The Chapel Wars by Lindsey Leavitt EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
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- Author:Lindsey Leavitt
- Language: English
- Genre:Historical Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
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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.
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