The Wedding Chapel (7 page)

“Talk to me. What would it take to make you sell?” Keith folded his arms, angled backward, and waited.

Jimmy tucked his hands in his pockets and walked around the dynamic real estate duo and faced his ole girl, his chapel. It’d been a holy place, full of communion and promise.

Yet here she stood. Silent. Rejected. A wedding chapel that had hosted no wedding. Not a real one anyway. There was that one night, with Colette, before he shipped out when . . .

Jimmy grunted, shoving the memory back down. Weren’t this whole thing kind of pathetic when he considered it?

The hours he spent ringing his hammer against the stone. The golden-red dawn of summer days, when he walked onto these very grounds with his thermos full of coffee, his hand swinging a bag of Donut Haven’s donuts, his heart full of dreams.

Among the trees, tucked in the shadows were the memories of voices, the deep bass laugh of his father, the lively banter of Clem—one of the best friends a man could hope to find.

Mercy if he didn’t have tears from missing that old boy.
Clem Clemson . . .

But it had all been in vain.
Vanity, vanity . . .

He swung around to face Keith. “All right, let’s put her on the market.” There. He’d said it. Out loud. It was a verbal contract as far as he was concerned.

Lisa Marie pumped her fist in the air and Keith’s big, cap-tooth grin did all his talking.

“But no promises,” Jimmy said, striding toward the chapel door to lock her up, hearing the comforting tick of his own small
heartbeat. Not the one haunting this place. What
was
that? “I hold the right to refuse any buyer. And the price has to be right.”

“Of course, of course. We can do that, Jimmy. We’ll treat this place as if we built it ourselves.”

So it was done. Keith went on about papers and listings as Jimmy headed for his truck and slid behind the wheel.

“I’ll be in touch,” Keith said.

“Fine, fine, you obviously know how to find me.” Jimmy backed down the path, shooting onto the main road, an old pain in his back flaring up.

He tried hard to think of nothing as he arrived home, but the laughter and play of the neighbor children caught his eye, awakened his heart.

He watched them, jiggling his keys against his palm, as he took a slow walk to the kitchen door.

Too late . . .
The truth branded his brain. The twist in his back intensified.

Of course it was too late. He was an old man. Too late to do anything about unfulfilled dreams. Too late to win a love that was lost. Too late for everything the chapel represented.

He, a hall-of-fame football coach, had ridden the bench in the game of life, waiting to be called in for a play that never came.

Chapter Six

JIMMY

S
EPTEMBER
1948

F
RIDAY NIGHT UNDER THE LIGHTS

W
ith each long stride, his hot breath swirling out from under his helmet, he sprinted toward the goal line, the football tucked tight against his ribs, his chest expanding with each deep inhale.

Peeking around the edge of his helmet, Jimmy saw the crowd on their feet, arms raised, their cheers inaudible against the pounding of his own pulse. Another two strides and he risked a backward glance, expecting to see a Bolton defender on his heels.

But he was alone, charging across midfield, not a defender in sight.

Ha-ha.
Jimmy settled into the run, lengthened his stride, and . . .

Touchdown!

The roar of the crowd pierced him through—two hundred volts of human electricity. He loved every tingling one of them. Spiking the ball, he jutted his arms in the air and let rip the deepest, truest gut-wrenching holler.

“Go, Rockets!”

A weight hit him from behind, toppling him to the ground. Jimmy barely heard Clem’s voice before he was buried under a mound of teammates, hammering his helmet and shoulder pads, shouting and laughing.

He’d done it. Scored the winning touchdown. With ten seconds remaining on the clock.
This
, right here, was the magic of Friday night under the lights. May it never end.

The referee’s whistle ended the celebration and Jimmy crawled from under the pile, running back to the bench as the special teams lined up for the extra point. The crowd roared as the ball sailed through the uprights.

Coach Wilmer patted Jimmy on the helmet as he passed. “Good job, son. Defense, let’s go. Hold ’em for ten measly seconds. You think you can do that?”

Removing his helmet, Jimmy raised his gaze to the stands, looking for Dad. The other reason he loved football season was bonding with his pop. He was a man of few words, so the fact that he never missed a game spoke volumes.

Jimmy spotted him halfway up in the center seats, standing, hands in his trouser pockets, cigarette smoke twirling out from under the brim of his fedora.

