The Someday Jar (21 page)

Wes says nothing and I’m touched by the power the memory has for him.

Rain pours through a hole in the roof at the far end, soaks the floor, and catches his attention.

“Over there.” I spot a bucket, probably left behind from the construction workers.

Wes hurries and places it under the leak.

We both gaze at the foot-wide hole in the ceiling and the increasingly gloomy sky. At the same time, another gust of wind howls through the chapel, and the front door slams shut,
followed by a scraping sound and thud, leaving us in near darkness.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Don’t know.” Wes steps toward the front. He pushes on the heavy wood door, but it doesn’t budge.

“Put your back into it,” I tease, but soon discover he’s pushing hard. Really hard. “What’s wrong?”

“It won’t open. I think the scaffolding fell. It’s blocking the door.”

“Are you serious?”

Wes grunts as he pushes.

I help, but the door resists.

“Is there another way out?” I squint toward the rear of the chapel, but it’s lost in the blackness.

“Nope, this is the only door. And I think we’ll go straight to hell if we try to kick out the stained-glass windows.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I guess we’re gonna stay here until the workers show up in the morning. I noticed a tool bag hidden on the side. I bet they’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?

What about Evan? I can’t call him or anything.”

“Yeah, that part’s no good.”

Thunder cracks again and a flash of lightning briefly lights up the chapel.

“Holy crap! Did you see that?” I blurt, then cover my mouth. “I probably shouldn’t say
holy crap
in a church.”

“Probably not. Stay right here.” A moment later, his voice echoes from across the room. “Let there be light,” he jokes. Small flames glow beside his face and the darkness lessens, as he lights each candle. Shadows flicker along the walls and the
mural illuminates as if lit by heaven itself. Once all our candles are lit, he blows out the match. “Luckily, I found this matchbook in the cabinet.”

I sit in the front pew.

He sits beside me.

“We’re stuck,” I say.

“We are.”

“For the night.”

“I think so.”

“Got anything to eat?”

“No.”

“Anything to drink?”

“No.”

“I’m craving margaritas.”

“You’re screwed.”

“Yeah.”

I trace my finger along the grain in the pew. “Who sat here?”

Wes thinks for a moment. “My dad. Then my mom and sister. My brother stood beside me at the front.”

“You’re the oldest?”

“Yep.”

“Where’s your family?”

“Mom and Dad are in Florida and my sister lives in L.A.” He stands and walks to the spot, presumably beside where the altar once stood. He kicks at a splinter of wood on the floor. “She was too good for me. I knew it the moment I saw her.” He pauses, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and gazes toward the entrance. “But when she stood at those doors in her wedding dress, with the sun haloed behind her, honest to God, I thought she was an angel.” He stares at the floor. “I’ve tried
hard to focus on that memory, block out her pain, the monitors, the hopeless look on the doctor’s faces. Her cold hand in mine. When I think of her now, I try to remember only the moment when she stood right there, in the doorway.”

No wonder it’s hard for him to see a woman in a wedding dress.

“Anyway.” He sits beside me and clasps his hands between his knees. “I guess hearing the talk about your wedding has surfaced some memories for me, made me remember things I’ve forgotten. Made me remember how important love is.” He pauses. “Listen, I shouldn’t have said what I did about you and Evan, earlier. I shouldn’t make judgments. I’m sure you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Thanks,” I whisper. And although my thoughts are completely unfair and unfounded, I find myself angry with Julie. I’ve never met her, never set eyes on the woman, and yet I want to stand inches from her face, grab onto her shoulders, and scream. Does she have any idea how lucky she is? Does she realize what a beautiful heart Wes has? What a tender soul? She’d better nurture and cherish him. She’d better give him the love he deserves. She’d better be his angel.

“Enough of that sad stuff.” Wes interrupts my inner rant. He leans against the backrest and says, “We’re stuck here for a while. What should we do?”

I take a moment, clear my head, and then look at him square in the eye. “You know what I want to do?”

