The Chapel Wars Read online

  Caroline Abbey

  Have you heard this one? An editor and an author

  walk into a wedding chapel and …

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Lindsey Leavitt

  Chapter 1

  Inheritance. I hate that word. Translation: Sorry someone you loved kicked the bucket; now here’s your present. It’s like getting hit by a car, only to make a fortune in the lawsuit. People constantly remind you what a financial blessing that accident was, such a sweet silver lining, when the truth is, you still got hit by a car.

  I couldn’t possibly find good in a reality so wrong. Grandpa Jim was gone—passed away, no longer with us … dead. Grandpa Jim, the person I shared my good news with before anyone else, who used to send greeting cards or even singing telegrams for the most ridiculous holidays, like an oversized paper card on Arbor Day. Made me wonder what he would send now—maybe a condolence card that played music when opened. I would guess “Celebration,” with the inscription, “Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate good times!”

  Anything would have been better than the Instructions. Capitalized. Grandpa planned his will reading two years before his passing, after he’d watched a 60 Minutes special on celebrity funerals. Why should celebrities get all the pomp and circumstance? he’d asked. The next day he’d bought a faux gold casket. We thought he’d live until a hundred, but he didn’t even clear seventy.

  I was told to wear something “chipper,” which ended up being a yellow Little Bo Peep–gone–streetwalker tragedy that Mom found at Goodwill. Here are more of Grandpa’s strange Instructions:

  1. No tears or tissues.

  2. Brass band in the front. Make sure the trumpet wails.

  3. The lawyer should wear a three-piece suit. Navy, with pinstripe.

  4. Be ready for a surprise.

  Our family wasn’t told to meet in the lawyer’s office, where normal families read normal grandfathers’ wills. No, the Nolan family met at four p.m. on a crisp November Friday inside the Rose of Sharon Wedding Chapel. My grandpa Jim’s wedding chapel.

  I tugged down on my dress as I followed my mom over the bridal bridge, counting the thirty-two steps it took me to get to the chapel. My little brother, James, glanced back to flash another Look of Death. At thirteen, James’s angst had the pubescent power to crack the bridge in half. Not that we would drown—the only thing under the bridge was concrete.

  I picked up my pace, reaching the chapel door the same time as James.

  “That dress looks like you stole it from a child beauty pageant loser,” he said.

  That face looks like you stole it from a serial killer. I elbowed him in the ribs and made it to the front pew first. Today I would not let him win. I hoped Grandpa Jim left him that bridge and maybe a gold-spray-painted urinal for good measure.

  “Did you just elbow your brother?” My mom leaned over her seat, her high black ponytail swishing from one shoulder to the other. Our older sister, Lenore, sat by Mom, sketching another possible tattoo design onto her wrist. “LOVER” inside a goldfish.

  “I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

  “Holly broke my rib,” James said. “When did she turn abusive?”

  “Your sister wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

  “I don’t care about fleas, I’m talking about my ribs,” James said.

  Mom glanced down at her cell phone. “I’m just going to call your father and see where he is. Be nice to each other.”

  “I am nice,” I said, more to myself, as Mom scooted to the end of the pew and covered her ear with her finger.

  James scowled. “You’re a retar—”

  “Don’t say it,” I said.

  Lenore didn’t look up from her pen tattoo, just sighed louder than a feminist during the last song of Grease. “Do you know how offensive that word is?”

  “Do you know how offensive that word is?” James mimicked.

  “What you say is a reflection of who you are. Are you even aware of the full historical context of that word?”

  Oh, and Lenore was in a linguistics class at her Liberal Arts College You’ve Never Heard Of. In case you couldn’t tell.

  “Shut up, Lenore,” James said. “I’m sick of your face.”

  Lenore aimed her pen at James’s chest. There was a nine-year age difference between them, but they both defaulted to five-year-olds during conflict.

