The Wedding Chapel

by Rachel Hauck

  “What this about?” Nick asked.

  “Doc,” Keith said. “You’ve not seen it? Ole Coach here has a wedding chapel tucked away up north off River Road. Like it was some kind of fairy-tale secret.”

  So the truth was out, from Keith’s fat lips straight into the air they breathed. Doc scrunched up his sun-leathered expression.

  “Is it a secret?”

  Jimmy set his cup down with a clank on the Formica table. “I reckon it ain’t no more.”

  “Anyway, I need to talk to this photographer. Get some better shots, show off the chapel’s charm.” Keith set his business card down, then threw a five on the table as he gulped the last of his coffee and reached for the bitten donut. “Don’t tell Lisa Marie, but she is one bad iPhone photographer. Yikes. Didn’t think it was possible. But, Coach, I’m counting on you. Have the photographer call me.” Keith slid out of the booth. “See you, Doc.”

  “Not if I see you first.” Nick snickered into his coffee, hiding behind the white china, elbows on the table.

  “Well, go on,” Jimmy said. “I can see you’re dying to ask.”

  Doc sobered. “How long have I known you? Thirty years? You’ve never once mentioned owning a wedding chapel.”

  “Well, now you know.”

  “When? Where? I never heard of such a thing in Heart’s Bend.”

  “Because there ain’t a wedding chapel in Heart’s Bend. There’s my chapel, on my land, and I happened to build it for a wedding.”

  “Whose?”

  Jimmy drummed his fingers on the table. Well, that was the million-dollar question. But the answers in his head didn’t form easily into words. Because they required pieces of his heart. He shifted in his seat.

  “Well?” Nick said.

  Darn. This should be a piece of cake. He’d coached high school boys for crying out loud. Fought in Korea.

  Jimmy cleared his throat. “Mine.” There, he’d said it, blunt, with no fuss.

  Nick reared back, frowning. “Yours? You were married?”

  “No, I didn’t get married. So, I’m selling.” Jimmy stared at his coffee, twisting his cup between his hands.

  “You built it but never used it? When? How long ago?”

  “A good while. Years.” Decades.

  “More than thirty, I reckon, since you never mentioned it to me.”

  Jimmy exhaled and sat back against the red vinyl booth. “Started it the summer of 1949, if you must know. I worked night and day on it ’cause I wanted four walls, a floor, and a roof by the time I proposed. I didn’t make it, but at least I had the walls.”

  “You had a girl?” Nick couldn’t look more confounded.

  Jimmy sipped his coffee. “Yep, I had a girl.”

  “And this never came up? In all of our Fridays? In all of our conversations?”

  “You never asked.”

  “I’m asking now. Who was this girl who inspired you to build a wedding chapel?” Nick leaned forward on his elbows, his steely gaze locked on Jimmy.

  Jimmy peered out the window. “I’m not sure I know where to start.”

  “How about the beginning?”

  “Better yet, how about the end?”

  OCTOBER 1954

  He stood in the middle of the chapel, a gas can and sledgehammer in hand, his boots dusted with dirt from the floor.

  Over his shoulder, the drifting sunlight warned him that time was running out.

  Jimmy assessed the rafters, the walls, and formed a plan. The rafters would ignite easily enough. They were gray and dry from three years of exposure. But the walls? They’d need help. He couldn’t make a fire hot enough to burn limestone.

  Jimmy settled the sledgehammer by his feet as he knelt down to loosen the cap on the can. The bitter fragrance of gasoline stung his nose and soured the perfume of fall in the air.

  Standing, he drew a clean breath to clear his nostrils. Did he really want to destroy this place? Because if he did, his dream would really be over. And he’d never rebuild it.

  Closing his eyes, Jimmy plowed through his feelings and examined whitewashed memories.

  Before Korea, he’d brought Colette to the unfinished chapel to tell her he loved her—and that he’d been drafted. Over their heads in love, fueled by intense emotions, they did things that night, said things, made promises that didn’t last the length of boot camp.

  When he came home from the war restless and angry, Dad, in all of his quiet wisdom, nudged Jimmy to enroll in school, take advantage of the GI bill. Get an education.