He acknowledged Jimmy with a single nod. That was about the extent of their affection—grunts and nods. Dad claimed the womenfolk were responsible for the mushy stuff, like prodding fathers to hug their sons and say things like, “I’m proud of you, boy.” But they didn’t have any womenfolk at their house since Mama ran off—save for Nana when she came over to make Sunday dinner—so Dad let love fall between the words, between the nods and handshakes.

Though there was that uncomfortable time when Jimmy was thirteen and Dad sat him down for a talk. Jimmy squirmed,
thinking Dad was going to give him the business about the birds and bees again.

Instead, he cleared his throat and . . .

“I’m going to say this to you ’cause your nana’s been on me about it. So here goes. I love you, you’re my son . . . and I’m proud of you. I mean it now and always. No matter what.”

Jimmy downed a cup of water and sat on the far end of the bench. It was crazy, the thoughts a fella came up with after making a touchdown. Must be all the running jarring his brain loose, letting memories leak.

He downed his water and tossed the paper cup in the trash, giving a shout for the defense just as Bradley sacked the quarterback. The Wildcats didn’t stand a chance. Not with only five seconds left and the Rocket defense fired up.

“Westbrook, over here.” Clem motioned him to join the rest of the O line.

As he moved, Jimmy took another gander at the stands, stopping cold when he saw
her
. She passed by, just on the other side of the chain-link fence, laughing, her hair gleaming in the stadium lights.

Clem’s cousin. The girl from the picture. He’d seen her the day she arrived, moving into the Clemsons’ house with her sister. But Dad had him working with his crew so Jimmy had no time to stop and welcome her properly to Heart’s Bend.

In school he’d learned her name.
Colette
. Prettiest name he’d ever heard. And for the past three weeks he’d passed her in the halls, after lunch, on his way to trigonometry. He said hi but she kept her gaze down, clutching her books close.

According to Clem, they were quiet as mice, Peg and Colette, and twice as sad.

“Poor kids, lost everything in the war. First their mama in the Battle of Britain. Then their dad in the Battle of Berlin. Shot down.”

About to climb the bleachers, she glanced back and stared right at him. Like they were lovers on the movie screen. Jimmy’s heart thumped even harder than when he’d raced for the touchdown. He wanted to score a touchdown all over again, just for her.

The final whistle blew and the air horn burped into the cool night air. Game over. The Rockets had won!

Jimmy gathered his helmet and ran into the locker room, shoving aside thoughts of her, willing himself to bask in the team victory.
Celebrate!
he told himself.
Stop mooning over a girl.

Coach stood on a bench and whistled everyone’s attention to him. “Game ball,” he said, the ball in his outstretched hand. “Jimmy Westbrook. Best run I’ve seen in a good long while. Keep it up.”

The fellas erupted, cheering, their voices bouncing off the block walls.
“Jimmy . . . Jimmy . . . Jimmy.”

Grinning, he ducked away from his friends and their aggressive back-slaps and accolades. He’d earned the game ball! Dad just might bust his buttons.

Less than thirty minutes later, he was showered and dressed, his dirty uniform stuffed in his duffel. The last of the team had wandered from the locker room. Jimmy’s big night was over. In the history books.

The last one out, he cut off the lights and walked toward home, against a breeze that was a blend of late summer and the coming fall. Slices of moonlight haloed the darkest shadows.

Clinging as best as he could to his triumph, the game ball tucked close, he wanted to do something. Go somewhere.

He wasn’t ready for his night to end. But moment by moment, the night ticked away. All the fellas were home now, or off with their girlfriends. Nearly all of his friends had moms and dads at home, siblings. By now they’d be getting ready to watch
Break the Bank
with a big bowl of popcorn.

At least that’s how they did things at the Clemson household. Where Colette lived.

Colette . . . Colette
. He rolled the name around in his head, then let each syllable whisper from his lips.
“Co-lette.”
Her name was as pretty as her face.

Maybe he could celebrate with Dad, pop some kernels, catch a radio program. Dad hadn’t signed onto the idea of owning a television yet.
“What do we need all that noise in the house for?”

A mile to home, a mile to relive his touchdown over and over. Jimmy knew he’d have this moment for the rest of his life. And it made him want more.

