The Chapel Wars (15 page)

Maybe it was that feeling of infinity that made me text Dax around two a.m. for a little rendezvous. I popped into the chapel to make sure no one would see us, then after a quick breath and face check (still sparkling!), slipped into the rose garden behind the chapel.

Dax leaned against the African sumac tree Grandpa planted after his second divorce. He stepped into the light and grinned at me. “I don’t know what to say. I’m all shook up?” He wore a dirtied, bloodied suit and gray makeup.

“I don’t know what to say either.”

He lurched over to me, moaning and gurgling. “Elvis brains. Good.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing zombie weddings.” I flipped my cape behind my back. “Like, plural. The zombie fad is the worst.”

He pretended to straighten his tie. “How many ceremonies have you had tonight, Mr. Presley?”

“Well … a lot.”

“Themes help, right?”

“There are themes, and then there are
themes
,” I said.

“So are you lonesome tonight?” Dax asked.

“Here we go.”

“Sorry.” His smirk spread across his gory face. “Am I being a hound dog?”

“You know, if you wanted to win me over, you’d recite U2 song titles instead—”

“Don’t be cruel.” He swooped his arm around my waist and pulled me close. “How’s this?” His voice dipped deep, his twang brightened. He sang a song I’d never heard, all earnest adulations. Dax should have on the Elvis costume. I would scream and throw underthings at him on stage. He ended, “That’s the wonder, the wonder of you.”

My breath hitched. “That’s an Elvis song?”

“He sang it when he headlined in Vegas. Poppy showed me a video once. Guess I know a little local history that you don’t.” He leaned in to kiss me, then paused. “I might zombify all that pretty glitter on your face.”

He’d morphed Elvis from tired and used to glorious and sweet. I grabbed his face. “I’ll take my chances.”

Not that this was a new encounter. Since our date at the Golden Steer a few weeks ago, this is how we met—sneaking out to the garden or behind his chapel by the Dumpsters, kissing when we could. Between our work and school schedules, and the fact that we had to hide everything from our families, there hadn’t been as much face time as I would like. Face time, neck time. Any time with Dax was amazing. I’d never had a New Year’s kiss, and now to be here, with him, was …

“What are you doing?” James was frozen in the parking lot. “You’re kissing a zombie?”

Dax and I jumped away from each other. Even in the dim light, glitter glinted off his lips.

“Your face is all gray now,” James said. “Is that a Cranston? You were sucking face with a Cranston?” James poked me with
the large foam hand I’d made him wave up and down the street. “Happy New Year’s to me.”

Dax stepped forward. “Hey, buddy, how are you doing? I’m Dax.”

James didn’t even look at him. “Did he just call me buddy?”

“James.”

“Just say cheese.” James took a picture of Dax and me all disheveled, wearing each other’s makeup and guilty faces. He tucked his phone into the pocket of his jumpsuit. “Your dirty secret is safe with me, at least until I need ammo. Like … I’m kind of sick of wearing this stupid outfit. I’m going to change. Either of you have a problem with that?”

“You’re fun,” Dax said.

“James, come on. Seriously, if you tell, ever, it’ll … think of what Mom and Dad would think. And now, with things how they are at the chapel …”

“How are things at the chapel?” Dax asked.

James narrowed his eyes. “I bet you’d like to know. Did your grandpa pimp you out to my sister so you could find out our secrets?”

“No! I’m asking … I want to help.” Dax cast me a desperate look. “I swear, I … Your sister is special to me.”

“Your sister is special to me.”
That’s a quote I wouldn’t mind knitting into a cloud sweater and wearing every day.

James snorted. “That’s the biggest line I’ve ever heard. Ditch the dude and come inside.”

“I’m not coming inside just because you told me to.”

“Of course not. Why should you listen to me? Why should anyone ever listen to me? You’re just like Mom and Dad.”

I didn’t see how making out with a boy behind the wedding chapel was anything like our cryptically divorced parents. “Look, this has nothing to do with you. This is my deal, okay?”

