The Wedding Chapel (39 page)

“Gee, I wonder why . . .” Jab, jab, cross, cross.

“You know that excuse worked when you were fifteen. Even eighteen. I even gave you a pass when you were twenty and figuring out who you wanted to be. But now, Jack, you just look silly. You’re thirty years old and you’ve not reckoned that your earthly father has let you down.”

“Gee, Sam, I didn’t realize I was ever supposed to be okay with that.”

“Is that what I said? Son, you’re hearing what you want to hear. Reckoning with it doesn’t mean you approve it. Your heavenly Father hasn’t let you down. Do you seek His approval? His advice? When was the last time you prayed? Worshipped?”

“I’ve gone to church recently.”

“I didn’t ask you when you went to church.”

“Then I don’t know. A few months.” Six? Seven? A year?

“No wonder this baby news got to you.”

“This should be a happy time, Sam, but I don’t want to be a father. I’m not ready to be a father.”

“Too late. You already got a little one on the way. Jack, the good Lord has freely given you everything you need to heal from such a deep hurt, but you choose to keep walking around wounded. Eventually you’ll walk further and further off the straight and narrow. One day, you’ll be old and wonder where it all went wrong. Or worse, you’ll be too far gone to even notice you’ve strayed, thinking God gave you a bum rap.”

“I thought I
was
over it. Life was fine in New York. Then I ran into Taylor and
bam
! Everything turned upside down.”

“Sarah and I were delighted when you called to say you’d eloped. Very romantic.”

“Or very foolish.” Jack reached for a folding chair and popped it open, sitting with a hard sigh, sweat trickling down his back and sides. These slacks were going straight to the cleaners. Sam was right—exercise alone couldn’t heal him.

“How’s it going with Taylor otherwise?”

“It’s hard because I’m not good at telling her how I feel. What she means to me.”

“What does she mean to you?”

“You sound like Taylor.”

“Well?”

Jack knew Sam’s game. He was good at getting him to talk by just waiting, being patient, listening.

For a moment the only sound in the garage was Jack catching his breath. He shifted his gaze from Sam to the garage floor, then to Sam.

“I think of her during the day.” Once the first words spilled out, the rest came easy. “I love the idea that when I go home, she’ll be there. Or
evidence
of her is there. But the moment I see her, I pull back. Clam up. And I walk past her like she’s a bother instead of a joy.”

“All right, you’ve identified the problem. How are you going to fix it?”

Jack glanced over at Sam, tapping his gloved hands together. “I don’t know.” Ah, there, he’d voiced it.

“So you keep one foot out the door. That way you can run first if it all goes south. But because you have one foot out the door, you’re all but guaranteeing it
will
go south.”

Jack jumped to his feet. “Don’t you know, Sam, it
always
goes south! Even living here with you and Sarah . . . I turned eighteen and had to leave.”

“Who said you had to leave?”

“The system. My case worker. Pack up, go to college, because I
was one of the lucky ones—
ha!
—who earned a scholarship. Time to be on my own. I was done, out of the system. Besides, I didn’t really belong here with you.”

“But you had a place here. We told you.”

“Yeah, but you and Sarah . . . had your own lives. You didn’t need me—”

“Is that what you thought?”

Jack exhaled. “Yeah, I guess. Your friends and family didn’t want me to be a permanent part of the clan.”

“But Sarah and I did. We told you as much. Maybe it was you who didn’t want to be a part of a family.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Jack laughed. “Me. There. Simple enough?”

“You know Sarah and I always wanted children, but it just never happened. Well, until we met you.”

“A fifteen-year-old baby? What a bundle of joy.”

Sam laughed. “Well, labor and delivery proved challenging at first, but then yes, you were a joy to us. Still are. When you walked into my office, face all busted up from that horrid situation you were in, I knew you were my son. I called Sarah and said, ‘How would you like a beat-up, wounded, fifteen-year-old boy?’ ”

“You never told me that.”

“She said, ‘Bring him home.’ ” Sam leaned forward. “Jack, I’m going to tell you something and I want you to hear me. You were an answer to prayer.”

“An angry teen with a broken face? That’s what you and Sarah prayed for?” Sam was the plastic surgeon who’d fixed his broken cheekbone, jaw, and split eye.