Cutting across the Bostic and Philpott backyards, he crossed the road and finally skipped up the back steps into the kitchen. The screen door clapped closed behind him.

“Daddy-o, you here?” Jimmy draped his letterman jacket over the back of the kitchen chair and set the football in the empty fruit bowl. The house was dark save for a lone lamp shining from the living room. “Dad? Do we have any popcorn?”

Jimmy opened all the cupboards and scoured the pantry. Empty. When was the last time they’d been to the market? Rats, he kind of had his heart set on popcorn.

He collected the football to show his dad, but when he approached, his old man was fast asleep in his chair, a book open and pressed against his chest.

Jimmy gently tapped his foot. “You’ll get a crick in your neck if you sleep like that, Pop.”

“Wh-wha?” Orie Westbrook jerked upright with a snort, running his hand over his thick hair. “Hey, son.” Jimmy couldn’t gauge it really, but he considered his dad to be a handsome man, maybe even good-looking in a John Garfield kind of way. The gals in town
seemed to take a second glance when he passed by and said his name all sweet like.
“Heeey, Orie.”
“When did you come in?”

“Just now. Coach gave me the game ball.” Jimmy spun the ball between his hands, dropping to the sofa.

Dad lowered the footrest, shaking the sleep from his head. “Congratulations.”

“What say we do something, Dad? You know, celebrate.”

“Like what?” Pop jutted his chin toward the ball. “I can build a shadow box for that if you want.”

“S-sure, that’d be great.” So his moment of glory could fit into a glass box. Dad’s kind gesture deflated Jimmy’s enthusiasm.

“Got that old wood from the trees we logged and stacked in the barn. Good solid walnut.” Pop eased up from his chair, stretching, yawning. “Any of that strawberry pie left?”

Dad wasn’t much of a cook, but he loved pie so he’d mastered the art of crust making. The summer Nana taught him, Jimmy never ate so many dry, doughy, burned, runny cherry, apple, strawberry, peach, pecan, and pumpkin pies.

He swore off pie for the rest of the year. But now? Pop’s pies beat the bakery’s.

“Dad, let’s go to the movies. Or down to the soda fountain.”

“We already saw the movie. Weren’t one I’d pay a nickel to see again. You know, in my day that’s all a picture show cost. A nickel.”

“So you’ve said.”

“And what would I do at the soda fountain?” Jimmy heard the refrigerator door open, then close. “Got to be up early in the morning. So do you, boy. We’re pulling rock from Crawford’s field. I’m going to need your help.”

“Pop, I don’t want to spend my Saturday digging limestone from Crawford’s field. I don’t know why you do either. You’ve got
a good surveying job. Why do you have to work on the weekends? Don’t know what you’re collecting all the stone for anyway.”

They had their own ten acres and then some that Pop never did anything with other than to ride a tractor over all summer, cutting the grass. He’d hemmed the property line with Tennessee limestone and that was that. Otherwise, he filled their barn with the stone and lumber he collected for no apparent reason.

“Watch your tone.” Pop came through the kitchen door with a slice of pie on his plate. “You never know what good those stones will be one day.” He eyed Jimmy across the room. “I’m heading out at six. Be ready.”

“Why do I have to break my back, spend my time and sweat on your stones?”

“Because those stones are yours too. Ever think you’ll get married one day, have a family? I got six acres I’m planning to give you. The materials I’m collecting will build a nice house for your wife. Save you a boatload of money too. That is, if you can ever smell good enough for some girl to go out with you.” Pop arched his brow and wrinkled his nose.

“Hey, I showered after the game.”

“You still have to be ready at six tomorrow morning. I’ll buy you breakfast from Ella’s.”

Food was a small motivator, but enough. “I’m getting extra bacon then,” Jimmy said, moving to the window, leaving Dad to shovel pie in his mouth.

Pinning back the curtain with the nose of the football, Jimmy stared in the direction of the Clemson home. Three wide streets over there was a girl who made his heart flutter, and she just might be sitting on the sofa with another boy.

A flame of jealousy burned the thin edge of his football hero confidence. Colette was the only girl who ever made him lose concentration in math class. Yet he never found the gumption to speak
to her save for “hi” and “good-bye.” He needed to get up some courage or else he’d end up an old bachelor like Dad. After his wife left, he never even considered another woman.