Wedding Chapel Quotes

You know where I want to get married? Married. Wow. I can't believe I just said that. Anyway," Kat said, her eyes lighting up under the brim of her hat. "I want to do the little church-the one everyone goes to Vegas to get married at." It took me a moment. "You mean The Little White Wedding Chapel? The one in "The Hangover"?

I squint. “Married?” Lily nods enthusiastically. “At the Drive-Through Wedding Chapel. We took some great pictures. And now I’m Mrs. Billy Warren.” Nope, still can’t wrap my head around it. “Married? Really?” Warren’s expression goes from sappy to annoyed. “Yeah, Long Duck Fuckin’ Dong—married. What’s your problem?

This whole thing might play out to be a completely wonderful, beautiful disaster, but I want that if it’s with you.

Are you sure about that, Mrs. Maddox?” “Are you ever going to stop calling me that? You’ve said it a hundred times since we left the chapel.” He shook his head as he held the cab door open for me. “I’ll quit calling you that when it sinks in that this is real.” “Oh, it’s real all right,” I said, sliding to the middle of the seat to make room. “I have wedding night memories to prove it. He leaned against me, running his nose up the sensitive skin of my neck until he reached my ear. “We sure do.

The wedding was in Monterey, a sombre boding ceremony in a little Protestant chapel. The church had so often seen two ripe bodies die by the process of marriage that it seemed to celebrate a mystic double death with its ritual.

They were staggered to learn that a real tangible person, living in Minnesota, and married to their own flesh-and-blood relation, could apparently believe that divorce may not always be immoral; that illegitimate children do not bear any special and guaranteed form of curse; that there are ethical authorities outside of the Hebrew Bible; that men have drunk wine yet not died in the gutter; that the capitalistic system of distribution and the Baptist wedding-ceremony were not known in the Garden of Eden; that mushrooms are as edible as corn-beef hash; that the word "dude" is no longer frequently used; that there are Ministers of the Gospel who accept evolution; that some persons of apparent intelligence and business ability do not always vote the Republican ticket straight; that it is not a universal custom to wear scratchy flannels next the skin in winter; that a violin is not inherently more immoral than a chapel organ; that some poets do not have long hair; and that Jews are not always peddlers or pants-makers. "Where does she get all them theories?" marveled Uncle Whittier Smail; while Aunt Bessie inquired, "Do you suppose there's many folks got notions like hers? My! If there are," and her tone settled the fact that there were not, "I just don't know what the world's coming to!

We sang at the chapel annexed to the home every morning. We understood that this was the humans' moon, the place for howling beyond purpose. Not for mating, not for hunting, not for fighting, not for anything but the sound itself. And we'd howl along with the choir, hurling every pitted thing within us at the stained glass.

The host in question, the chapel's owner, Grayston Boscastle, the fifth Marquess of Sedgecroft, sat thinking that the bride had the most appealing derriere he had seen in a long time. Not that he made a point of lusting after young women in wedding dresses, but he had been staring at the back of her for over two hours now. A normal man's curiosity could not help but be aroused. What else was he to look at? He wondered whether the rest of her was appealing.

Because there is so much I want to say to you, and I made a promise in a chapel in the desert that I don't plan on breaking. Till death do us part, we said. That bejeweled priest asked if I, Grace Porter, took you, Yuki Yamamoto, to be my lawfully wedded wife, and by every power I have within me, by the endless and thunderous universe, I do, okay? I do.

Your yesterdays were the path that led you to this chapel, and your journey to a future of togetherness becomes a little clearer with each new day.” Travis

A grin broke across Heath's hansome face. "The last time I saw such a collection of Boscastles in church was at Father's funeral. Who invited the mistresses?" "I think I did, "Grayson said, suppressing a yawn."God knows I've been sitting here so long my brain's gone stiff." "You invited them to a wedding?" "It's not my wedding thank God." "Well, it is your chapel." "Ergo I invite whom I please." "Someone might have thought to invite the groom.

Have you ever noticed the way a groom looks at his bride during the wedding? I have. Perhaps it’s my vantage point. As the minister of the wedding, I’m positioned next to the groom. Side by side we stand, he about to enter the marriage, I about to perform it. By the time we reach the altar, I’ve been with him for some time backstage as he tugged his collar and mopped his brow. His buddies reminded him that it’s not too late to escape, and there’s always a half-serious look in his eyes that he might. As the minister, I’m the one to give him the signal when it’s our turn to step out of the wings up to the altar. He follows me into the chapel like a criminal walking to the gallows. But all that changes when she appears. And the look on his face is my favorite scene in the wedding.

