The Wedding Chapel (5 page)

And his lover.

It was an act beyond her sensibilities and moral boundaries. But she was so desperate to move
on,
to bury her wounds and fears. To
feel
. When the affair ended, she fled to England for the summer. Why England, with its rude and rough memories, she could never say. Except the fact that she’d been invited to tea with the Queen . . .

Colette gripped her handbag, a Diamatia-Greer, named after her by the exclusive, in-demand designer Luciano Diamatia, who had been in love with her. But she had not loved him.

There were other men. Spice Keating, an old friend from Heart’s Bend and a fellow actor. And Bart Maverick, her
Always Tomorrow
costar.

All romance found its end road. Because her heart belonged to another.

So she had fame, fortune, and celebrity as her companions. Awards, acclaim, honorary degrees, and a Park Avenue penthouse.

The car jostled from side to side, hitting uneven pavement.

Colette stared out her window as New York passed by. Just like life, if she were honest. She’d slid inside the “ride” of her career and watched life pass her by. She had accomplishments the world envied. But inside she was empty. Though for over sixty years she’d filled herself with foolishness. The hype of the show. The grandeur of being one of the most beautiful, then one of the oldest actresses on television. A career that spanned the ages.

But since the taping ended a month ago, she found her days long and silent. Lonely. And it was then that she began to hear the beating of her own heart.

So much so she thought it might drive her mad.

“Did you decide about the book?” Ford pulled her attention back inside the cab, back to the moment. The cab jerked again as the driver wove through traffic, muttering in Arabic, as orange cones narrowed two thick lanes down to one. “The show is over. You’ve had a month to enjoy your freedom. I declare I don’t know why you didn’t go down to your Caribbean home. Anyway, now that you’ve had some time, you can start work on the book. I’ve been promising your publisher a manuscript for the past three years.”

“Yes, the book.” She’d agreed to the book but only because she was angry with Peg, who in light of her sickness had suddenly wanted to make amends. To undo the past sixty-plus years as if nothing had ever happened. Colette forgave her, then threatened her with a tell-all if she didn’t leave things be.

But she’d never write such a memoir. Not while Peg was alive. Because it wouldn’t fix anything, change the past, or bring back those Colette had loved and lost.

“I don’t know the first thing about writing a book, Ford.”

He sighed, angling forward as the driver surged through traffic and through a yellow light. “You have a cowriter, Justine Longoria. Remember? You tell her your stories and she handles the writing magic.”

“I can’t imagine anyone wanting to read about me.”

“Everyone wants to read about you, Colette,” Ford said, exasperation molding his thin features. “You’re an award-winning actress, a patron of the arts, a world traveler, a spokeswoman. You acted on the same show for six decades. Yet your personal life is a mystery. You’ve had many suitors but no husband. No children. You’ve lived in the same penthouse for fifty years. You don’t even own cats or dogs.”

“Animals die.” She’d had enough death in her life. People. Dreams. Love.

“They also bring joy and comfort.”

“And I have children.”

Ford laughed low. “As Vivica Spenser? That doesn’t count, Colette.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m one sentence away from the old folks home, Ford. The actors who played Vivica’s children
feel
very much like my own. Caron Seitz and I talk once a month, at least. And Jenn Baits has her children call me Granny.”

“Sweet stories, but you can’t lie to me. No one really knows you.” Ford said this while answering a text to his phone. “I’m not sure I know you all that well.”

“You know me as well as anyone.”

“Then tell me. How do you feel about the show ending? That the last episode airs this month?”

“I’m . . .” Colette paused. What words fit the swirl in her soul? Sad? Lost? Lonely? Such pitiful words for a woman who had a life others envied.

But really, there were days Colette Greer didn’t know where she ended and Vivica Spenser began. The women were one and the same. One’s reality was the other’s fantasy. She was the blended shade of her real life and TV persona.

“You’ll have to read about it in my autobiography.”

Ford’s laugh filled the cab. “Touché. So you’ll do the book?” He flashed his phone. “I’ll get Justine scheduled. How’s Monday?”

“Fine, but not too early. I like mornings to myself.”