“Not exactly, but we had such a desire for children. When we realized Sarah just couldn’t keep a baby full term, we began to pray,
‘Lord, we’ll take children any way You want to give them to us.’ We both felt kind of partial to a son. When you walked in, I
knew
you were the answer to our prayer.”

An answer to prayer. Such a claim caused Jack to torque inside, messed with his right to be angry, to play the victim. Because if the God of all looked after him, even used him to
bless
someone else, then Jack had no excuse. God had a way of escape for him.

“Did I ever tell you I knew your mother?” Sam asked suddenly.

Jack perked up. “You did?”

“She volunteered at the hospital when she was in high school. She was smart, kind, pretty. I always thought she’d do well in life.”

“Yeah, well, she met the same force of evil I did. Rise Forester.”

“And he destroyed her life, I admit. She made bad choices too, Jack. Some of the men she chose weren’t the best. But she didn’t mean to get killed the night she took off on a motorcycle.”

“No, I guess she didn’t.”

“She was just trying to heal her broken heart, find a man who could appreciate her. But she was raised in church. She knew the truth.”

“What’s your point, Sam?”

“You have to decide, Jack. Choose. What kind of man do you want to be? You have the Holy Spirit. I saw you after your first summer camp, saw the change. I recognized His presence in your life. You were filled!” Sam rolled his voice like an old-time evangelist. “You have a Father.”

“Then I got empty.” Jack unlaced the gloves, tugging them off. “Never filled back up.”

“It’s not easy being a believer in a world with so many distractions, where there are so many other ways to solve problems. But, Jack, if you want to get over your anger at your father and be the father you want to be—”

“I don’t even know what that looks like.” Jack tossed the gloves onto the worktable.

“—you’ve got to go to the Lord. Really give it. You’ll fail otherwise. Trust me. Because every little thing that happens will feed your fears, doubts, anger, and hurt. And it’ll grow until you are consumed by it. I had a friend once who felt jilted by his father, thought he favored his siblings. Got married and had sons of his own. But he was so focused on the wrong done him by his father, he couldn’t see he was doing the same to his own kids.”

“Okay, I get it, Sam, I get it.”

Sam’s sigh was muted by his great big grin. “Well then.” Sam opened a drawer under his workbench, pulled out a Bible, and tossed it to Jack. “Here’s your passbook to your million-dollar account. Take a withdrawal and stop trying to make a good life on the devil’s pennies.”

Jack thumbed the pages. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“How about, ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God.’ John 1. Be yourself, Jack. He’s already seen the worst you have to offer and He still loves you.” Sam made his way to the garage’s sliding doors. “I’ll leave you to it, but when you’ve found some peace, come on inside and help me cheer for the Commodores. Sarah would love to see you.”

“I will. Thanks, Sam.” Jack sat back in his chair, Bible resting on his leg.

“Can I say one more thing to you?”

“You have to ask?” Jack grinned. “Come on. Bring it.”

“Sarah and I love you like a son. I’m sixty-six, thinking of retiring in a few years. A surgeon’s hands get kind of shaky after a while.”

“Not you, Sam. You’re steady as a rock.”

“So far . . . But we’ll have some time on our hands. We’ve got
some mission plans on the table, but to be honest, we’d like to spend time with family, be around our
son
, his wife. And their kids.”

Jack shook his head. “Sam, think about what you’re saying.”

“I’ve thought about it for almost fifteen years. You’re our son. Angry, sad, mad, or happy, that’s how we see you, feel about you.”

“Then you got cheated. I’m a horrible son.”

“It’s not too late to change, Jack. Thing is, you have to ask yourself if you want grandparents for your kids. And do
you
want parents? That’s the crux of it right there. Are you ready to give up being angry? Because anytime you want to become a Gillingham, Jack, we’ll go down to the courthouse and make it all legal.”

“I’m thirty years old, Sam.”

“I don’t care if you’re a hundred. I’m telling you, I want you as my son. Wouldn’t it be nice to
know
you are a son right before you become a father?”

Jack glanced at Sam, who nodded, then turned for the house. “Take your time.”

He might have been gone, but his confession hung around the garage, drilling through Jack and tapping his tears.
“I want you as my son.”

