The Wedding Chapel

by Rachel Hauck

  “Oh, they loved it. Very much when Alpine & Schmidt presented it to them.”

  “Huh? They presented your campaign?”

  “They stole it.”

  Taylor laughed until his sharp glance cut her off. “What? You’re serious? Someone stole your campaign? Are they in third grade?”

  “Apparently Carmen gets chatty when she’s had a few drinks. She blabbed the whole thing to her boyfriend over dinner one night.” Jack left the rail for the balcony table they’d purchased the first week they’d moved in with visions of dinner under the stars.

  But so far they only used it to catch bird droppings.

  “Carmen?” Taylor sat next to him. “The top copywriter at 105?”

  “Yes, and her boyfriend is the head copywriter at Alpine & Schmidt.”

  “Jack, no . . . Surely she knows better.”

  “One would think. FRESH Water has been my account for three years. Hops won the account ten years ago. Thanks to Carmen, Alpine heard FRESH was coming to town to meet with us about a new brand ad campaign and invited them to a meeting at their office yesterday.”

  “And gave them your pitch.” Her sympathetic tone bothered him. He wasn’t used to commiseration. Or solidarity.

  “A version of it. Close enough that FRESH laughed in the middle of my presentation. ‘What is this, Jack? Some kind of a joke?’ ” He intoned Lennon McArthur’s Tennessee accent with each syllable. “ ‘We heard a similar presentation from Rob Schmidt last night. Did you steal it from them?’ Har, har, har, har.” Just repeating Lennon’s mockery fired up Jack all over again. “Hops and I tried to recover. Spent the whole day trying to find out what happened. Then it all came to a head tonight.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jack.” The breeze blew Taylor’s hair over her shoulder, exposing the high, God-crafted planes of her face and the long, slender slope of her neck. She was lovely, so very, very lovely. He’d always thought so. But when he crossed her path back at Rock Mill High, he was arrogant, high on himself, and barricaded like a war zone. He asked her out because he knew she’d say yes. Then he ignored her afterward, dissing her like poo on his shoe.

  How’d he get so lucky? Lord above, how’d he get so lucky to be with her now?

  “What happened?”

  “Carmen came into my office around seven. I was packing up to leave. She was all tears, snot-nosed, bawling, confessing the whole thing. That was after she had acted appalled and disgusted all day over the Alpine news and pretended to be shocked when she heard they gave our presentation.”

  “She had to be devastated, Jack.”

  “She hung herself with her own stupidity. If you can’t hold your liquor, don’t drink. She’s forty years old, Taylor. Been in the business for fifteen years. She’s not some innocent freshman, unaware of the pitfalls.”

  “Maybe she never believed her boyfriend would steal from her.”

  “Technically, he didn’t. She just brainstormed with him and it happened to be our idea.” He peered at Taylor.

  “So what now?”

  “I fired her.” His confession boomeranged in his chest and vibrated with the frequency of a car horn blaring in the distance.

  “Whoa, that’s a bit harsh, Jack. Really? She didn’t mean to—”

  “If she did it once, she’ll do it again. Loyalty and confidentiality are everything in this business. If you’re not loyal to me, then be loyal to the firm. If you’re not loyal to the firm, be loyal to the client, and if, for some heinous reason, you can’t do any of the above, then be loyal to yourself. Otherwise, you can be bought for the highest price.”

  Taylor sat back, shaking her head. He could feel her closing off. This was where things broke down with them. He was too direct. Harsh. A mode he learned long ago. It was how he survived.

  If he knew anything about life, it was to cut off traitors. He had no time for the disloyal, for the betrayers. His heart already bore the scars of their work.

  So if she was in any way leaning back toward Voss—

  “You once told me you couldn’t do your job without Carmen. That she was a life saver.”

  “Until she proved to be a thief.”

  “Oh, come on, Jack, really? You’re so perfect no one needs to forgive you once in a while?”

  “I try to never mess up.”

  “I thought you didn’t have perfection scheduled until you were forty-five.”

  He shot her a hard glance. “She lost a client, Taylor.”

  “Fine, fine . . .” She turned away, staring toward the water.

