The Chapel Wars Read Free

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