  “You’ve earned it, Jim.” Dad had started calling him Jim since he’d been a soldier.

  Reaching down for the gas can, Jimmy scanned the unfinished chapel one last time. The idea to burn it down had hit him during dinner tonight.

  Dad dished out pot roast while asking about college. How were his classes? His professors? Did he make any new friends yet? Meet any suitable young ladies? And it occurred to him that as long as the wedding chapel still stood, Jimmy would never move on.

  It had to go. She had rejected him. Now he would reject her.

  About to douse the perimeter with gas, Jimmy patted his pockets for matches. Ah, he left them in the truck.

  When he turned for the door, Peg Branson stood there with a young boy on her hip.

  “She’s not coming back, Jimmy. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You drove all the way out here to tell me that?”

  She entered farther, her blue housedress swishing about her legs, her white sneakers no match for the layers of dirt on the chapel floor. Her clean cotton scent defied the odorous gasoline. The boy, about two, maybe three, clasped his hands around her neck.

  “I was heading home from my mother-in-law’s when I saw you turn in here. I kept going but I couldn’t help it—I had to turn around.”

  “To tell me your sister wasn’t coming back?” Her presence irritated him, but he shouldn’t be angry with her. It wasn’t her fault that Colette ran off with another man. At least Peg had the decency to tell him the truth.

  “What are you going to do with the gasoline?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m guessing you intend to burn the place down.” The boy squirmed, struggling to get down.

  “So you best be getting on home. It’s going to get hot and dangerous around here real quick.”

  Peg lowered the boy to the floor. “Why you burning it down?” She took a slow turn, studying the rough build. “What is this place?”

  “A chapel. A wedding chapel.”

  Peg’s gaze narrowed, darkened. “You didn’t! For Colette? Did she know about this place?”

  He nodded once. “I brought her here.”

  “And she still ran off? Really, Colette can be the most selfish . . . Now, you’re not mad at me for telling you, are you? Because I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t take it.” She stepped around the boy as he gathered tiny fists of dirt, and reached for Jimmy’s arm, a pleading look in her eyes. “I-I’m just going to say it. You know how I felt about you, don’t you? How I still feel.”

  Her confession washed him with uneasiness and he freed himself from her grasp, stepping back. “Don’t say such things. You’re married. I’m not mad at you, Peg. You did right by telling me. But don’t—”

  “I’m glad.” She exhaled, smiling, pressing her hand to her chest. “I couldn’t bear it if you were angry with me. But, Jimmy, you never saw it in her . . . how selfish she was, caring only about herself. She ran off with Spice the first chance she got.”

  “What do you care? You ran off with Drummond Branson. Had a kid.” Jimmy nodded at the boy now tossing dry dirt into the air. “Don’t come in here telling me how you feel about me. It’s not right.”

  “But I still care about you, Jimmy. Colette had no business treating you the way she did. I’m sure our mamá is turning over in her grave.”

  “She can turn all she wants. Won’t change a thing. I just want to get on with my business.” Jimmy reached for the sle
dgehammer. He needed to hit something, knock out a few walls, then light his fire.

  “Well, wait, you haven’t met DJ yet.” She swung the kid up in her arms, which made him none too happy. He screamed, kicked and squirmed, soiled Peg’s pretty dress with his dirty hands. “DJ, meet Uncle Jimmy.” She grabbed his hand and waved it at Jimmy, then kissed his smudged cheek. “Isn’t he divine? Just the cutest thing ever?”

  Jimmy gave the kid a good solid look. Not being around little ones all that much, he wasn’t quite sure how to gauge their cuteness. But this guy was right handsome with his thick blond hair, rosy cheeks, and bright blue eyes.

  “You sure this is Drummond Branson’s kid? He’s mighty fine looking.”

  A few years ahead of Jimmy in school, Drummond missed Korea because he was in college. Now he had his own appliance store, a pretty wife, and a fine son.

  Peg laughed. “Oh, Jimmy. I see Korea didn’t kill your sense of humor.” She stepped closer, angling the boy in Jimmy’s direction. “So what do you think?”

  “I said he was fine, didn’t I?”

