The Chapel Wars (6 page)

I stood up and used a piece of gum to stick the tombstone in my locker. They’d never done something like this for me. It made the hurt bigger and smaller, if that makes any sense.

I did well on the test, not because I had laser focus going in, but because I couldn’t fail a calculus test if I tried. I actually
did
try, last year, in trig, when my parents first told me about the divorce. Midway through I got so bothered that I erased all the wrong answers I’d meticulously biffed and zipped through it again. I screwed up the class curve with that test.

My cry for help wasn’t even a meow.

The day went downhill after that. It was that stupid envelope I’d been carrying around ever since the funeral, like I was going to run into Dax at the grocery store.

After school, I spent seventeen minutes pacing across no man’s land, a.k.a. the parking lot separating Rose of Sharon and Cupid’s Dream. The half-finished condos a block east cast a shadow across the asphalt. Grandpa and I used to wager bets when they’d start construction again, but after three years the skeletal structure still remained undressed, a looming reminder of the still-anemic economy.

I’d never looked between the two chapels and imagined
why a bride or groom would pick their garish monstrosity over our quaint slice of heaven. I honestly tried to look at both chapels objectively, but even from that in-between vantage point, the only positive thing about Cupid’s Dream I could think of was that Dax worked there. And I was the only one, in my family at least, who would view that as remotely positive.

Eighteen minutes in, and I finally crossed the invisible line between the buildings. Too bad Grandpa’s brass band wasn’t there to signify that moment. There should be something heralding my visit to the dark side besides the traffic noises from the Strip.

I would walk in, hand Dax the envelope, walk out.

Walk in. Hand over. Walk out.

I’d only been in Cupid’s Dream once. There’d been a power outage, and Grandpa Jim had sent me over to see if Victor had the same problem, or “if that SOB cut my power line.” The power was out block-wide, so I’d only seen the dark lobby before running back to Grandpa.

Lighting didn’t help the space much. Every one of Grandpa’s rules was broken. Fake flowers, mauve and hunter-green decor. The front desk had a phone ringing off the hook, there were papers everywhere, and pictures of Victor with various celebrity patrons peeled off the wall.

I sat down on the bench and noticed the faux finish was chipping off. The counter had a display case, like a jewelry store, selling garters and mugs and mini top hats that said, “I got hitched at Cupid’s Dream!” Behind the desk was this refrigerator
with wilted bouquets on sale for $9.98. Hey, the marriage might not last, but at least the couple wouldn’t go into the double-digit price point on floral design.

“Whattya need, sweetie?” a voice asked from behind a pile of paperwork. A woman’s purple-gray coif sprouted above the mound like a feathery petunia.

I stood up so I could see the woman behind the counter, but all I got was more hair and the top of her glasses. “Lot of work, huh?” I asked

She shuffled a stack to the side so she was finally visible. Her smile was coffee-stained but kind. “Big sci-fi convention in town this weekend. Drive-through chapel had more traffic than the I-15.”

This was another way our chapels differed. Grandpa was about quality; Victor was about quantity. Yes, Cupid’s Dream ran the marital equivalent of a McDonald’s value meal, but they still killed us when it came to revenue. Grandpa, purist that he was, swore that didn’t matter, but when we faced losing the chapel, well, money … it didn’t hurt.

“Busy’s good though,” I said.

“Life will get even busier if the boss gets his way.”

Did his way have anything to do with my chapel? I wanted to ask her more, but she cut me off.

“You here for a ceremony or tour? I know you ain’t getting married, unless your daddy is nearby to sign permission.”

“I need to see Dax,” I said.

She smirked. “One of Dax’s girls, are you?”

“I’m not anyone’s girl,” I said, a blush rising in my cheeks. “One of Dax’s girls” meant there were multiple, right?

“He’s setting up in the Gable-view chapel. Down the hall, right one on the very end. Gunslingers at sundown.”