It probably didn't help that we kept being taken on holiday to monasteries. Not many kids there, just monks. Although you do find the best reverb in monastic chapels. I have a theory that the religious experience is actually based on reverb - which is why outdoor weddings always seem weird. God isn't in the details, he's in the echo.

You’re stuck more to this place than Lorelai Gilmore is to Stars Hollow.

Pandora, who walked down the aisle of the estate chapel on Devon's arm, was radiantly beautiful in a dress of white silk, the billowing skirts so intricately gathered and draped that no lace or ornamental trim had been necessary. She wore a coronet of fresh daisies and a veil of sheer tulle and carried a small bouquet of roses and daisies. If West had any remaining doubts about St. Vincent's true feelings for his bride, they were forever banished as he saw the man's expression. St. Vincent stared at Pandora as if she were a miracle, his cool composure disrupted by a faint flush of emotion. When Pandora reached him and the veil was pushed back, St. Vincent broke with etiquette by leaning down to press a tender kiss on her forehead. "That part isn't 'til later," Pandora whispered to him, but it was loud enough that the people around them overheard, and a rustle of laughter swept through the crowd.

How is Cassandra going to reach the chapel without being drenched?" Tom asked with a groan. "I'm going to tell Trenear and Ravenel to-" 'Let them take care of her for now," Winterborne counseled. "Soon enough she'll belong to you." He paused before adding slyly, "And then you'll be lighting your fire on a new hearth." Tom gave him a quizzical glance. "She'll be moving into my house." Winterborne grinned and shook his head. "I meant your wedding night, you spoony half-wit.

The host in question, the chapel's owner, Grayson Boscastle, the fifth Marquess of Sedgecroft, sat thinking that the bride had the most appealing derriere he hadseen in quite a long time. Not that he made a point of lusting after young women in wedding dresses, but he had been staring at the back of her for over two hours now.

I want you to be my wife, baby. I want to come home to you every night and hear your laughter. I want to build a life together with all the things that matter. I want there to be family, and sailing, and church, and work, and kids . . .” Her lips trembled on a smile. “Five little angels?” He squeezed her hands. “I was thinking we’d start with one and work our way up. What about it, Maddy—will you marry me?

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “So until the wedding ceremony in your chapel, we’ll be chaste?” Her smile flirted and taunted, and he marveled at how quickly Amy had learned to entice. “There is an advantage with living in a building that was once an abbey.” “What is that, Jermyn?” She pulled on her tattered gloves. Biggers moaned softly. “The place is riddled with secret passages,” Jermyn told her. “But my lord! You’re not suggesting you’ll visit my bedchamber for a tryst?” She fluttered her eyelashes and tried to look shocked. With a straight face, he replied, “Absolutely not! You’ve already proved your skill at sneaking into my bedchamber, so I thought you would come to mine.” She burst into laughter, a full-bodied peal or merriment. Taking his arm, she scolded, “Layabout!” “Only with you, my bride, only with you.

What had she told the priest? Hawk had said their holy man could not perform the wedding unless he was sure the bride was willing. Had there ever been one less so? Her eyes were downcast, she would not meet his gaze no matter how fiercely he willed her to do so. But the priest was smiling. He nodded to Dragon even as he addressed Hawk. "Ah,well,now that is taken care of. We will proceed as you wish, my lords." "Immediately then," Hawk said. He did a decent enough job of hiding his relief but Dragon wasn't fooled. Until that moment, not even the Lord of Essex had been sure the marriage would take place. Krysta appeared at Rycca's side. She spoke to her softly, distracting her as she guided her to a small room off the great hall. There the bride would wait while the guests, her scowling family, and one stern-faced groom assembled in the chapel.

It wasn't surprising and it wasn't quite real. I kept thinking it was a bizarre mistake or a made-up story, until I called her mother, who told me how beautifully made up Marine's corpse was and urged me to see her at the funeral chapel. This with her cigarettes still in my ashtray, her hair still in my brush, her clothes still in my car, her voice still in my ears, so soon after we'd been looking at ourselves together in my mirror and she the more lithe, the more fluidly beautiful of the two

