The Wedding Chapel

by Rachel Hauck

  “Come on, gang, let’s get on the floor.” One of the chaps ran by, tugging a dark-headed girl with round hips behind him. “Can’t let Clem have all the fun.”

  The lads scooped up the other girls, and Peg, who’d become quite good at the jitterbug since living in Heart’s Bend, danced with a bloke called Spice.

  Colette loved to dance. She practiced in her room before the mirror. But, oh, she’d be too scared to dance with one of these chaps. When Peg caught her practicing the boogie-woogie, she laughed, telling Colette she looked silly.

  Clem jumped in front of her, startling her, bowing with a grand sweep of his arm. “My dear English cousin, might I have this dance?”

  “Oh no, I don’t know.” She’d feel so self-conscious. “I’ve never really da—”

  “Never fear.” Clem grabbed her hand, jerking her to her feet. “I’ll teach you.”

  “Go on, sugar, dance.” Aunt Jean took Colette’s iced tea, pressing her forward from the confines of her chair. Her words of Southern affection carried her English breeding, and her bright eyes were so like Mamá’s.

  “B-but I’m so awkward. Truly I am.” Colette took Clem’s hand. She looked silly, according to Peg’s assessment. “Clem, you’ll be embarrassed to dance with me.”

  “What’re you, crazy?” Shoving aside her protest, Clem twirled Colette onto the dance floor. “Come on, let’s see what you can do.”

  A new song dropped on the hi-fi and on the downbeat, he started juking and jiving. Colette stumbled as he twisted her about, reeling her in and out, moving, turning, never letting his feet stop.

  “Clem, you’re a hepcat,” one of the chaps hollered between the beats. “Go, daddy, go.”

  “Come on, Colette, get with the swing.” Clem spun, tapping his feet, gyrating his hips. “You’re too stiff.”

  She tripped around and caught Peg’s disapproving posture. Who was she to be so condemning? Was she not dancing for her very life just two minutes ago? With that darling Spice Keating?

  With the song nearly half over, Colette found her determination and fell into the rhythm, tapping, kicking, spinning, twisting from side to side, and following her cousin wherever he led. When he jerked about like a pecking hen, she did the same.

  “Thatta girl, Lettie. Come on now. Hit that jive. I’m going to send you out . . . now come back through, do the shoulder twist. Yeah, like that . . .” Clem laughed, exerting an energy that spread a rosy glow across his high cheeks.

  Note by note, Colette let go and danced. The song ended in a flurry of music, brass overlaying piano, and Clem spun her round to his father’s Barcalounger where she collapsed, laughing and gasping for air as the kids applauded.

  “Colette, where have you been hiding all your talent? You’re wonderful.”

  One of Clem’s friends danced alongside Colette. “Dance with me next, Lettie, okay?”

  “Ice cream is ready out back if anyone’s interested.” Aunt Jean’s announcement elicited a shout, and the whole gang surged through the house to the back porch.

  Colette stumbled behind them. She adored dancing. Outside, the cool air felt good on her warm face. Taking a seat at the picnic table, she fanned herself with her hand, waiting for the ice-cream line to thin down.

  Now that she knew she did not look silly, she’d listen to no more of Peg’s insults. Colette would relish the freedom. Was it really all behind her? The war. The death. The Carmarthenshire farm. The nightmares.

  Maybe she could dream about good things. About the possibilities—

  That’s when he appeared in the doorway. A tall, rather somber boy with a mop of dark hair and beautiful eyes. He wore a letter jacket like Clem’s and had a football tucked in his arm.

  He hesitated, glancing about, his gaze easing past her and then back again. He smiled and offered a short, stiff wave.

  Her? Was he looking at her? Colette peeked around. She sat alone at the table. So, in polite and kind reply, she smiled and waved back.

  “Jimmy, goodness, welcome.” Aunt Jean shuffled over to him, a big ice-cream spoon in her hand.

  “Hey, Mrs. Clemson. Is there room for one more?”

  “There is always room for you. You needn’t ask. Come on out, we’re dishing up Fred’s homemade ice cream.”

  Still clinging to that football, Jimmy stepped out on the porch.

  “Jim-Jim.” Clem jumped up to greet his friend. “The man of the night.”

