chapel. It’d been a holy place, full of communion and promise.
Yet here she stood. Silent. Rejected. A wedding chapel that had hosted no wedding. Not a real one anyway. There was that one night, with Colette, before he shipped out when . . .
Jimmy grunted, shoving the memory back down. Weren’t this whole thing kind of pathetic when he considered it?
The hours he spent ringing his hammer against the stone. The golden-red dawn of summer days, when he walked onto these very grounds with his thermos full of coffee, his hand swinging a bag of Donut Haven’s donuts, his heart full of dreams.
Among the trees, tucked in the shadows were the memories of voices, the deep bass laugh of his father, the lively banter of Clem—one of the best friends a man could hope to find.
Mercy if he didn’t have tears from missing that old boy. Clem Clemson . . .
But it had all been in vain. Vanity, vanity . . .
He swung around to face Keith. “All right, let’s put her on the market.” There. He’d said it. Out loud. It was a verbal contract as far as he was concerned.
Lisa Marie pumped her fist in the air and Keith’s big, cap-tooth grin did all his talking.
“But no promises,” Jimmy said, striding toward the chapel door to lock her up, hearing the comforting tick of his own small heartbeat. Not the one haunting this place. What was that? “I hold the right to refuse any buyer. And the price has to be right.”
“Of course, of course. We can do that, Jimmy. We’ll treat this place as if we built it ourselves.”
So it was done. Keith went on about papers and listings as Jimmy headed for his truck and slid behind the wheel.
“I’ll be in touch,” Keith said.
“Fine, fine, you obviously know how to find me.” Jimmy backed down the path, shooting onto the main road, an old pain in his back flaring up.
He tried hard to think of nothing as he arrived home, but the laughter and play of the neighbor children caught his eye, awakened his heart.
He watched them, jiggling his keys against his palm, as he took a slow walk to the kitchen door.
Too late . . . The truth branded his brain. The twist in his back intensified.
Of course it was too late. He was an old man. Too late to do anything about unfulfilled dreams. Too late to win a love that was lost. Too late for everything the chapel represented.
He, a hall-of-fame football coach, had ridden the bench in the game of life, waiting to be called in for a play that never came.
Chapter Six
JIMMY
SEPTEMBER 1948
FRIDAY NIGHT UNDER THE LIGHTS
With each long stride, his hot breath swirling out from under his helmet, he sprinted toward the goal line, the football tucked tight against his ribs, his chest expanding with each deep inhale.
Peeking around the edge of his helmet, Jimmy saw the crowd on their feet, arms raised, their cheers inaudible against the pounding of his own pulse. Another two strides and he risked a backward glance, expecting to see a Bolton defender on his heels.
But he was alone, charging across midfield, not a defender in sight.
Ha-ha. Jimmy settled into the run, lengthened his stride, and . . .
Touchdown!
The roar of the crowd pierced him through—two hundred volts of human electricity. He loved every tingling one of them. Spiking the ball, he jutted his arms in the air and let rip the deepest, truest gut-wrenching holler.
“Go, Rockets!”
A weight hit him from behind, toppling him to the ground. Jimmy barely heard Clem’s voice before he was buried under a mound of teammates, hammering his helmet and shoulder pads, shouting and laughing.
He’d done it. Scored the winning touchdown. With ten seconds remaining on the clock. This, right here, was the magic of Friday night under the lights. May it never end.
The referee’s whistle ended the celebration and Jimmy crawled from under the pile, running back to the bench as the special teams lined up for the extra point. The crowd roared as the ball sailed through the uprights.
Coach Wilmer patted Jimmy on the helmet as he passed. “Good job, son. Defense, let’s go. Hold ’em for ten measly seconds. You think you can do that?”
Removing his helmet, Jimmy raised his gaze to the stands, looking for Dad. The other reason he loved football season was bonding with his pop. He was a man of few words, so the fact that he never missed a game spoke volumes.
Jimmy spotted him halfway up in the center seats, standing, hands in his trouser pockets, cigarette smoke twirling out from under the brim of his fedora.
He acknowledged Jimmy with a single nod. That was about the extent of their affection—grunts and nods. Dad claimed the womenfolk were responsible for the mushy stuff, like prodding fathers to hug their sons and say things like, “I’m proud of you, boy.” But they didn’t have any womenfolk at their house since Mama ran off—save for Nana when she came over to make Sunday dinner—so Dad let love fall between the words, between the nods and handshakes.
