The Chapel Wars (7 page)

This was clearly not the question I’d been anticipating. The heater picked up and ruffled his bandanna. How many guys can rock an accessory like that? I watched the bandanna flutter in the manufactured breeze and considered his question. Maybe it was his unexpected friendliness, or the leftover adrenaline and darkness, but I decided to be the raw kind of honest with a stranger.

Also, that
Twilight
chapel … it does things to you.

“All right. Marriage. I love my job. Love the chapel more than any place in the world. Being a part of someone’s wedding day … it’s like the joy of delivering a baby without all the blood. I like the promise and the hope and waking up knowing
that
day will be a forever kind of memory, whatever happens.”

“That’s your opinion of weddings. What about marriage?”

I fiddled with the small silver loop in my left eyebrow. I’d never really considered the difference. Get too deep,
think
too much, and the possibility of what could happen to those couples made the job less enjoyable. “Marriage … marriage is different. My grandpa was married four times. My parents got divorced this year. So I honestly don’t know how I feel about the ‘after’ in ‘happily ever.’ ”

“So you’re iffy on marriage, but you love the chapel. Why?”

Because it’s the only constant left in my life. Vegas morphed into something new every day, erasing anything familiar in the process, and I needed to know that one place,
my
place, could stand the test of time, divorce, and death.

Not that I could ever say that. Out loud. To anyone, except maybe Grandpa.

“No. Your turn. Tell me what you think of marriage and chapels. Tell me what’s in that letter so I can go back to work. This room … it’s giving me a headache.”

Dax smiled, a genuine smile, a smile I wanted to bask in, to lie out in for hours until the light of that smile freckled me whole. “You’re such a romantic.”

Curse him, I blushed. “You haven’t answered me.”

“What do I think about marriage? I happen to have a very different opinion than you do. I know we disagree on the execution of the wedding ceremony, but marriage … I think it has the power to be the most right thing a person can experience.”

It wasn’t the answer I was expecting. Forget prowedding, how can he be promarriage after working here day in and day out? I would have to devise an entirely new marriage success formula for their drunken three a.m. ceremonies, most of which wouldn’t even hit 2 percent.

“Well, glad to know where you stand on marriage and death,” I said. “What’s next? Global warming or politics?”

“Religion. And then maybe a breezy conversation about gun control issues.” Dax checked his watch. “Your grandpa was right about you.”

“Why, what did he say?”

“Oh … things.”

“Vagueness is not a good look for you,” I said.

“I’m just honoring a dead man’s wishes.” He stood. “I’ve got to go set up for that ceremony. Maybe we could talk more about this another time.”

“Oh.” I fumbled. Another time. He wanted to see me another time? No. This was our only time.

Dax squinted at me. “Thanks for coming by.”

“Sure thing.”

“Y’all have a beautiful chapel over there. I hope it succeeds. Really.”

“And your chapel …” I glanced around the room. There was
a weathered cardboard cutout of Edward Cullen standing by the altar. “I’m sorry. I think your chaps are nice, but that’s the best I can do.”

“These chaps make us money. So does this room. You really have to get over yourself if you want that place to stay in business. I know you’re not making that much.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Paranormal Paradise? Did your poppy say that? What does he know?”

“I’m not talking about him. This is just what I’ve seen. We share a parking lot, remember? I know how many couples go in there, and unless you’re charging a thousand a pop, you’re not doing great. And now, as hard as it is with your grandpa’s passing, it might be a good time to change things up.”

“But … but that’s not us.” How could I explain how “not us” that was? How the reason we were in debt was because Grandpa loved his chapel so much that he took out money just to improve it? “That’s not what Grandpa Jim wanted.”

“Sometimes you have to focus on what you
need
and forget about what you
want
.”

“Says the boy in chaps.”

“You can always trust a man in chaps.” He took my hand, glancing both ways down the hallway before leading me to the back entrance. Maybe he was one of those touchy guys who always held hands with girls, boys, strangers, who knows. Even if he did, at that moment, it was my hand he was holding. And as treacherous and dangerous as it was, I liked it.

“I’ll … see you around, I guess?” I said.