  Jimmy was an instant hit. The other kids clamored around him, patting him on the back. Poor chap, he seemed rather overwhelmed by it all.

  But he was the one who’d scored the winning try, or rather touchdown, as they called it in America.

  “How’d it feel crossing the line?”

  “Are you ever going to put that ball down?”

  “Going to do it again next week, Jimmy?”

  Peg emerged from among the throng, brandishing her pretty smile, and tiptoed up to kiss Jimmy on the cheek—when had her sister become so brazen?—and told him to “Do it again next week,” as if she’d known him her whole life. As if she actually understood the game he played.

  Peg!

  “Our hero.” Uncle Fred offered Jimmy a heaping bowl of ice cream. “Quite a run tonight, son. You looked All-State.”

  “Thank you, sir, but it’s only the fourth game of the season.” Jimmy glanced back at Colette and a smooth blush warmed her cheeks.

  “Sweet pea, you sitting here without ice cream?” Aunt Jean patted Colette’s hand. “What do you want? Vanilla with caramel or chocolate? No strawberry, sad to say.”

  “Chocolate. Please, I’ll get it.” She started to get up, but her knees melted on her and she buckled forward, her legs caught in the picnic bench. She had nothing to grab but air. “Aunt Jean—”

  She collapsed forward, falling . . .

  Jimmy stepped round, his hand outstretched. “I got you.”

  Colette hopped one-two, trying to steady herself and free her leg. Her hand landed smack inside his large, hero’s bowl of ice cream.

  The sound of the clay dish shattering on Aunt Jean’s patio silenced the party.

  “Oh, mercy, I do apologize, I do. My leg . . .”

  “It’s okay.” Jimmy jutted forward, wrapping his arm about her, lifting her free from her encumbrance.

  “M-my leg . . . fell asleep.” Colette braced herself to gain her balance, her palm pressed against his thick chest and plaid shirt.

  He smelled of soap and starch. When she stepped back, he seemed like a giant, watching over her, protecting her.

  “Ah, it’s all right.” He gently let her go. “Steady now?”

  “Colette, goodness, child, what happened?” Aunt Jean bent down, collecting the pieces of broken bowl.

  “Please, Aunt Jean, let me. I’ll clean it up.” Colette dropped to one knee, ducking under her rising embarrassment.

  “Sugar, why don’t you go inside for the broom? And, Jimmy, run round to the utility room and get the bucket. Fill it with water. We’ll splash this mess right out into the yard.”

  In the kitchen, Colette pressed her back against the wall, hand to her thudding heart.

  “Humiliating, isn’t it?” Peg stepped out from the kitchen shadows. “Being a clumsy oaf.”

  “You scared me.” Colette opened the kitchen closet for the broom. “What are you doing hiding in here?”

  “Are you trying to steal him from me?”

  “Steal who?” Colette glanced toward the porch. “Him? The shy chap with the football? And I’m not clumsy. My leg fell asleep.”

  “Sure it did. You’ve always been rather awkward. And yes, Jimmy. I saw you smiling at him, flirting, then falling into his arms.”

  “Peg, what on earth? Have you at last gone mad? I told you my leg fell asleep.” She snatched the broom from its hook. “Besides, I didn’t know he was your chap. Did you inform him?”

  “I’ve liked him since the first day I set eyes on him. You knew that, Colette.”

  “How woul
d I know such a thing? Have you had a conversation with me in your mind again? Not bothering to speak your thoughts aloud?”

  It was something Peg did. Hold whole conversations with Colette in her mind, determine the outcome, and respond accordingly. Colette never knew in what mood she’d find her sister.

  “You’ve seen me with him, talking to him.”

  “I’ve seen you kiss his cheek, and if you don’t mind, what in the world? Besides, you flirt with all the boys.” Colette started out to the patio where Jimmy waited with the bucket of water. “Not everything is a competition, Peg.”

  She said it more for herself than her sister. Only eleven months apart, Peg had always considered Colette her competitor. As young girls, they were often confused as twins, and nothing flustered Peg more.

  “I am the oldest.”

  When they shipped to the country, the school headmaster decisively enrolled the sisters in the same grade. Colette thought it lovely to have her sister as a classmate. Peg considered it humiliating.