  I stuck my arms out between them, annoyed that I’d already lost ownership of one of the few fights I’d started. “You guys, come on. This is serious.”

  The brass band started up right then, which didn’t do much to prove my point.

  Mom slid back down the bench and bumped her knee against mine. “Are we getting along better now?”

  “No,” James said. “Lenore is trying to act like everything is all Skittles and ballerinas.”

  “Have I ever acted like anything is Skittles and ballerinas?” Lenore asked. “What TV show did you get that from?”

  “I do other things besides watch TV.”

  “Your school suspension record could attest to that.” Lenore sniffed.

  “Listen.” Mom wrapped her arm around James’s shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”

  James actually leaned into her, which had to be a first in years. It might have been a sweet moment if the band hadn’t burst into another loud number. I needed to have a serious discussion with Grandpa about his musical choices.

  But … no. There would be no discussion about music anymore. There would be … nothing. Just last week we got in an argument over brands of hot dogs—seriously, hot dogs—and then came the heart attack and the quadruple-bypass surgery, which obviously didn’t go as we’d hoped. There’s hearing that someone’s dead, and then there’s that gut-shredding moment when their death becomes real.

  “I still expect him to jump out any minute,” Lenore finally said.

  James bowed his head, covering his face with stringy hair. “He shouldn’t have left like this.”

  James was right. You expect ordinary people to die in ordinary ways. People who have regular nine-to-five jobs leave wills that don’t have Instructions or mysterious surprises. Grandpa deserved a great tragedy to end his life, like an attempt to stop a burglary or a skydiving incident, not a sterile hospital room with a few get-well cards and half a dozen sagging balloons.

  As if on cue, the band switched to a somber minor key, not the kind of music usually filling this room. Since 1987, the Rose of Sharon Wedding Chapel was, hands down, the most delightful and tasteful chapel on Las Vegas Boulevard. No pink Styrofoam angels or Elvis impersonators entered this building. In fact, Grandpa Jim issued a strict ban on anything Elvis nine years ago when a groom showed up drunk in a glittery seventies jumpsuit and threw up on the marble floor.

  The interior was designed after an Irish Cathedral—columns, arched doorways, a gilded ceiling, frescoes, and a small but brilliant stained-glass window. Unlike some of the more stereotypical chapels, in ours Grandpa Jim insisted on using fresh flower sprays, and he redesigned the marble entry himself. TV shows
were filmed here. Bride magazine named us “a charming oasis amongst the sea of Strip tackiness.” We’d had people from around the world say “I do” in front of the antique candelabra.

  The band stopped and the lawyer cleared his throat. His face was plump and pocked like an orange, the roundness expanding even more when he drew in a breath to start. “I’ve practiced law for twenty-six years in this town. I thought I’d seen everything. And then Jim gave me these Instructions.” He held up the stapled sheets of paper. “A lot of hoopla. He was planning on having a funeral too, right?”

  The chapel doors burst open, and Dad sailed in, his cologne reaching us first. “The funeral has a script. Seventeen pages. I think he has me break dancing at some point.”

  Lenore gave Dad a nod. “Andrew, so nice of you to join us.”

  “It’s Dad, Lenore.”

  “Well, biologically, no.”

  “Legally, yes,” Dad said.

  Lenore’s biological father was Nigerian and came to see her every few years. My dad—our dad—adopted her when she was four.

  Lenore flipped her braids. “I just think now that I’m an adult, I should use your Christian name.”

  Dad ignored Lenore. “Hey, kids. Lana, good to see you.”

  Mom flicked on a smile, the kind you flash to people on an elevator. Or ex-husbands. “You too. I’m so sorry about your father.”

  “I appreciate that.” Dad patted her shoulder. “How are you doing?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m more concerned about your family.”

  “Did you cut your hair?” he asked. “It’s nice.”

  “I did. Thanks for noticing.”

  “You’re late,” Lenore said.

