The Wedding Chapel (22 page)

“Keep us friends, maybe? Maybe she had her relationship with Colette in mind.” Taylor stood slowly, feeling better, and stepped over a box of books to the album shelf and started flipping through. “You think these are worth money?”

“The estate appraiser thinks so. If you want any of them, take them now. Otherwise I’m carting them to auction next month.”

Taylor stopped at the Fleetwood Mac
Rumors
album. “Em, look, I didn’t know Granny was so hip.”

But Emma’s phone was ringing and she stepped into the hall to answer.

Removing the album from the shelf, Taylor frowned as a white envelope with her name scrawled across the front dropped to the floor.

“Tay, I’ve got to go.” Emma popped into the room. “Javi just called. Alena is sick. Threw up in his car and now she’s crying for me.”

“Did she have Fry Hut fries?” Taylor held up the envelope. “Did you see this? I found it tucked in with the albums.”

“What is it? And no, she didn’t have Fry Hut fries. Why? Did they make you sick?”

“Yeah, still dealing with it.”

“I ate them and I’m fine. What’s in the envelope? Never mind, I’ve got to go. Tell me later.” Emma exited the room, then returned. “If you want, come by the house later.”

“And catch whatever Alena has? No thanks.”

“Is that your speech for Aunt of the Year?”

“I’m nominated for Aunt of the Year?”

“Not anymore.” Emma checked her phone. “I’ve got to run. But I’ll see you at Mama’s tomorrow night? For dinner?”

Mama had a standing deal with her daughters—Sunday night dinner at her place. No excuses. Except maybe moving to LA and New York.

Taylor smiled, finally cooling off. Finally feeling herself. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

As the door slammed behind Emma, Taylor returned to her fanned post on the couch and tore open the envelope. Inside was a letter written in Granny’s elongated hand, and a weird old key.

Taylor,

If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I hope my funeral was nice but short, and that Mrs. Bath didn’t blubber like she did at Carl Bell’s service. What an embarrassment
.

Taylor laughed softly. “Pragmatic to the end.” No one could ever accuse Granny of being overly sentimental.

So you hitched your wagon to the Forester kid? Here’s my advice. Speak up, say what’s on your mind, don’t assume. Enjoy the bedroom. Ahem. And well, sis, if it ain’t working, don’t hang around and waste your life.

Granny!

Anyway, as I’m trying to get into heaven where I will surely see my dear mamá and papá again, I want to right a very deep wrong. I’m not really sure how to go about it, or if I’m even
making the right decision. So I’m passing the buck to you. Sorry, Taylor, hope you don’t hate me afterward. Then again, hopefully I’ll be in heaven and won’t care.

In case you’re wondering, I’m giving this task to you because, well, the others are idiots.

Taylor laughed through her tears. Granny, Granny, Granny . . .

Besides, you’re my favorite. You’re wise and I like Jack. He seems to have his head on straight despite what his daddy did to him. What a despicable creature, Rise Forester.

Taylor sat back. Jack. Her Jack. He’d be on the golf course with Lennon by now. Taylor embraced a pang of missing him.

You probably know by now that I set your dad as my executor, but I’m leaving the house to you and the contents to Emma. Pretty savvy of me.

Work together with her to ensure everyone gets what they want, and don’t fight over anything. It’s only stuff and not worth the family being torn apart. I should know. Family is the most valuable thing on earth, though Lord knows I didn’t live my life with that conviction. Remember that family isn’t just blood kin but anyone who fits into your heart.

The key is for the box. If you find it, make a wise decision about its contents. Consider all involved and, Taylor, if you think it won’t help or if it’ll cause more harm than good, leave it be. Take it to your grave, as I have done.

Either way I’m sorry. I really, really am. Keeping secrets hardens a woman’s heart. I didn’t realize how much so until it was too late.

Taylor glanced at the key, then around the room. Was there a box with a lock in here? And what secret?

All these years I had to keep quiet. But now, death has given me opportunity to speak. Not many folks can say that, can they?

When you were in your teens, I saw how your parents’ divorce affected you more than Emma, and I just want you to know, if the saints of heaven really are praying and watching over, and I’m allowed in, bless the name of Jesus, I’ll be sure to pray for you.