Though there was that uncomfortable time when Jimmy was thirteen and Dad sat him down for a talk. Jimmy squirmed, thinking Dad was going to give him the business about the birds and bees again.
Instead, he cleared his throat and . . .
“I’m going to say this to you ’cause your nana’s been on me about it. So here goes. I love you, you’re my son . . . and I’m proud of you. I mean it now and always. No matter what.”
Jimmy downed a cup of water and sat on the far end of the bench. It was crazy, the thoughts a fella came up with after making a touchdown. Must be all the running jarring his brain loose, letting memories leak.
He downed his water and tossed the paper cup in the trash, giving a shout for the defense just as Bradley sacked the quarterback. The Wildcats didn’t stand a chance. Not with only five seconds left and the Rocket defense fired up.
“Westbrook, over here.” Clem motioned him to join the rest of the O line.
As he moved, Jimmy took another gander at the stands, stopping cold when he saw her. She passed by, just on the other side of the chain-link fence, laughing, her hair gleaming in the stadium lights.
Clem’s cousin. The girl from the picture. He’d seen her the day she arrived, moving into the Clemsons’ house with her sister. But Dad had him working with his crew so Jimmy had no time to stop and welcome her properly to Heart’s Bend.
In school he’d learned her name. Colette. Prettiest name he’d ever heard. And for the past three weeks he’d passed her in the halls, after lunch, on his way to trigonometry. He said hi but she kept her gaze down, clutching her books close.
According to Clem, they were quiet as mice, Peg and Colette, and twice as sad.
“Poor kids, lost everything in the war. First their mama in the Battle of Britain. Then their dad in the Battle of Berlin. Shot down.”
About to climb the bleachers, she glanced back and stared right at him. Like they were lovers on the movie screen. Jimmy’s heart thumped even harder than when he’d raced for the touchdown. He wanted to score a touchdown all over again, just for her.
The final whistle blew and the air horn burped into the cool night air. Game over. The Rockets had won!
Jimmy gathered his helmet and ran into the locker room, shoving aside thoughts of her, willing himself to bask in the team victory. Celebrate! he told himself. Stop mooning over a girl.
Coach stood on a bench and whistled everyone’s attention to him. “Game ball,” he said, the ball in his outstretched hand. “Jimmy Westbrook. Best run I’ve seen in a good long while. Keep it up.”
The fellas erupted, cheering, their v
oices bouncing off the block walls. “Jimmy . . . Jimmy . . . Jimmy.”
Grinning, he ducked away from his friends and their aggressive back-slaps and accolades. He’d earned the game ball! Dad just might bust his buttons.
Less than thirty minutes later, he was showered and dressed, his dirty uniform stuffed in his duffel. The last of the team had wandered from the locker room. Jimmy’s big night was over. In the history books.
The last one out, he cut off the lights and walked toward home, against a breeze that was a blend of late summer and the coming fall. Slices of moonlight haloed the darkest shadows.
Clinging as best as he could to his triumph, the game ball tucked close, he wanted to do something. Go somewhere.
He wasn’t ready for his night to end. But moment by moment, the night ticked away. All the fellas were home now, or off with their girlfriends. Nearly all of his friends had moms and dads at home, siblings. By now they’d be getting ready to watch Break the Bank with a big bowl of popcorn.
At least that’s how they did things at the Clemson household. Where Colette lived.
Colette . . . Colette. He rolled the name around in his head, then let each syllable whisper from his lips. “Co-lette.” Her name was as pretty as her face.
Maybe he could celebrate with Dad, pop some kernels, catch a radio program. Dad hadn’t signed onto the idea of owning a television yet. “What do we need all that noise in the house for?”
A mile to home, a mile to relive his touchdown over and over. Jimmy knew he’d have this moment for the rest of his life. And it made him want more.
Cutting across the Bostic and Philpott backyards, he crossed the road and finally skipped up the back steps into the kitchen. The screen door clapped closed behind him.
“Daddy-o, you here?” Jimmy draped his letterman jacket over the back of the kitchen chair and set the football in the empty fruit bowl. The house was dark save for a lone lamp shining from the living room. “Dad? Do we have any popcorn?”
Jimmy opened all the cupboards and scoured the pantry. Empty. When was the last time they’d been to the market? Rats, he kind of had his heart set on popcorn.