I ignored her final cryptic comment. Gunslingers was likely slang for clients with an illegal source of income. Here, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Sweat trickled down my back as I crept through the hallway. Victor could barrel through one of these doors at any moment and kick me right to our shared curb. The first door opened to their “traditional chapel.” I poked my head in for a quick assessment.

Their biggest chapel was still much smaller than ours. I’d guess most of their clientele didn’t come with a large wedding party. And ugh … the faux marble columns. Why, why, why? I won’t even discuss the dust on the plastic carnations. Couldn’t they at least spring for roses? Carnations are the weeds of the wedding world. And white folding chairs. What was this, the Elks Lodge?

“Looking for someone?”

I spun around. Dax startled when he recognized me. I did more than startle; I might have screamed. But he was dressed up like a frickin’ cowboy, with a plaid shirt, leather chaps, and revolvers. Guns. Gunslinger.

He patted his chaps. “I’m in charge of the Old West wedding. Starts at sundown. When the preacher asks if anyone objects, I stand up and fire blanks. It’s a big seller for us.”

“Classy,” I muttered.

Dax smiled down at me. I avoided eye contact by staring at his chaps. Which didn’t help. Apparently, I had a thing for chaps.

“I’m surprised to see you. Especially here,” he said. “Did you come for a tour?”

“No. I need to talk to you.”

“Sounds promising.”

“It’s business.” I kept an edge in my voice.

Dax glanced back down the hallway and opened the door to the right. He flipped the switch, lighting a room with black chairs, lace curtains, red candles, and dead, really dead, flowers.

“Grandpa sells it as Paranormal Paradise. Thank God for
Twilight
.”

“What? He thinks a couple should be joined in holy matrimony in
this
?” I wrinkled my nose at the room.

“So y’all think a wedding has to be all stiff and buttoned-up?” Dax scratched his cheek. I stared in wonder at his throat, covered with stubble. The last boy I dated, Thomas, worked on his mustache for months, and it was still nothing but blond fuzz. Got to the point that I didn’t want to kiss him, just thinking of that muff ball on his lips. And here Dax was, with dark specks of wonder all along his jawline.

“Of course it should be. A wedding is an occasion.” My voice grew stronger as I echoed Grandpa’s favorite sales pitch. “Not a pit stop.”

“But a wedding should match the couple’s personality,” Dax said. “Some people want to say ‘I do’ dressed like Princess Leia
and Han Solo. So what? Shouldn’t the happiest day of your life be fun?”

“Can’t it be fun
and
classy?” I asked.

“If that’s what you want it to be,” Dax said. “I’m just saying we cater to a different clientele.”

“Clearly.”

He sat down and nodded at the seat next to him. “So tell me why you are here, Jim Nolan’s mysterious granddaughter.”

“Holly. I’m Holly.” Why was I there? Because my grandpa told me to be. I was honoring a dying request. This was the truth I could share with anyone, like my family if they’d seen me in the parking lot and asked what I was doing.

The secret truth had something to do with all the things I couldn’t help noticing about Dax, like the way he breathed—deep and with purpose. Like air was a gift, not a reflex.

I was just noticing these things, like you do with an actor or a boy band member, someone you would never think to be with but still don’t mind staring at in glossy pages. I knew who Dax was, and who I was, and was very aware of the differences and divisions between us.

I had hormones, but I also had
standards
.

“I have a delivery.” I pinched the thick envelope in my purse.

Walk in.

Hand the envelope over.

And … what was the last thing? Stay and watch him open it, right?

Dax set the envelope in his lap. “Thanks. And I’m glad you came by. I wanted to talk about that, uh, spectacle with Poppy the other day. I know y’all won’t believe it, but he’s going to miss your grandpa too. He’s grieving in his own way.”

I snorted. “I guess it’s hard to be the villain without a hero.”

“Ouch.”

Okay, I was on Victor’s home turf. Sitting in that morbid and themey room just made me bitter. Seriously, was that formaldehyde I smelled?
Why would anyone ever want to get married here?
“Sorry. I think I’m mechanically engineered to say stuff like that without thinking. I won’t condemn you for your relations anymore.”