“Noon it is. The publisher will be thrilled. I can hear the ka-ching of foreign rights dollars. You’re practically a goddess in Latin America.”

“They don’t love
me
, Ford. They love Vivica Spenser.” Was that it? The world loved Vivica, not Colette. So the show’s end meant the end of the only love she knew?

“Of course they love Vivica. But who is Vivica without Colette Greer?” Ford’s big hand covered hers. “It’ll be therapeutic. Writing. You can exorcise your demons.”

“You think I have demons?”

On Colette’s last word, the taxi eased alongside a curb with nothing in view but brick buildings.

Ford offered the man his credit card while she stepped out of the car without waiting for assistance, raising her face to the thin, crisp morning breeze, to the sights and sounds of New York.

Fall in the city was magical, with a kind of cool-breeze ethereal energy that reminded her of her youth. When she had skipped down the sidewalk, turned cartwheels on the lawn, and collected gold, red, and orange leaves for a treasure box.

“Top floor,” Ford said, pointing to the building as he joined her by the curb, tucking away his wallet.

Colette wobbled with her first step, the ground beneath her quaking. So this was it. Her final call with the cast.

The End.

Nothing but the blinding glare of endless blank days ahead.

“I can’t—”

“Excuse me?” Ford glanced at his ringing phone, then tucked it away. “You can’t what?” He cupped his hand against her elbow and tried to inch her forward.

“I can’t go up there, Ford.” Her voice warbled and she sounded feeble, old, like she was a hundred and one instead of vibrant and cultured at eighty-two.

Ford shielded his eyes as the morning sun fell between the buildings. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

“It’s just . . . over.” Colette regarded Ford for a moment. Then without so much as a deep breath, she evoked Vivica Spenser. The old broad had twice her strength. “Well, shall we?” She smiled,
raising her chin, stepping toward the building. “Bart Maverick will never let me live it down if he arrives before me.”

“Colette?”

She glanced back at Ford. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“More than anything.” A famous Vivica Spenser line that served her well.

Ford led the way to a bright, well-lit studio. Music with a light, toe-tapping melody added texture to the atmosphere. A smooth tenor sang about being happy.

Some of the cast had already arrived, including ninety-seven-year-old Wilma Potter, who played Colette’s first mother on the show. The two never got along. Wilma greatly resented playing Colette’s mother when they were only fifteen years apart.

Greeting the cast, both old and new, current and retired, Colette walked in Vivica’s shoes and postured herself as the dame she was and drew the room under her spell.

All the while, however, she avoided the slender blonde working with an equally slender brunette setting up behind the camera. She’d face Taylor soon enough.

She joined in the jubilee when the legendary Bart Maverick arrived, who played the rich and handsome Derek VanMartin, Vivica’s first and truest love, and patriarch of the VanMartin fortune.

“Gorgeous Colette.” Without missing a beat, Bart swept Colette backward and kissed her, making a show of it for everyone.

Applause rose and floated around her, through her, never landing. Never finding space in her heart. Because she never craved applause. Colette craved the escape of being another character. Of living a life written by others.

When Bart released her, Colette swatted at him. “Such a ham, Bart. Don’t you ever change? Act your age.”

“This is my age,” he said with a wink, turning to greet the rest of the cast.

Still a charmer, that Bart. Colette realized how much she missed him. He’d left the show in the late nineties due to a heart condition, and, well, the show had never been the same. At least for her.

“Are we all here?” Taylor stood in front of them, looking trim in a pair of jeans and a fitted top. She was gorgeous. So like Colette’s memories of Mamá. She had the Greer eyes and full lips.

Annoying, telling tears burned in Colette’s eyes, threatening to expose her. She batted away the sheen and held her smile in perfection, nodding when Taylor’s gaze swept past her and back again.

Oh my, she
was
beautiful. And when she smiled at Colette, the floor crumbled from under her feet, sending her tumbling through time.

Standing on the stool next to the London house stove, watching Mamá cook supper, laughing as Papá’s deep bass song filled the house. Happy Christmases by the fire before the war. Running home after church, the melody of God’s love in her heart.