He leaned on the doorway and flashed a quick smile. “I’ll wave from the other side of the parking lot.”

“Okay. So. Good-bye,” I said with formal finality.

He tipped his cowboy hat. And that was it.

Standing in that parking lot, I felt like I was losing my grip on something I’d never even held. I counted the seventeen cars parked next to his building. That’s a lot of blushing brides.

There were only three on our side.

For the next three weeks, I read every book on small business I could find. We had to cut some corners on our overhead and increase marketing. Sam took on the website, and I got everyone to agree to three hours of extra work with no pay. James started coming in to do clerical things, clean a little. We had our reputation and our contract with the Angel Gardens reception hall to produce some business, but there still wasn’t a change in the bank account. No uptick of ceremonies.

The first weekend in December was the Bridal Spectacular, a perfect chance to advertise and network. Early Saturday morning, Mom and Dad settled into the booth while Sam and I fiddled with the sign.

“Your divorced parents look like the poster children for marriage,” Sam observed.

We watched them laugh. “Doesn’t it make you wonder why they ever got divorced in the first place?”

“They’re probably acting happy to overcompensate for deeper feelings. It’s the same brave face I’d wear if Camille and I ever broke up.”

I analyzed them a beat longer. “I don’t know. They have really happy-looking brave faces.”

The biannual Vegas Bridal Spectacular is a decent show, but using a word like “spectacular” only leads to a letdown. Cashman Center is nothing like the planet-sized buildings on the south side of the Strip. It’s old, you have to hike a hill to park, and the homeless trail up and down the street. Cashman is located even farther north than the wedding chapels, past downtown Las Vegas and the I-15, in a little nest of city buildings and museums. It took some bridal imagination, walking through wedding-dress and florist booths in this old convention center that smelled like old convention center, but tons of Vegas brides came, and we were one of the few chapels on the Strip that marketed to locals.

“Hey, I’m grabbing a hot dog,” Sam said. “And some nachos. You want anything?”

I waved him off. “I’ll eat some of your nachos.”

“No, if you’re going to eat my nachos, I’ll buy you nachos too.”

“But I don’t want a whole thing of nachos,” I said.

Sam grunted. “Then don’t eat them all. Dude, you’re such a chick sometimes.”

“I’m always a chick!” I yelled after him. Sometimes he was something that rhymed with “chick.”

Mom laughed. “I wish you could see how cute you guys are together.”

Annoying PS—despite Camille’s constant presence and the fact that I’d been friends with Sam for so long without any signs of feeling anything, Mom thought Sam and I were Made for Each Other. She was so into the idea of Sam and me hooking up that I exploited the crap out of it, telling her that I was going out with him so I could get a later curfew, always omitting the four to six other guys going with us. “Don’t go there, Mom.”

Mom shrugged. “He’s a nice boy. Might be nice to settle on one guy for a while instead of dating an army of them.”

“You’re dating someone in the army?” Dad asked.

“You had to be there.” And I didn’t date an army. I had a policy on boys. I would go out with almost any boy who asked (well, there was a formula involved, but … I won’t go into it. Suffice it to say potential serial killers factored out of the equation). The more times I said yes—only to dinner, of course—the more boys felt comfortable asking. I wasn’t prettier/smarter/funnier/skinnier than any other girl. I was just approachable.

By dating a lot, I avoided having relationship talks with guys, allowing me to say yes to another date at any time. No guy could object because we never had clear boundaries. Most guys didn’t go too far, because we weren’t together enough for too far to happen. Really, the theory was so golden, I could bottle it up and hawk it at county fairs.
Men! Get your men here!

The slogan wouldn’t stop Mom’s relationship chiding. At least she dropped the topic and fell into comfortable conversation while I waved and grinned at anyone within ten feet of our booth.
No one came by. We were boring, our space was boring, we needed a gimmick, something—I don’t know—
Spectacular!

My parents didn’t seem too concerned about the lack of customers. Dad was telling Mom about his latest photography project—a series of fruit slowly rotting. He always had artistic projects on the side, though the chapel was his main gig. Mom told him about a local literacy charity she’d started to volunteer for and blah-blah-blah. They were married eighteen years, divorced almost six months. So why did their conversations sound like third-date stuff?
Oh, you took a picture of a moldy peach? How fascinating! Yes, I like the color red as well. It’s so reddish. My, it is rather warm in this building
.

