The Wedding Chapel (19 page)

But the offensive line didn’t hold and Clem scrambled away from the defense. The play was busted. Clem looked down field to pass, but every receiver was covered. Jimmy broke from his route, running for the end zone, waving his hands in the air.

I’m open, Clem. I’m open.

Clem spied him and released the ball, spiraling it perfectly toward Jimmy, placing it right over his shoulder. Jimmy reached for it, exhilarated when the cold leather hit his palm.

The rest was a blur. The ball bounced from his hands and he swore a blue streak as the Lipscomb safety slammed into him. He went careening down to the field.

The ball . . . the ball . . . His hands flailed in the air. But he couldn’t . . . grab . . . hold.

As he crashed to the ground, the safety scooped up the ball and started to run. From his prostrate, humble position, Jimmy watched the player from the other team become the hero, running down the sidelines, a horde of Rock Mill purple jerseys chasing him while he scored a touchdown.

The visitor stands exploded. The whistle blew. Lipscomb had won.

Jimmy rolled onto his back and stared up at the lights. His humiliation was complete.

Clem angled over him, offering his hand. “My fault.”

“How you figure? You threw a perfect pass.”

Refusing his friend’s hand, Jimmy shoved up on his own. He didn’t want help. He didn’t deserve it. He’d let the team down.

“Come on, let’s go get warm. Hear the coach yell.”

But Jimmy didn’t follow Clem to the locker room with the rest of the head-hanging team. Instead, he sat on the bench, hiding under his helmet, as students, parents, friends, and fans funneled out of the stands, disappointed.

Over and over, Jimmy replayed the pass and the drop. How did he not catch it?

The stadium lights went out. Still Jimmy sat, unmoved.

“Hello?”

He jumped at the sound of her accented voice, swerving around to see her standing behind him. “C-Colette. What are you doing here?” He gazed at her through his face mask, his heart sinking. She had seen his failure.

“Bad luck on that play. That bloke ran straight into you,” she said with her long vowels and lyrical consonants. “I don’t understand much about this game, but surely that must be a penalty.” She lowered herself next to him, hooking her hands over the edge of the bench, a touching intensity in her expression.

Jimmy laughed. “He’s allowed to do that, and if anyone deserves
a penalty, it’s me. I should’ve seen him coming. I should’ve caught the ball.”

“What of your teammates? Shouldn’t they run him off or something? Do they call it tackling?”

“Yes, tackling, blocking . . .” He peered at her. “What are you doing here?”

“Keeping you company. No lad should sit alone after such a blunder.”

“Blunder? That’s putting it mildly.”

“Your shoulders are all rounded and sad looking.” She smoothed her hand down his arm, igniting an inferno in his chest. “It’s awful to be alone when you’re blue.”

“If feeling sad gets you next to me, I’ll be sad every day. All day.”

Her light, airy laugh nearly made him forget his
blunder
. “Jimmy, I’m not worth all that, now, am I?”

“You should be getting home. It’s late and cold. And yes, you are.”

She leaned to see his eyes behind his helmet. “Are you going to take that contraption off? Or will you sleep with it on? It won’t change anything, you know.”

Jimmy tugged off his helmet and smoothed his hand over his wild, sweat-soaked hair. “Where’s the gang? Shouldn’t you be with them at your aunt and uncle’s?”

“Aunt Jean’s making hot cocoa. Wouldn’t you care to come?”

“I was thinking of making popcorn at home, maybe listen to the hi-fi.”

“Oh—” Even in the darkness, Jimmy could see the sparkle in her eyes dim with his subtle put-off. “I was rather hoping you would come.”

“How about you come to my place? It’s just me and my dad, kind of quiet, but—”

“Will there be hot cocoa?”

Hot cocoa? He had no idea. Did they have chocolate in the house? Dad was turning into a pretty good cook, but chocolate? “Yes, absolutely there’ll be hot cocoa.”

“Then I’d love to come.”

Jimmy stood, offering her his arm. “Shall we? And sorry, I’m a bit smelly.”