  “Something my dad taught me. Make an entrance.” Dad stuck his hands on his hips, his legs far apart in his signature pose. He wore his usual uniform: faded jeans, untucked dress shirt, and scuffed shoes that matched his disheveled hair. Yet those clothes hung on him, his smile hung on him, like he was just an impersonator from a Vegas show headlining as my father.

  The lawyer rattled his pages. “So … everyone’s here now?”

  “Donna, Dad’s … secretary, just couldn’t come. She raises alpacas, one was sick—”

  “Which one?” James asked. “Not Daryl, right?”

  Dad gave James an odd look. “She named an alpaca Daryl?” Dad shook his head. “Never mind. And my mom said Dad wasn’t worth the drive from Mesquite.” Dad flopped into his seat. “Trust me. Her absence is a courtesy to us all.”

  “Well, your mom was the first on the list,” the lawyer said. “And it is probably best she isn’t here. Your father asked … please excuse me, I’m just reading his wishes, but he wanted me to offer a rude gesture to his ex-wife and say … some unkind words.” The lawyer unbuttoned his suit coat and fanned himself with the will. “Is everyone fine if we skip that part?”

  Dad barked a laugh. “Jim Nolan. Son of a gun.”

  The lawyer barreled through the rest.

  The highlights:

  Lenore: A $500 savings bond

  James: A leather bomber jacket

  Mom: An antique writing desk

  Secretary Donna: An heirloom watch

  Minister Dan: Grandpa’s saxophone

  Dad: Grandpa’s decked-out golf cart

  “Whatever isn’t in here, Donna can sell. Money goes to my trust. And trust all goes back to the chapel.” The lawyer looked up at us. “That’s it. The band is supposed to play now.”

  No mention of my name. Was that the big surprise? It made no sense; I’d always been the favorite. Maybe he gave me nothing because he knew I wouldn’t want anything. Something would just be a reminder he was gone, and besides, I had my greeting cards.

  “Oh, wait!” The lawyer set down the Instructions and retrieved a padded mailer from his briefcase. “There is one more page. But before I read, he left Holly this envelope. There’s nothing about it in the will, but he gave it to a hospital nurse. Open it alone.”

  “Why?”

  “You think I know any whys, kid? That’s just what he said.”

  My family stared at me, all questions, but I didn’t have one answer. Unless … was this filled with greeting cards? That had to be it. I’d probably open only one each holiday, and based on how thick the thing was, I had loads of warm wishes ahead. I hugged the envelope tight, relieved that I’d gotten exactly what I wanted.

  The lawyer went back to the will. “I didn’t forget you, Holly. I just wanted you to sweat it out. Are you sweating? Did you buy a ridiculous dress for this pomp and circumstance? I hope it’s periwinkle.”

  “It’s yellow,” I said out loud, like the lawyer was some medium and my grandpa could actually hear me. “And there are frills.”

  “Periwinkle with frills. You need more frills,” the lawyer read.

  My family laughed. He knows me—knew me—so well.

  “Finally, I leave my granddaughter, Holly Evelyn Nolan, pause for dramatic effect.” The lawyer furrowed his brow and read the line again to himself. “Oh, sorry. I think he was telling me to pause. Okay, I leave my granddaughter, Holly Evelyn Nolan”—this time he did pause, and it was clear he’d been in a courthouse once or twice and knew his pauses—“the Rose of Sharon Wedding Chapel. This place is all yours, Holly Bean. Now. Keep me in business.”

  Chapter 2

  Later that night, I jogged up to the man-made lake in our master-planned community creatively titled the Lakes. We lived in crappy apartments on the northern outskirts of the community. James and I had nicknamed our “home” The Space, all stark walls and empty dreams. Sometimes I would sneak into the wealthy lakeside neighborhoods, just to see how long it took for security to stop me for a serious offense like walking on the sidewalk or looking poor.