“Uh, guys.” Dax stepped between us. It was a wasted gesture; it’s not like I was going to fistfight my brother. “I’m sorry to break this up, but … is that your next ceremony?”

A limo pulled into the parking lot. Let me rephrase that. The fanciest, stretchiest limo I’d ever seen parked smack in the middle of our two chapels.

We gaped at each other in the neon moonlight. Out spilled three muscley bodyguards in black suits. “Hey! Elvis! You open all night?”

James straightened his posture. “Yes, sir. Can we help you?”

“Our clients don’t have an appointment, but they want to book the whole place out. They, uh … they need privacy. And they’ll pay. Whatever. Now, which chapel do we go to?”

A gargle rose from Dax’s throat. “Uh, you sure you want Elvis to do it?”

“Don’t even,” James growled under his breath.

The bodyguard took his sunglasses off. His hands were bigger than my whole upper torso. “Or a zombie. How they acting right now … they might get a kick out of a zombie.”

Dax cut me a look. Whoever was in that limo had money and perhaps some degree of celebrity, and this was exactly the clientele Victor Cranston adored. One celebrity wedding could
bring in months of business. There was a chapel down the street that said, “Michael Jordan was married here.” Married in 1992, divorced, and remarried, but people still went there because of Michael.

It would be a jerky move for Dax to tell them to go to his chapel, but it would be understandable. Roles reversed … I don’t know what I would do.

His eyes flitted between me and the bodyguards. Holly or mystery celebrity.

We were making the choice we said we would never have to make.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Dax squeezed his hand into a fist and beat it against his thigh. “Fine. It’s yours.”

“Of course it’s ours,” James said.

“Dax.” I squeezed his arm. He was so good. So good. “I … I don’t know what to say.”

“Just don’t tell my poppy.” Dax stormed back to the chapel but stopped and turned around. “And erase that picture, kid.”

The bodyguard was still standing there, his meaty hands shoved into his pockets. “So, what do I tell them?”

“We’re open,” I said. “We have a ceremony ending now, but they can be next and book out however long they want.”

“Rest of the night?”

James squeaked. I started crunching numbers. “That’s a lot. We are supposed to be open until five a.m., and it’s our busiest night, and our most expensive package runs up to a thousand dollars, so …”

“They’ll give you fifteen thousand.”

I almost choked. Whoever “they” were, “they” did not mess around. “Then we’d be happy to make this a very special evening for them.”

I scrambled inside and started hollering orders. Minister Dan finished up the other ceremony in record speed while we all tidied up the lobby.

Five minutes later, the wedding party appeared. First came the flood of bodyguards, then a string of gorgeous men in suits. I instantly recognized two guys from TV. They weren’t nameremember famous, but recognizable enough that even Donna cursed under her breath. Next came the ladies, and three out of four were teen movie stars. They held up the bride, Valerie Hamilton, also a former child-star turned pop sensation. The only thing indicating that Valerie was the lucky girl was the pink
BRIDE
! sash slipping down her shoulder. Otherwise, she had on a fedora, a holey sweater, and sailor-style jeans.

“She needs a bouquet,” star/bridesmaid number one said. “And maybe she could brush her hair?”

The groom, Barry Naylor, was the star of a fake-documentary TV comedy, as well as countless rom-coms. It’s what this all was—a big rom-com of a night where I was making out with my sort-of boyfriend behind a tree, had my Elvis-impersonating brother go paparazzi on us, and, the next thing you know, a limo pulled up with a fourth of the money we needed to save the chapel.

“Let me take you to the bride’s room,” I said. “The ladies can
freshen up. Donna, can you get our wedding party some ice water and butter mints? Anything else?”

“Hey, am I seeing double?” Barry rubbed his eyes. “There’s a lot of Elvises here, right?”

“You told us to stop because you saw Elvis,” the bodyguard said.

“Good.” Barry’s head rolled to the side. “I thought I was the only one who saw Elvis.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t stop and get a marriage license?” I asked the friend. He was on a cop show. He played the handsome cop. Or the handsome lawyer. All I could think right then was
handsome
.

