The Chapel Wars (2 page)

“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.”

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.”

“How many Daxes are there? Maybe you should open the envelope and see if there’s a clue.” James fumbled in his pocket again, this time unveiling a Swiss Army knife.

“Put that away,” I said. “You’ll hurt your hand.”

“Everyone always says that and I never do.”

James played the piano. He borderlined on prodigy. “Borderline” is a good overall descriptor for my brother.

“Where’d you get a knife?” I asked.

“Boy Scouts say you should always be prepared.”

“Last time you went to Boy Scouts, you were eleven and your scoutmaster caught you smoking behind the rec center.”

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t listen when they talked about things that mattered.” James stuck the knife into his back pocket.

“Grandpa wouldn’t have sealed the envelope if he wanted me to read it. Besides, look at this.” There was an identical envelope inside addressed to me. This. This was what I’d been waiting for. Dreading. This letter would explain Dax, the inheritance, maybe even why Grandpa had to go and die when no one was ready for it. I eased my pinkie nail slowly along the fold, trying to keep the envelope as intact as possible. Grandpa Jim’s small, neat handwriting cut into the thick ivory paper.

I counted the twenty-six “thes” appearing in the text, but it didn’t do much to stop the harsh burst of emotion. So strange, the way handwriting outlives a person.

“If you want, I can leave you alone to read.” James’s face softened, like the handwriting had hit him too. “Get us some chili dogs.”

My stomach was already twisted. Chili would not help. “No, no. I’ll read it out loud. I’ll stop if he says anything too, you know, personal.” I paused, rather dramatically I must say, and read.

Holly Bean
,

If you are not already freaking out about the chapel, then your dad or Donna will for you. I’m sure it was a shock, but hey. At least you didn’t just take a defibrillator to the chest. There wasn’t a white light, by the way. I’m a little worried about that. Good thing I like warm weather, right?

I’m doing this all wrong. No, I did this all wrong. The truth is, you’re not just inheriting the chapel. You’re inheriting a mess. It’s a problem that I’ve been trying to fix for years, and in that attempt, I made it worse
.

Let me explain: In the mid-2000s, the wedding business was booming. Literally, everyone and their mom was getting married (sometimes in back-to-back ceremonies). The money was ridiculous. Las Vegas started refinancing their loans, loans on their houses, on their businesses. Rose of Sharon was valued at double what I’d bought it for, so I refinanced the commercial mortgage with a balloon payment. Basically, I got a lot of money up front with the understanding that I would make small payments before paying a lump sum in seven years. I used that cash on the chapel. Okay, I also used the cash to take care of gambling debts and lost some more sports betting (stupid Lakers!), but most went to the chapel. Marble isn’t cheap,
and with how things were rolling, there was no end in sight
.

Then the end became desperately visible. Apocalyptic. The economy crashed. People weren’t coming to Vegas to get married; they weren’t coming here period. Businesses failed, homes were lost. And the value the bank had put on my business didn’t exist anymore
.

I’ve been struggling to come up with money for the past couple of years and it’s just not there. My savings are wiped, my assets laughable. I paid myself scraps to get by so I could still get money to your parents and other employees. No one has seen the books. No one else knows what situation we are in
.

When it comes time to refinance this spring, I have to pay off the balloon payment or risk defaulting on the loan. They might refinance me again, but they will value the business at much less, and I will have to pay the difference back or lose the chapel
.

Here, the handwriting switched to a bubbly cursive.

I’m feeling too weak to write, so I had this lovely nurse finish for me. Her name is Kiki. She’s a keeper. And beautiful. Hey,
if I make it out of this surgery, can I take you out for a steak dinner?

(From Kiki: Your grandpa has flirted with every nurse on this floor. He has a lot of steak dinners in his future.)

I don’t know HOW you’re going to keep the chapel in business. You’ll have to talk to financial people, clue Donna in (I’m glad I’m dead so she can’t kill me). Come up with a game plan to make some money. Believe me, if I could have fixed it alone, I wouldn’t have to write this pathetic letter or the letter I need you to hand deliver to Dax Cranston.

Anyway, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m leaving this to you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I’m sorry that your chances of success aren’t great. I’m sorry because if you’re reading this (and I really hope you never read this), it means I’m gone and our time together is gone too.

I’m sorry.

I love you, Holly Bean. You care about this chapel as much as I do. You know what this place means to our family. As for me, U2 said it best: “Home,
I can’t say where it is but I know I’m going home.”

Grandpa Jim

My brother’s eyes were wide and alien-like in the dim cell phone lighting. “I can’t believe he was dealing with all of that and he never told anyone.”

My throat felt like I’d swallowed James’s Swiss Army knife. “Me too. He was … he was drowning. Since we were kids. The whole time we’ve known him, like, really
known
him, he’s been dealing with this.”

“Poor Grandpa.” For all my brother’s toughness, he was a sweet kid. Reminded me of Pony Boy from that old book/movie
The Outsiders
. He talked big but had these chubby little cheeks. No matter what he did, I figured his cheeks would save him from too much destruction. Unless he joined a gang and they started to call him Baby Face. “That was probably the last thing he ever wrote.”

“If the chapel closes …” I swallowed that painful “if.”

“It’s just a building.”

“No, it’s home.”

James tossed a rock into the lake. “Home isn’t a place, Holls.”

I folded up the envelope, then smoothed out the four creases. Folded, unfolded. How desperate did he have to be to leave a failing business to his seventeen-year-old granddaughter?

James dumped half a bag of the seeds into his mouth and chomped, shells and all. His cheeks bulged. “Well, at least we know one thing.”

One thing. One thing was a start. One thing could turn this crushing burden into a ray of hope. “What?”

“You’re so going to screw this up.”

I woke up Saturday and enjoyed a good three seconds before I remembered that my grandpa was dead, just like he had been the morning before, and today … today I was going to attend his funeral. I stared at my alarm clock for five minutes, watching each minute march along, marveling at the power of time to just keep happening no matter what was going on in the world, no matter who was dying or living.

We had to take a hearse
to
the funeral. Grandpa Jim said he had to pay for one anyway, might as well get the full use. The vintage car had removable seats, so we all fit, but no seat belts. Irony there, riding a death trap to a funeral. Of course, the seats would need to be removed to fit a casket en route to the gravesite, and our family would have to bum rides.

The sun shone manically, oblivious. I leaned against the
window of the hearse and tried to block out my mom’s voice. She was dreading this as much as her children were, but instead of the normal reaction of sullen silence, my mother prattled. At least she was trying
something
, which was more than I could say for my dad. He sat in the front with the driver, talking football like this was some leisurely Sunday drive.