  The sun was setting, the dry air crisp. I burrowed into a patch of threadbare grass behind the Sail ’N shopping plaza, my own private spot. The building was a revolving door for businesses, the most recent being a wedding and banquet center. A garland of plastic flowers drooped over a gazebo on the gated deck. I’d only witnessed one wedding there from my patch, and it was pretty. Fake pretty. A lakeside wedding by a non-lake summarized Vegas’s authenticity painfully well.

  I counted sixty-three blades of grass, then switched to the pattern the lights made in the water—bright, bright, dim, bright, bright, dim. Next I thought of viable guesses concerning the contents of the still-unopened envelope resting on my stomach. Zero.

  “Holly!” James was offshore, kicking the wheels of a paddleboat he must have “borrowed” from someone living on the lake. James was good at “borrowing” without getting caught. “Come on, pull me in.”

  It was darker now, the sun almost gone. I uncurled from my grass bed and helped maneuver him in with a large stick. He tied the boat rope onto the minidock. No one actually used the lake for anything other than prime real estate. The water was shallow, murky, and filled with bugs. I liked to catch and count the guppies that never seemed to grow into actual fish.

  “How’d you know I was here?” I asked. “Were you following me?”

  “Oh, is that what’s in Grandpa’s envelope? The deed to the dock? This is public property.”

  I jutted my thumb toward the No Trespassing sign.

  “Whatever. I can be here if you can.” James squeezed a hand into the pocket of his tight jeans and yanked out a bag of sunflower seeds.

  I glanced at the road, wondering if I should do this at The Space. Home, where he could barge into my room anyway. When I actually wanted to talk to my brother, he disappeared for hours, but when something interested him, there was no shaking the kid.

  “Are you mad I got the chapel?” I asked.

  “You know, for a genius, you ask stupid questions.”

  “I’m not a genius.”

  “Whatever, academically advanced. You know I don’t care. The chapel smells like old ladies.” He flicked a shell into the water. “I still want to know why you got it.”

 
So did I.

  “I’m supposed to open this alone.”

  “Grandpa wasn’t talking about me.” James spit out three shells in practiced syncopation. “He meant Dad and Donna, and that’s because Grandpa knew all the adults would be mad you got the chapel. I bet he thought you’d be thirty or something when he died. Thirty and still working at that chapel. What’s it like, being predictable?”

  Miserable. Of course I would still work at the chapel. Rose of Sharon was my life. I would marry the chapel if marrying buildings was a thing, and I’d have Minister Dan do the ceremony. “I’m not predictable; I’m loyal. You should try it sometime.”

  “That’s what Therapist Whitney said. She also said I should bond with you more.” A sliver of shell hung from his lip. “So let’s bond. Open it.”

  We huddled on the grass, the envelope between us. There was an old-fashioned light on the dock, but it was more for looks than function. James took out his cracked cell phone to illuminate the package.

  “What if … what if I can’t …” My voice caught. Whatever was inside here was going to change my life, and with that change, good or bad, there might be tears. I rarely if ever cried, and I didn’t want James to pounce on the emotion if I finally did. Besides, I’d had enough sorrow this week, enough grief, and I still had a funeral to attend.

  “I’m growing a beard waiting.”

  I was too nervous to make a puberty joke. Three more seconds, then I tore it open. We stared at each other before James tentatively beamed his cell phone inside. I pulled out an envelope with the name Dax on it.

  “Who is Dax?” James asked.

  I tapped the envelope against my hand. An old war buddy? U2 tribute band member? Grandpa Jim’s life was freckled with interesting people. Dax could be anyone.

  “Wait … there’s a Cranston named Dax,” I said. “We get their junk mail by mistake sometimes. But why would Grandpa leave something for someone related to Victor?”

  “Bet there’s anthrax in there,” James said.

  Our chapel shared a parking lot with Victor Cranston’s chapel, but not by choice. If you got Grandpa raging on about Cranston, the conversation never ended. “It can’t be the same Dax then.”