The Wedding Chapel (12 page)

“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 would 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.”

Colette’s gaze met her sister’s and there she saw the truth—Peg was scared. As bound as ever. Her wounds from England festering beneath the surface. Colette softened, brushing her hand along her sister’s arm.

“I’d never hurt you, Peg. Jimmy and I are barely acquainted. If you fancy him, give him a go.”

“Thank you, Lettie. I knew you’d understand.”

Colette remained at the table as Peg joined the songs by the fire, squeezing in next to Jimmy, swaying to the rhythm, her lips stumbling over the lyrics.

A chill of recognition ran through Colette. They’d never be free. She and Peg had been molded by war and those experiences had become their father, their mother, and their guiding force.

Chapter Nine

TAYLOR

T
hursday morning the September sun fell in golden pools on the apartment hardwood. There was so much to do before catching a three o’clock to Nashville from LaGuardia.

Addison, Taylor’s trusty-dusty part-time assistant, packed up camera lenses, blaring “Happy” from the speakers hooked to Taylor’s laptop.

“
AQ
sent directions to the chapel. I e-mailed them to you.” Addison set copies of
Architecture Quarterly
on Taylor’s desk. “For your plane ride.”