  Jack felt the power of his tone, as if he’d crushed her. Taylor . . . Unlike him, she was soft, easy on the eyes and the heart. She trusted too much—with Voss being Exhibit A—but held things close. Spoke up for the underdog.

  “Don’t worry about Carmen. She could go work for Alpine, but she has a two-year noncompete clause. She knew the rules, Taylor. Hey, I forgave her. We hugged it out. Gave her my handkerchief to dry her eyes, blow her nose. Then I fired her. If I hadn’t, Hops would’ve.”

  Taylor drew her knees to her chin, anchoring her heels on the edge of the chair. “Remind me never to mess up.”

  “Don’t ever work for me.” He laughed, trying to remind her of his lighter side, but from the flash of ire in her eye, his answer achieved the opposite.

  “Do you want the AQ job back?”

  “Nope, that’s all yours. Consider yourself a contractor.” He leaned toward her. “Here’s a question for you. Why would Voss walk in here and ask you to go to LA with me standing in the room?”

  “I told you. He’s that arrogant.” Her expression hardened as she regarded him for a long moment. “But would you rather have him ask without you in the room?”

  “I can’t believe he only wants you for a job. I don’t trust him. He still loves you.”

  “What?” She sounded incredulous. “He never said he loved me. You hear what you want to hear. Besides, what does it matter? I’m not into him. I’m married to you.” She stood up and moved for the apartment. “I’m going to bed.” As she passed by, the wind caught the loose edge of her collar, exposing the round sculpture of her breast.

  “Taylor . . .” Apologize and go inside with her. Yet he couldn’t make himself move or surrender to her charms, to his own urge to pull her onto his lap and kiss her enticing skin. Tell her you appreciate her. Love her. His early anger faded into an ache. He loved her, but he couldn’t paint his feelings with the brush of action.

  “Jack, sooner or later, you’re going to have to deal with it,” she said, pausing at the door.

  “Deal with what?”

  “That ghost you carry around in your soul.”

  This again? She insisted his father haunted him. “Rise Forester is alive, Taylor. So there’s no ghost.”

  “There’s the ghost of what he did to you. I live with its shadow every day.”

  She slipped through the door and Jack dropped his head to his hands, his entire body aching to follow her inside.

  She was right, his biological dad haunted him. But he had no idea how to chase it away.

  Taylor Branson was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Better than the ten million dollars he’d brought into 105 last year and the subsequent bonus.

  If he could channel the energy he had for advertising into his marriage, he’d have the happiest wife on earth. But he had no idea how to be a husband, how to be raw and real, how to tell her that if she disappeared from his life he just might not be able to breathe.

  TAYLOR

  Taylor lay in bed, listening to the movements of her husband through the house. The red digital glow of the alarm clock on the corner dresser flashed 2:00 a.m.

  After she had crawled in bed, she debated about readdressing his Doug question, but decided to let it go. Bringing it up might seem as if she was defending herself. Or it might make him more suspicious, like she was hiding something.

  The truth was that she hated her time with Doug. Regret coated every memory.


  Sitting up, Taylor glanced toward the door, tuning in to the sounds of Jack in the kitchen—making a sandwich, pouring a glass of milk, moving to the sofa where the blue glow of the TV edged around the open bedroom door.

  She’d shopped today, filled the cupboards and fridge, thinking they could have dinner together. After all, he’d said he wanted her in charge of food. But when he didn’t come home or answer her call, she’d poured a bowl of cereal and done some work.

  The TV hue flickered as Jack changed the channels. He’d pause on SportsCenter, then move to the home improvement shows. She smiled when she heard the muffled sound of a saw.

  Should she go out there and watch with him? A salami sandwich sounded kind of nice. But did he want to be alone?

  One thing was for sure, he didn’t want to be in bed with her.

  Six months in, weren’t they technically still on their honeymoon? Shouldn’t they be rushing home every night to be together, make love, take weekend drives to upstate or across New England?

  Flopping back on her pillow, Taylor rolled over on her side, burrowing under the thin sheet and Jack’s Ohio State sports blanket. A road trip was how they got married in the first place.