“Run naked through the church?”

“No.” I smack him on the shoulder. “This.” Before I come to my senses, I slip out of my tennis shoes, roll up my jeans two folds, and run toward the front with my palms and back pressed against the doors. A smile spreads across my lips.

“What are you doing?” Wes stands and watches me.

Without answering, I inhale, find my kiai, and rather than use my kickboxing skills on the door, I sprint as fast as I can in his direction. Once past the second pew, I stop running and slide in my socks. Momentum glides me as I pass the third pew, then the fourth, squealing and slipping in the dust, my arms flailing in the air. “Aagghh.” I nearly reach the fifth pew, fall onto my knees, and laugh.

“What are you doing, Lanie?” Wes’s sharp voice echoes off the walls. “Don’t you know you’re in a church? A house of worship?”

Stupid, Lanie.
What was I thinking? This place is sacred to him. This place holds his respect for his first love. I’ve made light of his pain. I scramble onto my feet and apologize. “Wes, I’m sorry, I didn’t—hey!” I shout as he darts past me, rips off his shoes, and tosses them aside. Once at the entrance, he spins around, bolts down the aisle, and slides in his socks. He stops an inch or two after the fifth pew.

“That’s the best you got?” I draw a line in the dust with my foot where he stopped. “Give me some competition.” With a confident stride, I reach the doors, then skate toward him and pass his mark by at least a half inch.

“Whatever.” He pushes me aside and tries once more. His arms pump forward and backward, his chin juts in and out, and his face is lined with determination. He picks up speed, gliding fast. Really fast. Odds are, he would’ve passed my line, easily, if he hadn’t caught his foot on the next-to-last pew, lost his balance, and crashed onto his butt.

I shouldn’t poke fun. But I do. Obviously. “You looked—” I start to laugh. “You looked—” I laugh harder, so hard I can’t manage a complete sentence. I finally compose myself and say,
“You looked like an ostrich with arms.” I mimic his pumping arms and jutting chin.

“Shit,” he mutters, dusting off his hands.

“You shouldn’t say
shit
in church.”

He joins my laugh, climbs to his feet, and steps an inch from my face. “All right. Show me how it’s done. Five bucks says you can’t reach right here.” He points on the floor. “Right where I stand.” He’s a solid foot past the line.

I tap his chest twice and say, “You’re on.” I stride past him and head toward the entrance. My cheeks have the slightest ache from smiling.

He stands with his feet shoulder width apart and his arms crossed at his chest. “Bring it.” He motions me forward with two fingers.

“All right, but I’m not holding back this time. And, when I win, no quarters, or dimes, or pennies. I want a crisp Abraham Lincoln in my palm.”

“Just go.”

I paw the ground like a bull preparing to charge and, with a smile wider than the church, take off full blast. Hovering my arms for balance, I zoom down the aisle. My socks glide faster than last time and I pick up even more speed. The mark is easily within reach. I’ll blow it away. The money is mine.

Except I’m sliding fast. Really fast. Too fast.

Wes must recognize the panic surely plastered across my face and he opens his arms to catch me.

I crash into him and we tumble backward, landing on the hard floor. My body sprawls across his, our legs entwined, our faces inches apart.

Wes groans and his face wrinkles into a grimace.

“Are you okay? Did you hit your head?” I ask, and scan the floor for drops of blood but thankfully don’t see any.

“Lanie.” His voice is barely above a murmur. With a curled index finger, he motions me closer.

Oh, God. He’s really hurt, something must be broken. A femur? Forearm? Dear God, not his back. What if I’ve paralyzed this poor man?

His breath tickles my skin as he whispers, “Jesus, woman, how much do you weigh?”

“What?” I shoot him a scowl and dig my knee into his thigh as I climb off.

“Ouch.” He groans again.

“You owe me five bucks.”

We sit beside each other, leaning against the cabinet. Night has completely darkened the church. The candles are still lit, but the flame’s light reaches just beyond our feet. The pews and doors are lost in blackness.