She laughed softly, hooking her arm into his. “Clem’s taught me that most boys are a bit smelly.”

“I’ll get my gear from the locker room and get cleaned up, promise.”

“No worries, Jimmy.”

Jimmy.
She’d said his name.
Jimmy
. All his failures faded away with the sound of her voice.

Chapter Fourteen

TAYLOR

A
little before noon, Taylor slipped into Granny’s driveway with a bag of fries from the Fry Hut, a fifty-year-old Heart’s Bend icon, like Ella’s and Donut Haven. A large Diet Coke sat on the seat next to her, buckled in because old cars with bench seats had no cup holders.

Her big sister, Emma, waved to her from the front porch steps.

“What are you doing here?” Taylor stepped out, fries tucked under her arm, grabbing her soda from the lap belt. She hadn’t eaten all morning, and by the time she left Jimmy’s no-wedding chapel, still a bit awed by the place yet shaken by the sound she’d heard, she was beyond starved, craving a fast-food fix from the Hut.

Simple name, great food.

“Can’t I play hooky from work to see my sister?” Emma sat against the left side column supporting Granny’s veranda. “How’d it go?”

“There are no words. Have you seen that place? Incredible. It has this vibe about it.” Taylor omitted what kind of vibe. She didn’t want to endure Emma’s questions. “The natural light was amazing. Didn’t use any lamps or reflectors.” Taylor hesitated at the
trunk, deciding to haul her gear in later. She had hot fries in hand that needed devouring. “The inside was breathtaking. Slate floor, arched, wood-trimmed ceiling. But Coach was the one who . . .” What? “Gave it life.”

She’d convinced herself the
whoosh-thump
came from tree limbs bouncing against the slate roof. Now, she wasn’t sure.

“I can’t wait to see the shots.” Emma reached for a fry before Taylor’s backside hit the clapboard step.

She settled the fries between them. They were hot, salty, and fabulous.

“These have to be in heaven.” Emma waved a long, golden fry at Taylor.

“I thought we didn’t eat in heaven.”

“What about that supper, at the wedding?”

“Where’s that again?”

“I don’t know, end of the Book somewhere.” Emma waved her fry around. “I think we won’t ever be hungry.”

“That would be nice.”

“But these fries have to be there. They are
heavenly
.”

“Your logic confounds the wise men.” Taylor munched on a few fries, doing a bit of emotional sorting, thinking through the morning, deciding the things she loved about the chapel. Wanting to go back.

“Heard from Jack?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Makes me wonder. I think he’d be dying to get his phone back.”

“Makes you wonder what? He’s busy with a meeting this morning.”

Fresh off a divorce, Emma’s favorite sport these days was marriage-bashing, and Taylor didn’t want to play. Especially not after experiencing the goodness of the chapel.

“My one and only date with Jack in high school was at the Fry
Hut.” She grabbed a few more fries, savoring each bite, then taking a long sip from her soda straw.

“Javier took me to Nashville for a concert.” Emma reached for more fries, staring out at the lawn. “But he’s gone and I’m over crying about how I thought divorce would never happen to me. You know how families have traits? Like everyone is overweight, or everyone is skinny, or they all play an instrument? Our family trait is everyone divorces.”

“Shut up. That’s what you want our legacy to be?” However, the truth in Emma’s claim rattled Taylor. As far back as she knew, both sides of the family were wildly successful at divorce.

“Doesn’t matter what I want. It’s true. Makes me wonder what you were thinking when you eloped with Jack.”

“I don’t know . . .”
He swept me off my feet.

“Well, ‘I don’t know’ is as good a reason as any.”

“Hush. Eat your fries.”

“You ready?”

“Are you?” Three days she’d waited to marry him. Even on Martha’s Vineyard, a romantic elopement required due legal process. But with each day, she envisioned a life with Jack, and it was a beautiful one.

“More than.”

He brushed the dangling curl of her updo from her neck. They used the three-day waiting period to get ready. They both bought something to wear. Jack bought plain platinum bands and got a haircut. Taylor got a mani-pedi and a facial. This morning the stylist swept her hair up in ringlets and curls.