It’s about to rain forks and knives,” Winterborne reported, water drops glittering on his hair and the shoulders of his coat. He reached for a glass of champagne from a silver tray on the table, and raised it in Tom’s direction. “Good luck it is, for the wedding day.” “Why is that, exactly?” Tom asked, disgruntled. “A wet knot is harder to untie,” Winterborne said. “The marriage bond will be tight and long lasting.” Ethan Ransom volunteered, “Mam always said rain on a wedding day washed away the sadness of the past.” “Not only are superstitions irrational,” Tom said, “they’re inconvenient. If you believe in one, you have to believe them all, which necessitates a thousand pointless rituals.” Not being allowed to see the bride before the ceremony, for example. He hadn’t had so much as a glimpse of Cassandra that morning, and he was chafing to find out how she was feeling, if she’d slept well, if there was something she needed. West came into the room with his arms full of folded umbrellas. Justin, dressed in a little velveteen suit, was at his heels. “Aren’t you supposed to be upstairs in the nursery with your little brother?” St. Vincent asked his five-year-old nephew. “Dad needed my help,” Justin said self-importantly, bringing an umbrella to him. “We’re about to have a soaker,” West said briskly. “We’ll have to take everyone out to the chapel as soon as possible, before the ground turns to mud. Don’t open one of these indoors: It’s bad luck.” “I didn’t think you were superstitious,” Tom protested. “You believe in science.” West grinned at him. “I’m a farmer, Severin. When it comes to superstitions, farmers lead the pack. Incidentally, the locals say rain on the wedding day means fertility.” Devon commented dryly, “To a Hampshireman, nearly everything is a sign of fertility. It’s a preoccupation around here.” “What’s fertility?” Justin asked. In the sudden silence, all gazes went to West, who asked defensively, “Why is everyone looking at me?” “As Justin’s new father,” St. Vincent replied, making no effort to hide his enjoyment, “that question is in your province.” West looked down into Justin’s expectant face. “Let’s ask your mother later,” he suggested. The child looked mildly concerned. “Don’t you know, Dad?

Damn you to tell," she hissed. With each struggle, the wires of her wimple poked his chest, causing him a surprising amount of pain. He was about to yank the horrid thing off when she came to an abrupt halt at Father Morrell's rebuke. "I am shocked, my lady.You have always been a girl of common sense.To use such language, on Christmas, and in the chapel!" Bronwyn bit down hard on her bottom lip, her fury inflamed further. She forced herself to stand still and succumb to the proceedings. Ranulf may be keeping her here now,but that didn't mean she couldn't escape before night fell. "And you,Lord Anscombe," Father Morrell huffed, "this is most irregular. How am I to know this lady comes willingly to this marriage carried upon your shoulder?" "Father,you have one duty in front of you at this moment,and that is to wed me to this woman. The salvation of our souls can wait until tomorrow.

By the way," he said, so casually that Lauren was instantly on guard, "a magazine reporter called me this morning. They know who you are and they know we're getting married. When the story breaks, I'm afraid the press will start hounding you." "How did they find out?" Lauren gasped. He shot her a glinting smile. "I told them." Everything was happening so quickly that Lauren felt dazed. "Did you happen to tell them when and where we're getting married?" she chided. "I told them soon." He closed his briefcase and drew her out of the chair in which she had just sat down. "Do you want a big church wedding with a cast of hundreds-or could you settle for me in a little chapel somewhere, with just your family and a few friends? When we come back from our honeymoon we could throw a huge party,and that would satisfy our social obligations to everyone else we know." Lauren quickly considered the burden a big church wedding would place on her father's health and nonexistent finances, and the highly desirable alternative of becoming Nick's wife right away. "You and a chapel," she said. "Good." He grinned. "Because I would go quietly insane waiting to make you mine. I'm not a patient man." "Really?" She straightened the knot in his tie so that she'd have an excuse to touch him. "I never noticed that." "Brat," he said affectionately.

That baking day was the third day Mrs G had shut herself away in the stillroom, dosing herself with medicinal waters. As I rolled the pastry I lived out a fancy I had nourished, since the first apple blossom pinked in May- the making of the perfect dish. Next day was All Hallows Eve, or Souling Night as we called it, and all our neighbors would gather for Old Ned's cider and Mrs Garland's Soul Cakes. After the stablemen acted out the Souling play, the unmarried maids would have a lark, guessing their husband's name from apple pairings thrown over their shoulders. So what better night, I thought, for Jem to announce our wedding? At the ripe age of twenty-two years, the uncertainties of maidenhood were soon to pass me by. Crimping my tarts, I passed into that forgetfulness that is a most delightful way of being. My fingers scattered flour and my elbows spun the rolling pin along the slab. Unrolling before my eyes were scenes of triumph: of me and Jem leading a cheery procession to the chapel, posies of flowers in my hand and pinned to Jem's blue jacket. In my head I turned over the makings of my Bride Cake that sat in secret in the larder- ah, wouldn't that be the richest, most hotly spiced delight? And all the bitter maidens who put it underneath their pillows would be sorrowing to think that Jem was finally taken, bound and married off to me.