Taylor, I never said it enough, but I love you. I was always very proud of you. Be well. And if you can, hug Colette for me. Tell her I’m sorry.

Granny

Taylor reread the last lines, trying to discern the unwritten meaning.
“Tell her I’m sorry.”

About what, Granny?

Tears swished across her eyes, spilling to the tops of her cheeks. She felt cheated, like someone had offered her an ice-cream cone, then snatched it away before she could take a lick.

“Love you, Granny.”

Taylor brushed her hand over her tear-touched cheeks and slipped the letter back into the envelope and palmed the key. Placing the
Rumors
album back on the shelf, she glanced about the room. Where would Granny stash a mysterious box?

From down the hall, she heard her phone ring.
Jack.
Taylor rose from the couch, the sudden move draining her balance. Grabbing the arm of the sofa, she let the moment pass, then hurried to her room.

“Hello?” She didn’t recognize the number.

“Taylor?”

“This is she.”

“Keith Niven, Niven Realty. I understand you have pictures of the Westbrook property. I was wondering if you’d like to share?”

“Share?” Taylor set the letter and key on the old dresser, then leaned against it. Seriously, no more Fry Hut fries. “No, um, sorry, I took those for a client.”

“How about I hire you to shoot another set?”

Architecture Quarterly
didn’t ask for an exclusive, so . . . “What do you need them for?”

“Website. We’ve listed the chapel for sale but the images my associate took don’t capture the essence of the place. Do you have time?”

“I do, but I’m not sure I like the idea of Coach selling the place.”

“I hear you, but he’s ready. We’ll get him fair market value.”

“I don’t think it’s about the money.” Really, this wasn’t her business.

“Listen, are you speaking for Coach or yourself? Because he’s the one who gave me your number. So I’m thinking he’s a go for selling. So, are you in?”

Taylor rattled off her top fee, which Keith agreed to without a hesitating breath.

“Can you come now? I’m at the chapel with Coach.”

“Now? Yeah, sure.”

She stared out the window, echoes of Granny’s letter drifting through her head, followed by images of Jimmy staring out the chapel window.

What secret? And why was Coach selling?

Pushing past the waves of queasiness, Taylor grabbed her purse and headed out.

At the Lincoln, she checked to ensure her equipment was still in the trunk, then fired up the engine.

The drive out to River Road cleared her head and relieved the effects of the French fries. By the time she turned down the chapel’s lane, she felt strong.

“She’s beautiful today, Coach,” Taylor said, greeting the old man in the middle of the chapel yard.

“She’s beautiful every day.”

What’s going on?

Accompanying Coach Westbrook was a lean man in what appeared to be a tailored suit. Professional, with eager eyes and an eager gait, he introduced himself to Taylor.

“Keith Niven.” He shook her hand with a firm grip.

“Taylor Branson.”

Maybe between LA and New York she’d become cynical, but she didn’t like Keith. Too slick. Too smarmy.

“Ready to take some pictures?” he said, pronouncing it “pitchers” and popping his hands together.

“Let me get my camera.” Taylor raised the trunk lid, reaching in for her camera. “Hey, Coach?”

“Taylor?”

“You sure you want to sell this place.”

He glanced away but nodded. Once. “It’s time. Ain’t getting any younger.”

Taylor walked with Keith into the chapel while Coach waited outside.

“We have some powerful interest in this place.” Keith paced down the center aisle, hands on his waist, suit jacket shoved back.

“What does that mean? ‘Powerful interest’?” Taylor snapped on a lens and took a couple of test shots.

“People with deep pockets wanting to buy.”

“Why do folks with deep pockets want a wedding chapel?” Taylor moved through the sanctuary, searching for the angles and
light she’d found yesterday. But the air in the chapel was different. Taylor glared toward Keith. She suspected the change was more about the absence of Coach than the presence of Keith.

“I can sell this place within the month,” Keith said, his words puffed up. “I’ve got a group from Nashville and one from Vegas coming for a look-see. Destination weddings in smaller venues like chapels are all the rage. This place will be hopping.” He snapped his fingers, one-two-three.

Taylor took a couple of shots, but her heart wasn’t in it. She ached for Coach to keep this place. When she positioned herself in the front corner for a wide shot of the sanctuary, Coach walked in.