“We didn’t even know they were getting married until about twenty minutes ago,” he said.

Donna visibly cringed behind the counter. Grandpa had been known to turn away last-minute, midnight I-doers if he thought an annulment was in their short future. My quick calculations only gave them a 15 percent chance of surviving the week.

“We’ll have the limo take them to the courthouse. Just need to show some ID and sign. You’ve booked the chapel all night, no rush. Is there anything else I can do for you guys?”

“Wasn’t there a zombie outside too?” Barry asked.

“No, just Elvis here,” Donna said.

“That was, er, someone from the other chapel.”

Dad lowered his camera. “Who from the other chapel?”

“I don’t know. Just someone dressed like a zombie. You know how Cupid’s Dream is.” I prayed that I’d gotten all the zombie makeup off my face.

“Well, I want a zombie. I was in a zombie movie once.” Barry hiccuped. “Make it a zombie Elvis.”

Donna walked around the counter and pulled me back. “First Elvis, now this? When does it stop? How far will you go before you realize it’s all too far?”

“Probably sixty thousand far. Because if I don’t go there, we don’t go anywhere.” I jerked my arm away from her. “Please make a choice to be happy about this.”

“You want a zombie?” Donna smiled at Barry. “Holly would love to dress up and make any of your wedding dreams come true. That is, after all, what she does.”

Forty minutes later, Barry and Valerie said their “I dos.” I stumbled slowly behind them as they walked down the aisle, my arms out zombie-style, dirt and ketchup smeared across my face.

We ended up making $21,000 that night. If we could just maintain average numbers and have a decent Valentine’s Day, we were going to be fine. More than fine.

Rose of Sharon Wedding Chapel was in business. For now, it didn’t matter if it was the kind of business Donna thought we should be in or not.

Since we worked New Year’s Eve, Sam decided to host a January fourth party. I asked Dax to go. My mom was driving her sister back to Phoenix, and I didn’t work until three the next day, meaning I had no curfew or responsibility.

But it wasn’t until Dax accepted that I started thinking about the party, how my friends could be … how they were, how he and I weren’t really at the meet-the-friends point yet, how being together with someone on a holiday—even a made-up holiday—makes that “being together” more of a thing.

I went to Sam’s early to help Camille set up. His mom had chosen a Mexican theme for the evening (for what reason, we knew not), and had a taco bar catered and sombreros hanging from the ceiling and mariachi music playing near the pool. Sam came up behind Camille, shaking some maracas, and kissed her.
Which of course lasted too long, so I pretended the salsa bowls needed to be shuffled around. For five painful minutes.

Camille pulled away and batted Sam on the shoulder. “No more
bessar
for you, señor!”

“New Year’s is automatic
bessar
,” he said.

She folded her arms across her chest. “Wait, so you think just because you’re having another party, you automatically get to hook up with me?”

Sam grinned. “No, I think because it’s a day ending in
y
I get to hook up with you.”

“Sam Perkins! Stop being a jerk!”

“Hey, babe. Don’t get mad. It’s New Year’s.” He started to sing, deep and twangy.
“What are you doing, New Year’s Eve?”

“Tell me that wasn’t a country song.”

Sam shrugged.

“That’s how you apologize? It’s not even real New Year’s.”

“It’s
our
New Year’s.”

“If it’s only ours, then why have a big party?”

Sam reached for Camille. “You like big parties.”

“No,
you
like big parties. I like … I like … I don’t even know what I like because you never let me decide for myself.” She turned around and grabbed my arm. “Come on, Holly. Let’s leave him alone with his sombrero.”

“There’s a U2 New Year song she might have liked better,” I informed Sam before Camille pulled me out of the room. I thought it was unspoken that, as Sam’s friend, I would naturally side with Sam, but those boundaries were starting to blur.
Sam was out of line, but it was probably hard for him to see that since Camille never took much of a stand.