  Six months ago, if someone had told her she’d walk a Martha’s Vineyard beach with Jack Gillingham, rather Forester, over-the-moon in love, she’d have . . .

  Laughed. Yes, laughed. Loud.

  But the feel of his hand in hers as they walked the Edgartown shore, laughing and running from the frigid Atlantic waves, was perfect. Real. True. Strong.

  “What do you think?” Jack wrapped his arm about her waist, drawing her close. Their footsteps came in unison. “You like the Vineyard?”

  “I love it.” He’d woken her up at five this morning, banging on the door of her New York apartment, surprising her with a breakfast basket of pastries and coffee. Then he kidnapped her for the five-hour drive across New England to the Massachusetts shore where they caught the ferry.

  “I like when you’re happy. You get this crystal glow in your eyes.”

  Taylor turned to walk backward, still holding his hands and peering at him eye to eye. “What do you see?” She held her eyes wide.

  “Someone willing to take a chance.”

  “Yeah? On what?”

  “Me.”

  His tone shifted something in her. They weren’t kidding around anymore. “What if I am?”

  “Then marry me.”

  She stopped her backward motion and he walked into her, gripping her in his embrace. His sigh brushed his sweet breath across her face. “Marry me.”

  “What? Jack—”

  “I know it’s only been a few weeks.”

  “Eight.”

  “I know, but—” His gaze did not falter. “I want to be with you.”

  They’d been mad about each other since their first date. Went to movies, watched sports, talked about today and tomorrow. Never yesterday, which she loved about him. He was about the present moment, and the future. Each night when it was time for him to go home and leave her cramped apartment, they made out like teens, crushing the cushions on the oversized couch. Then Jack pushed away and went to the door. He’d never taken it any further. And Taylor was relieved.

  That’s where things had gone wrong with Doug. So she stayed with him because she’d “been” with him. Wasn’t that the right thing to do?

  But Jack? He never pushed the boundaries, and Taylor fell for his gallantry. Then he surprised her with this spontaneous Martha’s Vineyard getaway, booking two rooms at the Lighthouse Keepers Inn.

  He was a gentleman. And she so needed a gentleman. But marriage?

  “I don’t know . . . Jack. I mean . . . You can’t be serious.”

  “Stone serious. Right here, right now. Why not? We’re good together.”

  “I adore you. I can’t imagine being with anyone but you right now, but I’m just not sure—”

  “Aren’t you tired of playing it safe? There are plenty of stories of couples who got engaged after one or two dates. Married a week later. Then they went on to be married fifty, sixty, seventy years.”

  “It’s not a contest, Jack—”

  “No, it’s not.” He slipped his hand along the side of her neck and stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Have I told you how beautiful you are, Taylor? And that I’ve never felt this way about anyone? Ever.”

  “What about Abby Conrad? You were all over her at our senior prom.”

  “Not even Abby Conrad.”

  “How about the way you dumped me in eleventh grade? One date and you never spoke to me again. I’m sorry, but I have to raise the issue. That hurt like crazy, Jack.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “So what’s all this, a do-over? You don’t have to marry me to prove you’ve changed.”

  His kiss laughed against her lips. “Taylor, I was a blockhead. A jerk.”

  “You were smart and funny, and captain of the football team and a drummer in your own band. All the girls liked you.”

  “But I only liked you.”

  “So you dumped me?” She pulled free of him and walked away with a flirty flounce of her hair.

  “I know, I know.” He slipped his hand around her waist, picked her up, and twirled her around. “So I bolted, but now I have a chance to do what I wanted to do twelve years ago. Be with you.” He lowered her feet to the sand. “Taylor, there’s only you and me standing in this moment.”

  She searched his eyes. This was so outside her lines. Saying yes to a spontaneous marriage proposal when she wasn’t even sure she believed in marriage and happily ever after. But what she saw radiating behind his blue irises was an eager sincerity. This was love.

  “Leap with me.” He squeezed her hands, slowly bending to one knee. “Taylor . . . Branson, will you—”

  “You don’t even know my middle name.”

  “Alice?”

  “No.”

  “Jean?”

  “No.”