Wes says, “You’ve been rather quiet during the renovation talks. Tell me, Lanie, what would you like to see done with the house?”

“Me?” I do have several ideas. “I’d cut it in half. Maybe fourths. Okay, eighths. It’s much too big and ostentatious. It feels like a hotel.”

“I can see that.”

“And that breakfast nook off the kitchen, it’s all boxed in. I’d window that whole wall, open it up, and bring in the outside.”

“Good idea.”

I sit tall and crisscross my legs, facing him. “If I ever designed a house, it’d be two-story with a double-door entrance. Tall, knotted-wood doors that I could open at the same time and
welcome people into my home. You know what I mean? Double doors just seem so inviting. I want four or five steps leading to the entrance so I can set pumpkins on each step. I love decorating for Halloween.”

“Okay, what else?”

“I want a master bedroom at the top of a winding staircase with a sitting area by the window, so I can read by natural light. And tiny fiber-optic lights sprinkled in the ceiling above the staircase. Or maybe in the foyer. When you flip the lights on in the evening, they look like stars. I love it. Have you ever seen those?”

“I have.” He folds his arms across his chest. The flame casts a shadow across his face.

“Speaking of stars, I’ve always wanted a huge tree in the backyard.” I’m excited now. My words come quickly. “Wouldn’t it be cool to read and take naps under the shade of a ginormous tree?”

“It would. What else? An area for Larry Fitzgerald memorabilia?”

“Only if there’s room.” I laugh and dust a piece of lint off my jeans. “I’d love a separate little space of my own, an office kind of thing. Nothing big, you know, just a spot that I can retreat to, hang a few pictures, maybe a wall of bookshelves. Oh, and I want a greenhouse. I’d plant strawberries, basil, and cilantro.” I catch my breath and stop. “Sorry.” I wave my hand. “There I go again, talking your ear off.”

“It’s not so bad.”

We sit in silence, until Wes groans, “I’m sore.”

“Me, too. My legs are dead. Whose idea was it to skate in socks? That was too much like exercise.”

“Hey, look, the rain stopped.” Wes points at the ceiling.

I follow his gaze. “Leave it to Arizona. Storms pass as quickly as they come.”

The sky has cleared and only remaining drops of rain slide off the roof and into the bucket. Through the hole, hundreds of tiny stars decorate the night sky. They glow brighter and bigger the longer we stare.

“Stars aren’t stars, you know,” I say to Wes.

“No?”

“Nope. When I was a kid, my dad told me stars are actually peepholes of light from heaven. He said angels get dressed up and love to dance, and when they do, their high heels poke holes in the sky, and out shines the light.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Yeah.” I fall quiet, thinking of my dad.

Wes and I say no more. We just stare silently into the night.

Outside the chapel, voices stir me awake. I lift my head only to realize where I am. And who I’m with. Wes. I slept on his leg, curled on my side with my head on his thigh. His arm wraps around my waist, warm, safe, and heavy. He still leans against the cabinet, his head fallen to one side.

Wes stirs at the screeching sounds outside the front doors.

As soon as he’s aware, without a word, he pulls his arm away.

I sit up, mindful of the intimacy and the cold void from the absence of his arm.

Blinding morning sun invades the room as both doors swing open. A short dark-haired man stands in the doorway, a tool belt hanging from his hand.
“
Hola
,
”
he calls.

“Hello. Over here.” Wes waves. He stands and reaches for my hand to help me up.

We step toward the doors.

“Thank you for opening the doors. I thought we might be trapped in here forever,” I say.

The man, shorter than me, smiles with a missing bicuspid. By the look on his face, he didn’t understand a word I said. He rattles off something in Spanish, and the look he sees on
my
face assures him I didn’t understand a word he said. A year of Spanish in high school, two more in college, and I can’t remember anything except
más cerveza, por favor
. Yep, my hard-earned college tuition dollars were spent on
more beer, please.