Do you ever repeat a question over and over again in your head that you wish you could just ask out loud? I constantly did that with my parents.
Why did you get divorced?
What if I just blurted that out during their conversation on lawn maintenance? Would it surprise them enough that they would give me an honest answer?

Finally, a girl in a red sailor dress lingered near our booth. I set my grin to enthusiastic as she read through our brochure.

“Hi! Are you a bride-to-be?”

“I am.” She didn’t look up.

“Well, great! Congratulations! We’re one of the oldest chapels in Las Vegas, family run, lots of class and charm. We’d love to be part of your special day!” I’d already reached my quota of exclamation marks, and I’d talked to her for only ten seconds.

“Do you do musical weddings?”

I leaned in. “Excuse me?”

“Like, make the ceremony a musical instead of just saying it.” She stuck her hand on her hip in a theatrical pose. “Like
Annie
or
Rocky Horror Picture Show
or something.”

I flitted a glance at my dad.

“We don’t.” Dad gave his head a firm shake. “We’re a more traditional establishment.”

She stepped back from the booth and gazed down the aisle. “Do you know who does?”

“We don’t
currently
,” I corrected. “But if a musical ceremony is something that interests you, we’re happy to put on our jazz hands.”

She flipped the brochure back and nodded. “Okay. Great, thanks. I’ll add you to my list.”

My parents stared at me, gape-mouthed, as the bride wandered to the next vendor.

“Put on your jazz hands?” Mom rubbed her eyes. “Did you start taking singing lessons and not tell us about it?”

“Do you guys have a better idea?” I asked.

“Yeah. Say no to musical ceremonies,” Dad said.

Maybe it was sitting through my parents’ pleasantries earlier that made me so grouchy, or maybe it was the fact that they had yet to spring into action on behalf of the chapel, except for showing up at Bridal Spectacular and chitchatting the day away. “I don’t know if you can hear it, but there is a time bomb ticking, and at the end we all lose our jobs.”

Dad frowned at Mom. “When did this one become such a realist?”

“We know it doesn’t come from your side of the family,” Mom said.

Dad brushed my bangs out of my face. “Honey. I’m glad to see your enthusiasm, but you know Grandpa hated kitschy.”

The gold urinals proved otherwise, but I didn’t address that. “I hate kitschy too. But that bride doesn’t.” I opened my arms to the crowd. “A lot of people here don’t. And if we want to make more money and save the chapel, we have to try new things. Even things we don’t like. Even things Grandpa wouldn’t have liked.”

“
Give them what they want
.” Dax’s words weren’t something we had to live by forever, but why couldn’t my parents see that we were in survival mode here?

“I guess a show tune or two wouldn’t hurt.” Mom looked to Dad for agreement. I almost told her that she didn’t need Dad to agree with her anymore. They weren’t married.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” Dad furrowed his brow. “Dad gave you the chapel so you would honor it, not bring in show tunes.”

“Grandpa gave me the chapel to
save
it.”

Dad stretched his legs under the table. “Okay. Fine. We can … I’ll do some promotional photo shoots or something. Get us a bride and groom, go out on location. Stick it online.”

“That’s a great idea!” Mom beamed.

“Sure, that’s a start. But that’s not enough. We have to change our business model. We should be offering broader packages to all our couples. More destination weddings.”

“You’re seventeen, Holly.” Dad’s voice hardened. “I’m sorry, but you don’t know business models.”

I loved this chapel even more than Dad did. He only worked there part-time, snapping staged portraits in the little back room. Grandpa never taught
him
how to polish the pews or deal with disgruntled customers. I’d been business modeled my whole life. “Now I understand why I got the letter and you didn’t.”

Dad’s breath hitched.

Mom shut her eyes and shook her head. Dad stood. “I’m sure that letter didn’t instruct you to disrespect your parents.”

“Of course not.” I rubbed my forehead with a shaking hand. How did our conversations keep turning into fights? We never had conflict before. We never had … anything. “Look, Dad, I’m sorry.”