  “Drusilla?”

  “No.” With a laugh and light swat on the head. “Jo.”

  “Taylor Jo Branson, will you marry me?”

  “Okay, Jack . . . whatever Forester—”

  “Spratt.”

  She grimaced. “Your name is Jack Spratt Forester?”

  “Andrew. Jack Andrew Forester. But when I used Gillingham my initials were JAG, thus—”

  “Your high school nickname.” Pictures became clear. Understanding enlightened.

  He rose to his feet and cradled her against him. “What do you say? Marry me?”

  “Yes, Jack Andrew Forester, I’ll leap. I’ll marry you.”

  His lips against hers were thick and hungry, asking for her heart. And she responded, leaning against him, drifting away from the clouds of doubts stirring in her soul that told her love never lasted.

  Popping up, Taylor dragged the blanket from the bed and tiptoed into the living room. “Jack?”

  But he was asleep, his head resting on the back of the sofa, his breathing deep and even. The sandwich plate teetered precariously in his loose grip.

  Taylor set it on the end table, then stepped over Jack’s outstretched legs and settled next to him on the couch, the room crisp and cool from the open balcony window.

  When she’d phoned Mama announcing that she’d eloped with Jack Forester, she was not pleased. Nor was sister Emma.

  “What in the world? Are you crazy?”

  “Your sister is getting divorced and you eloped?”

  Taylor endured an hour-long inquisition in which her longtime divorced mother and newly divorced sister tag-teamed her, passing the phone back and forth, summing up all their sage wisdom with, “Don’t put up with anything from him.”

  Jack roused when Taylor fluffed the blanket over them, opening one eye. “Hey, babe—”

  Babe. The smooth endearment dropped into her heart like coins in a jukebox and played a romantic melody. “Shh, go back to sleep.”

  “Taylor?”

  “
Yeah, Jack?”

  “You’re hot.” He cocked her a saucy, barely awake grin.

  “Yeah? You’re hot too.” Jack was named Most Handsome in high school and he’d only improved with age.

  But her idyllic views of romance were crushed when she was fifteen by her father and her parents’ subsequent divorce. So she didn’t dream of fairy tales and white wedding gowns.

  Reaching for the remote, Taylor aimed to turn off the TV but paused when a young image of Aunt Colette walked across the screen.

  “Did you know you landed on the soap channel? Look, it’s Colette in an old episode of Always Tomorrow.”

  He peeked at the TV. “Looks like you.”

  “Please, she’s so stunning.” Taylor had Granny Peg’s square face and sturdy features. Like Katharine Hepburn. Colette Greer was a genteel beauty with a girl-next-door face. The next Loretta Young, they’d called her.

  Taylor pressed the remote’s guide button to see the show’s description. “Vivica Spenser testifies in court about her CFO’s embezzling. Aired 1985.”

  Colette sat on the witness stand with eighties big hair and lots of makup, her shoulders back, chin raised, giving life to Vivica. She answered the questions without faltering. Then when she was released from the stand, she walked to the defendant’s table, picked up a glass of water, and tossed it in his face.

  “Ha-ha, way to go, Vivica.” Taylor shimmied Jack’s hip, trying to wake him. “Look, Jack, Colette, or rather Vivica, tossed water in a guy’s face. She was famous for doing that. Maybe you could get her for the FRESH account. She could start to throw a glass of FRESH water on someone but then stop and say, ‘No, wait, this bottle of FRESH is too good for you.’ Then she picks up a glass of not FRESH water or something and tosses it in their face. See? Brilliant.” Taylor settled down in the cushions. “Shoot, this advertising thing ain’t so hard.”

  To which Jack replied with a deep, rolling snort.

  She stared at him, sleeping, his bangs sticking up, his full lips pink and sweet. “There’s no Doug Voss, Jack. There’s only you.”

  But confessing her heart to his awake-face never seemed to find space in their day. Even when he proposed, and again when they stood on the beach at sunset exchanging vows with matching platinum bands, the words “I love you” were oddly never said. As if they were both afraid to declare it. Or require it. But when they made love for the first time, and the second and third, she knew she was in love.