Cozy nights listening to Mamá reading bedtime stories, Colette curled up in bed with Peg. Dressed in lace and ribbons for Mimi Blanton’s wedding. At that old chapel in Nottingham. Summers at the shore. On the boat with Peg to America, so scared, yet so full of expectation.

Aunt Jean and Uncle Fred, Clem, and the warm welcome of their home.

Jimmy. Every moment with him.

Seeing Heart’s Bend disappear on the horizon as Spice’s old Ford headed north out of town, tears dripping from her chin, soaking her blouse.

She couldn’t stand another moment. Colette reached to pull herself from the memory, grabbing at nothing but air, desperate to steady herself.

“Colette, good to see you.” Taylor offered her hand and Colette escaped her reverie.

“It’s good to be seen.” It was the first answer that came to mind. What else could she say? “Are we sitting here?” Colette motioned to the large, red velvet sofa. To her own ears, she sounded distant and a bit snobby. But that was the voice of ancient walls.

“Yes, if you don’t mind. Colette, here, in the middle.” Taylor deposited her on the cushions.

“Naturally,” Bart said. “Colette is the sun and we are her moons.”

“Hush, you, and sit next to me.” Colette patted the soft surface, avoiding Taylor’s face, avoiding the storm surge of emotions pounding against her.

“Perfect. Bart Maverick?” Taylor said, offering her hand. “I’m Taylor Branson.” She smiled and had old Bart mesmerized right off.

But was she still going by Branson? Colette gave Taylor the once-over. Wasn’t she married? To an ad man, if memory served.

“Addison?” Taylor called to the brunette. “Why don’t you set up the cast while I test the light?”

Watching Taylor, Colette battled a rising heat of regret. Since arriving in New York the spring of ’51, she’d never allowed herself to look back, to dwell on the past. Because the pain threatened to be her breaking.

But for a split second, in this moment, she pinged with a sliver of truth. All of her life’s work and accomplishments were rubbish compared to what she could’ve been, what she
should’ve
been. And nothing reminded her more than beautiful Taylor Branson.

Chapter Five

JIMMY

H
EART
’
S
B
END
, T
ENNESSEE

S
EPTEMBER
17, 2015

W
ell now, wasn’t that weird? Twice in one week? What turn of events had the Lord brung his way?

Jimmy settled the kitchen receiver on the phone’s base and stared out the window over the sink. His chapel. Left dark and alone, silent for sixty-plus years now, suddenly had folks popping out of time for a gander at it.

With the chapel tucked back off River Road, he didn’t reckon anyone knew about it except him, his dear departed dad, and the property appraiser.

But some fella from
Architecture Quarterly
had called wanting to send a photographer down. Said they were doing an issue on classic American wedding chapels. But Jimmy didn’t have a pie-eyed guess as to how they discovered his place.

When Jimmy inquired, the man said he didn’t know. But if Jimmy indeed had a wedding chapel tucked up in the woods, they’d like to feature it in their magazine.

“We heard it was a beauty.”

From who? Property appraiser Arnold Rowland didn’t have
Architecture Quarterly
connections. Of that Jimmy was sure.

It was a mystery, to be sure.

And just now a real estate agent called. Keith Niven said he wanted to look at the place and if Jimmy was interested he had a buyer.

“I’m out here on your property, and boy, Coach, what’re you doing with this thing?” Keith had whistled loud and shrill, giving Jimmy the impression he was wowed by the place. Or was that strictly salesman hype? “Do you want to sell?”

“No,” was Jimmy’s gut response. But he held off saying it. Maybe it was time. After the
Architecture Quarterly
photographer showed up next week, he was bound to get all kinds of interest. He might as well give the lead to Keith.

“I’ll head on out there. Give me ten minutes.”

“Fantastic.”

So with this quagmire on his mind, Jimmy fished his truck keys from the fruit bowl by the kitchen door and stepped into the midday sun, summer’s grip still hot and strong on the passing September days.

But that’s the way it was in Middle Tennessee. He’d spent more than his share of autumn afternoons baking under the sun’s rays, running football practice, building boys into men.

Then one day God would flip the switch, drop the temperatures, color the trees with the beauty of heaven, and cheer up life with full-on football weather.