  “I just love him. Just love him.”

  She shoved the boy toward him again. Peg could be pushy. So Jimmy shook the tyke’s hand, surprised at how buttery his skin felt against his calluses. When he looked up, Peg was watching him. A tad too close.

  “You’re a good man, Jimmy Westbrook.”

  “So’s Drummond, Peg.” He raised the hammer to his shoulder.

  “Jimmy, you know I’d do anything for you, don’t you? Anything.”

  He regarded her for a moment, hearing something between her words. Something sharp and shaded. “Anything?”

  She gripped his arm, her warm breath brushing his cheek. “Anything, anything.”

  “Will you talk to Colette—”

  Peg released him with a slight push. “Colette, Colette, Colette. I declare, you’ve a one-track mind. Forget about her. Colette, indeed. You build her this chapel and how does she thank you? By spitting in your face and running off.”

  “But I’m home now.” The desperation in his voice set him a bit off kilter, but he wasn’t above begging. “She was afraid. Afraid something might happen to me. I don’t blame her after what she went through in the last war, losing your parents and all. I just sense if we could talk, we’d clear up this whole thing.”

  “No, Jimmy, no.” Peg’s insistence drove through him. “She left because she loved another man. Have some pride. You fought for your country. She doesn’t deserve you. She never did. Spoiled child.”

  “Don’t speak about her that way, Peg. I mean it.” Defending Colette came easy.

  “Look at you, taking up for her when you’re about to set this place on fire.” Peg snatched up the gas can, waving it around. “Do it!” The raw tension in her voice and frantic passion pressed against him. Scared him. “Let the symbol of your love go up in smoke. You didn’t know her. You only knew what you wanted to know. She doesn’t deserve your devotion.”

  “She was kind and decent. Beautiful. Perhaps it was you who didn’t know her.”

  “I knew her, better than anyone.” Peg stepped back, her intense expression suddenly softening into a smile. “You can do better, Jimmy. Find a woman who loves you.” The traces of her English accent bent the vowels of her otherwise Southern charm.

  “Who would that be? You?”

  “You just have to ask.”

  “Go on home, Peg. Consider your son.” Jimmy adjusted the weight of the hammer on his shoulder. “Think of Drummond.”

  “I’d leave him—”

  “Go on, Peg. Get home to your husband. Be a good wife and mama. Don’t let DJ here grow up without his mama. Trust me, it ain’t no fun.”

  “Now you’re angry with me.” She stamped her foot, stirring a small puff of dust.

  He sighed, sweeping his gaze upward to the fading fall day. The short breeze whistling through the pines cooled the heat rising on his cheeks. “I’m not angry, Peg. Just don’t want to ever be a party to a woman leaving her man, leaving her kid. Besides, I don’t feel for you—”

  “All right.” Her tone was too sweet, her smile forced and unnatural. “I’ll go. But you burn this place down. To the ground. Hear me? Don’t waste your life pining for her, Jimmy.”

  “I’ll be seeing you, Peg.”

  “Don’t be a stranger. Come around, we’ll talk about old times. Drummond would love to see you.” Just like that, she flipped the switch from jealous sister to sweet Southern housewife. “We can remember Clem. Dear Clem. We all miss him.”

  “How’s your Aunt Jean doing?” He’d been meaning to go around to the Clemsons’ place, sit a spell, and remember Clem. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The hurt was too raw. The memories too dear.

  “She’s hanging in there. Little DJ here seems to help. Brightens her up. What a blessing he is to us all.”

  “Give her my love. And your Uncle Fred too.”

  Jimmy watched her go, an echo rising in the hollow in his chest. When he heard her engine fire up, he picked up the sledgehammer and with every ounce of muscle, sorrow, anger, and fear, he swung at the wall.

  For Clem. Killed in action after one month in Korea.

  The steel head pinged against the stubborn stone, the pressure vibrating through Jimmy’s grip and up his arms.

  For Colette.

  Another resounding ping sending a vibration through Jimmy. He swung again.

  For Colette.

  For Clem.

  For Colette, Colette, Colette.