Pressing his head to the smooth leather Bible, Jack exhaled and let go of the first cord roping down his heart—the right to be angry—slipping from the chair to his knees as one freeing sob after another rolled over him.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

TAYLOR

W
hen the doorbell rang, Taylor hammered down the stairs from the bum room.

“Jack?”

He went silent when she dropped the baby news, asking her a half dozen times if she was sure, and everything sweet and romantic about him turned sour and cold.

When he dropped her off at home, he asked to borrow the car with a curt, “I got to do something.”

She’d spent the last two hours putzing about the house, trying to sort through boxes, getting nowhere. She called Colette with no answer but left a voice message. Hopefully she was safe with Ford. Or better yet, Coach.

Jogging across the big, boxy, empty living room, she swung open the front door. “Where’ve you been?”

“At home.” Daddy stood on the other side.

“Hey, wow.” She pressed her hand to her thudding heart. “What are you doing here?” She didn’t move but remained planted, leaning against the door.

“Can I come in?” he said.

“Um, yeah, sure?” Taylor glanced over her shoulder . . . at nothing . . . There was no excuse to deny him. “Is this about the chapel?”

“No, nothing new on that front, but I’ve made some calls.” The heels of Daddy’s loafers skipped over the hardwood. “I take it you were expecting someone? Just not me.”

“Jack. He . . . he went out on an errand.”

Daddy nodded with a “Hmm” and left things there, making his way over to the one chair in the room. “Emma did a good job of clearing things out.”

“Granny has an odd sense of humor, giving me the house and Emma the contents.”

“Knowing her, she had some reason behind it. She always did.” Daddy hesitated, then adjusted the pull of his slacks around his knees before perching on the edge of the chair. “Seeing Coach made me think of how she badgered him into mentoring me after she and Dad divorced. She got it stuck in her head I needed a male mentor and Coach was the man for the job.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Poor Coach. Mama called him every night until he said yes. I was twelve or so, embarrassed, eavesdropping from my bedroom, muttering to myself, ‘Leave him be, Mama.’ I had Dad. He was just across town. She had some mysterious ways. Well, you know that, being as she left you that letter. And what was it, a key? Find anything yet?”

“No.” Taylor took a seat on the sofa. “I have a feeling the search will take me to the attic.”

Daddy chuckled, nodding. “Her secret cave. Chances are, you’re right.”

“Was it weird meeting Colette?” Taylor repositioned, trying to relax. This common ground was a good place to reassess her feelings for her father.

Daddy shrugged. “A little. Mostly like meeting a long-lost relative, no context, no connection. Interesting about her and Coach, though.”

Yeah, it was, and somehow that story was pinging in Taylor with the one Daddy just told.

“Do you think Peg loved Coach? Before she married Grandpa?”

“If so, she never said.”

“But she was a woman of secrets.”

Daddy leaned back, relaxing a bit. “Got me there, kiddo.”

If she let herself not be mad, she liked Daddy. He was smart, funny, caring, handsome. A good citizen. And as far as she could tell, from her distant life perch, he was a good husband to Ardell.

More than that, he was her child’s grandfather. A sweep of sentiment dusted the crusty edges of her fourteen-year-old offense.

“Can I talk to you?” His tone drew a serious shade in the room.

“S-sure.” The tremor in her gut told her this was going to be personal.

“I don’t mean to put you on the spot, Taylor, but I guess this chapel business and seeing Coach with Colette sparked something in me. I just have to know . . . What’s wrong between us? I know it has something to do with the divorce, but, darling, I can’t figure why you’re so angry with me but not your mother.”

Her vision glistened with tears. “Daddy, I can’t—”

“I know this is hard, but I don’t want this wall between us. I’ve asked Emma, your mama, and they don’t know. Your mom blames the divorce and I get that. I was from a divorce too, Taylor. But I didn’t hate one parent over the other. Did I do something—”

“Yes, and
you
know you did.” She fired off the sofa, her emotions raw from the events of the day. “You and Mama wouldn’t have gotten divorced if it wasn’t for you and Ardell.” Anger gas-pedaled her truth to the surface.

“What? Taylor, I didn’t start up with Ardell until six months after the divorce.”