He breathed out. “Neither of us will. It’s just a last name. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

“What?”

“Shakespeare. It’s the only line I know. I probably shouldn’t tell you that so you think I’m smarter than I am.”

I had no Shakespeare to shoot back, so I stayed quiet as he tore off the right end of the envelope, making sure not to rip the paper inside. He shook out the letter, glancing at the signature at the bottom. “It’s from your grandpa.”

“Yeah. When he died …” I paused. That might have been the first time I’d said that word out loud. “He left me some things. One was that letter, with instructions to hand deliver it to you.”

Dax set the paper down on his lap. The envelope was open, but he hadn’t read it.

“I mean, why?” he asked.

“Why what?”

“Why me?”

“I wish I could tell you.” I rubbed my hands against my shirt. Why was I so hot? Victor Cranston should spend less money on heating the building and more on his floral arrangements. “Things haven’t made much sense since he died.”

“I’m sorry again.” He meant it.

“That’s your tenth apology,” I said.

“I use them all up at the beginning. Don’t expect more.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t keep from smiling.

He smooshed his lips together. “I don’t understand this. I’ve never even met your grandpa. Why would he leave something for me?”

“Read it and find out.”

Dax looked down at the paper. “It says I’m supposed to read this alone.”

“Mine said that too.”

He glanced up at me. “It specifically says without you here.”

This crazy mystery was never going to be solved. I shook my fist at the ceiling. “Grandpa Jim! I’m going to come knock you off your cloud!”

“It’s fine. I just won’t read it out loud.” Dax did that browfurrow thing as he scanned the letter. He looked older, like all the wisdom and sorrow in the world were embedded in the wrinkle between his eyes. He folded the paper into thirds, sticking it in his back pocket like I’d just given him directions to IHOP.

“Well, then.” He brushed off his chaps. “That makes sense now.”

“Sense? There is nothing about me sitting in a gothic wedding chapel with a ridiculously handsome cowboy reading a secret letter from my dead grandfather that makes
sense
.”

“Ridiculously handsome?”

“I meant to say ridiculous.” Handsome like a celebrity I would have no real-life interest in. Not that he was
celebrity
handsome. Not that it mattered what breed of handsome he was anyway.

There was a cough in the hallway.

“Get down.” Dax jumped across the chairs and flipped off the light switch, somehow dragging me with him. We crouched in the corner as the cough got louder and closer. Someone opened the door for a second but didn’t look all the way in to see us. I had only met Victor that once, but I couldn’t imagine the receptionist’s cough being that deep and phlegmy.

What if he had seen me? What then? I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I didn’t want my family to know, but that didn’t make being here wrong.

Right?

We slid down the wall in that blackened room. Dax rested his hand on my knee. I pretended I did not feel the weight of that hand, didn’t notice the calluses on his palms. I’d changed into my black work skirt and boots with no tights so it was just his skin on mine. I’d come in contact with plenty of boys, but I couldn’t remember responding, physically responding, to touch
like this before. It’s like he’d flipped on some switch inside my brain’s sensory center, and suddenly my kneecap had a million nerve endings.

“I think that was Poppy.”

“He should get something for that cold.” It was the nicest thing I could think of to say.

“He doesn’t have a cold. He has emphysema, and who knows what else. He’s been smoking and drinking for over forty years.”

It didn’t seem right that a man abusing his body like that still got to live while my seemingly healthy grandpa was gone. Miraculously, I stayed quiet.

“Before you go, I need to ask you something,” Dax said.

“Yeah?”

“It’s relevant. Trust me. It’s just … what’s your opinion on marriage?”

“My opinion on marriage? Who asks that? You’re so weird.”

“And you’re so … up-front.” He grinned. His hand was still on me. My kneecap almost exploded. “Come on. It has to do with something your grandpa said.”