  Sweat beaded on his brow and cheeks as each hammer blow knocked a small piece of rock from the wall. He swung again, plumbing his emotions, tears seeping to the surface.

  A blow for lame war.

  For his dad, living alone, pining away over a worthless woman who weren’t never coming back.

  Jimmy paused long enough to fill his lungs and strip away his shirt. Then he swung again, crashing the hammer into the unyielding wall.

  “Oh, Jimmy, one more thing—”

  He whipped around to see that Peg had returned with DJ in tow. “What? I thought you’d gone.” What was she doing here?

  “I-I just remembered . . . Are you all right?” Her eyes roamed Jimmy’s face, down to his bare chest and the hammer in his hand.

  “What do you want, Peg?”

  She jerked her hand toward him, holding a small box. “Drummond . . . he, well . . . purchased this Argus camera for me.” She held up the black device. “You know, to take pictures of DJ. I’m having a dickens of a time finding things to take pictures of so I can practice. Then it occurred to me to get a snapshot of DJ with his Uncle Jimmy.”

  “I’m not his uncle.” What was her angle? Rubbing in that he’d lost Colette?

  “For Clem. Be his uncle in place of Clem. You know how he would want that, Jimmy.”

  He faced the wall and brought down the hammer. “You were his cousin, Peg.”

  “You know Clem was more like a brother than a cousin to me. Now, what do you say?”

  The last thing he wanted to do right now was pose for a picture.

  “Jimmy?”

  He dropped the hammer and swooped up his shirt. “Make it quick.”

  “Thank you, thank you . . . DJ, here, go to Uncle Jimmy.”

  He reached for the kid, anchoring him in the crook of his arm. “What’re you feeding him? He weighs a ton.”

  “He’s a good eater, my boy. Takes after his daddy. Now . . .” Peg raised the camera to her eye. “Jimmy, just plop him on your hip . . . yeah, like that . . . Why’re you holding him like a sack of manure? He don’t stink, and he won’t bite.”

  Peg could be exasperating, and her timing needed work. But now that he’d calmed down, Jimmy understood that Peg was the closest he’d come to Colette in a long time.

  The kid fussed and squirmed while Peg figured out her new apparatus. “Hold on, DJ. Mamá wants a picture.”

  Jimmy adjusted the boy for a better grip. There. He glanced down to see the b
oy peering at him with wide curiosity.

  “How’re you doing, kid?”

  He grinned, reached up, and beeped his nose. “Beep!”

  And Jimmy laughed.

  “Perfect.” Peg’s skirts swirled as she walked around to take another picture. “I snapped that one just right. DJ, you are the cutest thing. Jims, you should see him dance. He’s a savant, I tell you. DJ, look at Mamá.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Th-three,” Peg said, clicking away, circling like a beast on the hunt. “Well, he will be in a few weeks.”

  Peg continued to take pictures, trying different angles and light, even using a flash. But then Jimmy had enough. “Here you go, DJ. Back to your mama.”

  “All right, I suppose we’re done.” Peg kissed her boy, letting the camera dangle from a wrist strap. “I guess I’ll go.”

  “Peg, I’d appreciate if you’d not flash those pictures around. Kind of embarrassed to have built a wedding chapel when there was never going to be a wedding.”

  She hesitated, then turned to go, glancing back from the door. “You could’ve had me, Jimmy.”

  “Listen to yourself, Peg. Your mama is rolling over in her grave.”

  “Yes, I suppose she is—”

  “Go on home. Let’s forget this conversation.” He wanted to like her because she was Colette’s sister. But if she spoke one more word about leaving Drummond, he’d despise her, sure as he was standing here.

  “You know I loved you.” Her words hung in the silent space between the barren chapel walls.

  Realization dawned. He stepped toward her, swinging the hammer over the dirt. “Peg, is that why she left?” His adrenaline rushed, leaving him winded, out of strength. “Did you do it, Peg?” He stepped toward her. “Make her leave? Tell her some lie?”

  “No, no. Is that what you think?” She started out of the chapel. “I might have spoken my heart just now, but my sister made her own choices. I tried to warn her, talk her into waking up, but she made up her own mind. She chose Spice and fame over you, Jimmy. And she’s never coming back.”