She snapped the shutter, capturing the old man in his custom space.

Tell me, Jimmy, what’s on your mind?

From his expression, it wasn’t buyers from Nashville and Vegas.

“Say, Coach,” Taylor said, walking toward him. “Ever think about running the place yourself? You could hire a manager to help coordinate it all.” She powered off her camera and removed the memory card. “Here you go, Keith.”

“Taylor, Taylor.” Keith jumped between them. “Running a wedding venue is mega work. Coach is retired, enjoying life. He doesn’t want to run a wedding business.”

“Coach, what did you have in mind when you built this place?” Taylor shoved the card at Keith, feeling mama bearish about Coach. Like he needed someone, her, in his corner.

“What did I want? Get married, I reckon.”

“So, why didn’t you?”

“Listen,” Keith said, snatching the card from Taylor. “I hired you as a photographer, not an advocate for my client against me. I’m about to make Coach a lot of money.”

Maybe it was the ordeal between her and Jack. Or waking
up this morning feeling puny. Or maybe it was because she just believed Coach needed someone to advocate for him, but Taylor had enough of Keith Niven.

“Don’t push me or Coach. I only want to make sure he has a choice. That this is really what
he
wants. Can’t you see this place means a lot to him? Are you being discreet with potential buyers? Or are you bringing by any ole Elvis preacher who’d marry a chicken to a duck for the right price?”

“You wound me.” Keith slapped his hand to his chest. “I’m not a two-bit hustler. I was agent of the year last year. I’m a
professional
. This is my career. It’s my duty to sell this extraordinary property to the right buyer for top dollar, making money for everyone.”

“Taylor, Taylor, it’s all right.” Coach slipped his hand into hers. “I appreciate you sticking up for me, but I know what I’m doing. Keith is a good man.”

She exhaled, deflating some of her ire, but didn’t withdraw her hand from his, not clear whether he held on to her or she to him.

“Fine, but, Keith, do not treat Coach’s life’s work like a two-bit hotel. And what’s top dollar, by the way?”

“Coach,” Keith said, laughing. “I thought you just met this gal. But you have a tiger in your corner. Top dollar is top dollar. At today’s prices, Coach will walk away with a mighty tidy sum.”

Taylor peered over at Coach, who boasted a smile, but his slightly rounded shoulders cracked her heart a bit wider for him.

“Coach.” She squeezed his hand. “Are you really sure you want to let this place go? I just feel like there’s something more here—”

He squeezed her hand back. “Trust me, kiddo, I let go a long time ago.”

A brush of light fell over the pews from the western windows, spreading a gentle wheel of color through the stained glass. A soft red, pale blue, and shallow green puddled across the floor.

Then she heard it. The light
whoosh-thump
. Taylor whipped around toward the door, her middle taut with anticipation. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Coach said, releasing her hand.

Taylor shook her head. “Nothing. Just the wind.” She turned to Keith. “You have some good shots. Keep the memory card, Keith.”

“I need to pay you.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket but Taylor waved him off.

“Just find the absolute best buyer for Coach. For this chapel.”

“Trust me, I will, but I insist on paying you.” Keith pressed a wad of bills in her hand as he headed out. “I hate to be beholden.”

I bet you do.

Alone with Coach, Taylor smiled. “Guess that’s it for now.” Then she heard it—the
whoosh-thump.
The sound of a heart’s chambers.

She tossed Coach a visual. Their gazes met and she knew. He’d heard it too.

“Do you think buildings have a soul, Taylor?” He jutted out his square chin where a soft dusting of white whiskers caught the light.

“A soul?” she said, raising her gaze to the ceiling. “I reckon not. Only humans have souls. But I suppose an old building just might have a
heart
.” She tossed it out there, waiting for him to respond, to confess he heard it too.

He nodded and turned for the door. “You ready? I’ll lock her up.”

In the yard, Taylor bid Coach a good day and climbed behind the wheel of the Lincoln.

Coach could not,
must
not sell this place. Because Taylor innately understood any change of hands would end a dream that somehow still yearned to live. And the key of that dream was buried in the heart of one sweet old coach.

Chapter Seventeen

JACK

F
ocus, Jack, focus.

His mission Monday afternoon was simple. Convince Colette Greer to lend her legendary name to FRESH Water.