  In London, they had their own rooms. But at the Morley farmhouse, they had to share. Line upon line, brick upon brick, and the wall between them was built.

  Then their mamá died and they bonded in the mourning process. But not for long. When other children were being let home, back to their families, and they were not, Peg became surly. When Papá came for his rare visits, Peg demanded his attention first, and always.

  The ravages of war knew no boundaries.

  Colette longed to be her sister’s friend, but Peg saw the world one way—hers. Even Father Morley could not manage her when she was in a mood.

  Then she’d turn on a dime, calm down, and repent with tears. Colette had no choice but to forgive her. Over and over.

  Colette thought Peg would never change. Then Papá died, and they had a season of peace.

  But when they sailed to America, the jealous, competitive Peg emerged.

  “Be forewarned, my sister, I’m going to marry that boy.”

  Colette chortled. “You can’t possibly know who you’re going to marry, Peg. And don’t you think the boy should have a say? Have you even spoken to him face-to-face? Not just a congratulatory kiss on the cheek.”

  “Mark my words, I’ll marry him. Mamá knew she was going to marry Papá well before he did. She even told Aunt Jean, ‘I’m going to marry Harold Greer, mark my words.’ ”

  “So are you Mamá in this story? Telling your sister who you will marry? You don’t even know Jimmy. Not been on a date. At least Mamá and Papá had been on a date. Besides, they knew each other in grammar school.”

  “I know what I know.”

  “Have you been having conversations in your head again? Working out everyone’s life for them? Making decisions they know nothing of?”

  “Hush up.” Peg’s tone wrapped her words in fire. “I like Jimmy. He’s sweet and handsome. He’s mine so don’t even think . . . You can’t win, Colette.”

  Colette held up the broom, unable to contain her weary sigh. “I’ve got to get on, they’re waiting for me. But for the record, I’m not interested in Jimmy.”

  “Shh, keep your voice down.”

  “Have a go at him. I’m not getting married to him or anyone else. Ever.”

  Colette pushed through the screen door, fury burning up her bones. In times like these, she missed Mamá. She would have warned Peg to mind herself and stop acting so spoiled.

  Jimmy smiled as Colette approached, and she felt his charm through to her backbone.

  “Ready?” he said, poised to wash the paving stones with bucket water.

  “Ready.” Colette swished the broom over the ice cream as Jimmy poured, peeking once, then twice at Jimmy. He was sweet. And very handsome.

  “Good as new, I see.” Aunt Jean slipped her arm around Colette, smiling.

  “I do apologize, Aunt Jean. It was my fault.”

  “Mercy, no one is accusing you. Your leg fell asleep. Run along and have some ice cream. Help Jimmy scoop another bowl.” Aunt Jean pressed between them toward the sliding doors. “You’re still the man of the evening, James Westbrook.”

  Then they were alone. Colette wasn’t sure what to do with her hands or where to look.

  “You want some ice cream?” he asked.

  She nodded, looking up only to trip again into his soft grin and blue eyes.

  “Come on, I’m an expert at dishing out ice cream.”

  “All right, let’s see if your ice-cream dishing matches your skill on the pitch.” Colette followed, a pluck of happiness on her heart.

  “Two or three scoops?” Jimmy held up a clean bowl.

  “Just one.”

  “Okay, then, two it is.” He dug into the ice-cream bucket with grandness, making her laugh.

  “I said one.”

  “Girls can never enjoy ice cream, all worried about their figure.” When he glanced back, his gaze roamed subtly down her figure, then back up to her face. “You don’t got nothing to worry about.”

  Colette fanned with embarrassment. “Because I don’t eat two scoops of ice cream.”

  “All right, you win. One scoop.”

  “No, make it two.” She inched forward, testing her confidence, feeling comfortable in his presence. “I’m hungry tonight.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Jimmy heaped a large dollop into her bowl—surely the equivalent of four scoops—then another. “I see you every day after lunch,” he said, handing Colette the bowl along with a spoon.

  “You see me? Where?”

  “In the north hall. On my way to trig.” Jimmy took up another bowl and filled it with the creamy vanilla.