“Are we crazy?” she said.

“I like crazy, don’t you?” He swept his hand around her neck and drew her into him for a kiss.

Yeah, she liked Jack’s kind of crazy. “I can’t believe the Jack Forester of Rock Mill High is marrying me.” The brooding scholar-athlete with the wounded past had dumped her after one date. But there were plenty of girls waiting to take her place. “All the girls wanted to rescue you in high school.”

He grinned. “Well then, here you are, rescuing me.”

She sobered. “Do you need to be rescued, Jack?”

“No, but I’ll admit to whatever you want to make you stick by me.”

“Jack, I want to say I—”

“We’re ready for you now.” The officiant beckoned for them to follow him to the beach.

Jack took her hand. “Let’s go.”

Taylor squeezed his hand. Like a couple of crazy kids, neither had said “I love you” yet. Getting married felt like it deserved some kind of love confession, didn’t it?

“Jack, you know we should—”

“I know, have a back door.” He stopped and peered right through her eyes and down to her soul. “If it doesn’t work out we can walk away, no fuss, no muss.”

If it doesn’t work out . . .

She wanted to say “I love you” and he instituted an escape clause.

“—so, the chapel. It’s nice? I need to drive out there.” Emma frowned at the empty fry bag.

“You should wait until you’re in a more pleasant state of mind concerning marriage,” Taylor said, still trapped between Emma’s conversation and her memory.

She should have stopped Jack right then and there with a “What do you mean ‘If it doesn’t work out’?”

But she was committed to and caught up in the moment. She believed she could beat the odds. That’s what crazy people did—the same thing as everyone else, only expecting different results.

“How was Coach? I see him downtown once in a while. At Ella’s.”

Emma had taken after Granny and gone into banking right there in Heart’s Bend. She claimed the smell of money was her favorite perfume.

“Fine, I guess. Doesn’t seem like he’s in his eighties. He’s as old as Granny was but looks like he’s got a lot of living left to do.” Taylor sipped from the soda, listening to the sounds of the street. A screen door clapped shut. The hint of a country melody. A car starting. “Here’s what’s weird. Coach spent ten years building this chapel, and for whatever reason, he never used it, and is now selling it.”

“People are crazy. Did he give you the story?”

“Not really.”

“Maybe some girl broke his heart and he never recovered.”

“I suppose.” Taylor chewed on the end of her straw. “That would be sad.”

“Oh my gosh, I want more fries. See what you did to me. They definitely have to be in heaven. Or I won’t go,” Emma said.

“So hell is a better option? I’m pretty sure there will be no fries in hell.”

Emma laughed. “Then that settles it. No hell for me.”

“I don’t think heaven is intended for our carnal satisfaction, Em.”

“Well, one morning in a chapel and look who’s got a sermon.”

“I’m just saying.” Taylor wadded up the fry bag, feeling full. And a little queasy. Ever since rushing to the airport yesterday, her system was off.

Stress. Just stress. She thought the fries would be the perfect comfort food. Yet here she was with greasy, salty fingers and a gurgling belly.

“So, how
is
married life?”

“Adjusting.”

“Could’ve knocked me over with a feather when you called to say you’d eloped.” The warm edge of the noon sunlight fell over their legs. “With Jack Gillingham.”

“Forester. He’s using his real name now.”

“There’s a brave soul.”

“No one in New York knows his dad is a scalawag. Besides, it’s his legal name.”

“And is it yours? Are you a Forester too?”

“A Branson.”

Emma made a face. “Why? You never struck me as a feminist, keep-your-own-name kind of girl.”

“Haven’t got around to it, is all.”

“You eloped and I got divorced.” Emma raised her hand in a mock toast. “To us.”

Emma leaned back, propping her elbows on the step behind her. “I didn’t want the divorce, you know.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. So, Taylor, be careful, okay? Don’t let Jack get away.”

Taylor nodded, shaking the empty soda cup. “I’ll do my best.”

But it wasn’t solely up to her. Jack had a say in things. Like an out clause.

“If it doesn’t work out we can walk away, no fuss, no muss.”