  “I never see you.” Colette drizzled chocolate over her massive serving. She’d not be able to finish this but she’d do her best.

  Beyond the patio, the kids gathered around a fire pit Uncle Fred built. Orange flames burned up the night, crackling, delighting.

  “Funny,” she said. “To eat ice cream while Uncle Fred arranges a fire.”

  “Welcome to Tennessee.” Jimmy doused his serving with a liberal amount of chocolate and peanuts, then motioned to the picnic table. “I-I saw you . . . tonight. At the game.”

  “Me?” She sat next to him and spooned a bite of ice cream. Oh, it sent shivers to her brain.

  “In the stands.” Jimmy reached for the football he’d set off to the side and tucked it under his arm as he balanced his ice cream and straddled the old wooden bench. “I thought you saw me too.”

  “Oh, there were so many people.” Colette fixed on her icy treat, fearing that if she gazed into his blue eyes, she might swoon backward off the bench. She did see him. But not on purpose. Though this chap bothered her, messed with her starched reserve.

  “How do you like it here? In Tennessee?”

  “Lovely. Aunt Jean and Uncle Fred are simply grand. Peg and I are grateful for their kindness, taking us in and all.”

  “Why wouldn’t they? You’re family.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  “Sorry about your folks. Clem told me they were killed.”

  “Yes, long ago now, and far away.”

  “But you miss them?” He swirled the contents of his bowl, blending the chocolate syrup with the vanilla and peanuts.

  “Always. Yes.”

  “How old are you? Fifteen, sixteen?”

  “Sixteen.” Colette sat up straight. “But I’m in the same grade as Peg. I believe you say ‘a junior’ here in America.”

  “Yep, that’s what we say.” Jimmy smiled, his voice rolling through Colette like a peaceful breeze. “Same as me.”

  “Well, hello.” Peg plopped down on the other side of Jimmy, flipping her shiny curls over her shoulder in a practiced, perfected motion. “You were fabulous tonight, Jimmy.”

  Colette winced.

  “Thanks.” Jimmy scooted around to face Peg. “Do you like football?”

  “I’m new to the American way of playing football, but indeed, I find it exciting. Especially when you
ran for the score.”

  “Guess all the practicing paid off.” Jimmy laughed, glancing between Peg and Colette.

  “Well, bravo you.” Peg propped her chin in her hand and fashioned a gaze just for Jimmy.

  Colette swallowed a cold gulp of ice cream. Peg was too much. Too much!

  “Peg,” the chap Spice called from the fire. “Come sit.”

  “Oh, go on, Spice.” She giggled, waving him off. “I’m talking to Jimmy.”

  Oh, Peg . . .

  Uncle Fred passed by with his upright bass. Clem and two other boys followed with guitars and a banjo.

  “There’s going to be music,” Colette said, rising up, watching everyone get situated around the fire. In a few moments, the air twanged with the sound of their tuning.

  Peg kept her attention on Jimmy. “You’re in my mathematics course.”

  “Right, I’ve seen you. How do you like Mr. Harrison? Tough nut, isn’t he?”

  “I’ve an A grade so far. So I like it just fine.”

  The music started, a lively two-step tune. Aunt Jean grabbed one of the boys’ hands and started box-stepping. The boy ducked his head, enduring the hoots of his friends. Aunt Jean kept him stepping right round the patio.

  Peg stood, offering her hand to Jimmy. “Would you like to dance?”

  “Um, I”—Jimmy glanced back at Colette—“guess.”

  “Jimmy,” Clem called from the music circle. “Come play the fiddle.” He held up a dark, very worn case.

  “Y-yeah, sure.” In one elegant move, Jimmy jumped the expanse between the picnic bench and fire pit and reached for the instrument.

  Peg snatched Colette’s arm. “I told you he was mine.”

  “He sat next to me. What would you have me do? Get up and walk away?”

  Clem led the next song, the boys gathering around the fire singing, nearly shouting, “Mule Skinner Blues.”

  “Yes, Colette, walk away.”

  “I don’t understand you, Peg. What are you doing? Asking a boy to dance, kissing him on the cheek?”

  “It’s 1948, the war’s over, and times are changing, Colette.”

  “Well, politeness and manners do not change with wars or ends of wars.”