Mal’s calm, the surety he seemed to carry in his steps. “Do you think it’s out there?” I asked one afternoon when we’d taken shelter in a dense cluster of pines to wait out a storm. “Hard to say. Right now, I could just be tracking a big hawk. I’m going on my gut as much as anything, and that always makes me nervous.” “You don’t seem nervous. You seem completely at ease.” I could hear the irritation in my voice. Mal glanced at me. “It helps that no one’s threatening to cut you open.” I said nothing. The thought of the Darkling’s knife was almost comforting—a simple fear, concrete, manageable. He squinted out at the rain. “And it’s something else, something the Darkling said in the chapel. He thought he needed me to find the firebird. As much as I hate to admit it, that’s why I know I can do it now, because he was so sure.” I understood. The Darkling’s faith in me had been an intoxicating thing. I wanted that certainty, the knowledge that everything would be dealt with, that someone was in control. Sergei had run to the Darkling looking for that reassurance. I just want to feel safe again. “When the time comes,” Mal asked, “can you bring the firebird down?” Yes. I was done with hesitation. It wasn’t just that we’d run out of options, or that so much was riding on the firebird’s power. I’d simply grown ruthless enough or selfish enough to take another creature’s life. But I missed the girl who had shown the stag mercy, who had been strong enough to turn away from the lure of power, who had believed in something more. Another casualty of this war. “It still doesn’t seem real to me,” I said.

Aric glanced at Jaxon, Jake and Kel. “So who wants to help me plan a wedding? Jaxon slapped his whiskey on the poker table. “How long is she withholding sex?” Jake laughed. “I don’t think it has anything to do with that.” “It must,” Jaxon said. “No man ever wants to plan a wedding. That’s the stuff horror movies are made of.” “Tell me about it,” Aric growled. “Jordan’s stressed. I’ve noticed her lack of sleep and I want to make it easier for her.” “So just go do what Nic and I did,” Jake grinned. “Minus her throwing herself at you drunk in front of the Elvis impersonator and trying to strip you naked so you could ‘hit that’.” Aric grinned. “Was it really that bad?” Jake leaned back in the cushion of his sofa chair. “It was great! She was all over me. Elvis asked if we wanted to say anything after our vows and she turned to the people waiting to use the chapel and mom and said ‘he’s really good in bed. He does this thing with his mouth’ but then got interrupted when mom cleared her throat and Elvis started coughing.” Jaxon chuckled. “Your wives are a handful, but they sure are

You Never Can Tell" It was a teenage wedding, and the old folks wished them well You could see that Pierre did truly love the mademoiselle And now the young monsieur and madame have rung the chapel bell, "C'est la vie", say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell They furnished off an apartment with a two room Roebuck sale The coolerator was crammed with TV dinners and ginger ale, But when Pierre found work, the little money comin' worked out well "C'est la vie", say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell They had a hi-fi phono, boy, did they let it blast Seven hundred little records, all rock, rhythm and jazz But when the sun went down, the rapid tempo of the music fell "C'est la vie", say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell They bought a souped-up jitney, 'twas a cherry red '53, They drove it down New Orleans to celebrate their anniversary It was there that Pierre was married to the lovely mademoiselle "C'est la vie", say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell

Pastor Oscar Muriu of Nairobi Chapel openly invited North Americans to join the African church in reciprocal service. But he exhorted us, "Don't come thinking that you are coming to fix Africa. You cannot fix Africa." Isaiah Lawon from Nigeria echoes a similar caution. He writes, "You Americans are problem-solvers. Every time I come to the U.S., I like to spend a couple hours in the New York underground and at Walmart and driving around your road system! I find solutions to problems that I never thought of! I like to watch your TV advertisements! We in Africa tend to live with our problems. The negative when it comes to North Americans coming to serve in our world is that Americans don't easily live with a problem; they want to solve the problem and move on. Here we tend to live with the problems, and we'd rather not have an outsider come in to fix us."8

Layla had hardly looked at him since they’d left Chapel Springs except to shoot him disdainful looks. He couldn’t seem to say anything right. Even when he’d complimented her appearance—and he’d meant every word—she’d twisted his words.

For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.” —Luke 6:45 (NIV) One morning before a church meeting, I made the sign of the cross over my mouth as a quick prayer to keep me from saying negative or critical things. All went well until the end, when we discussed trying a new form of worship. Suddenly, a quick criticism fell right out of my mouth: “The powers that be won’t like it, and they’ll probably veto it.” I immediately felt a twinge of guilt, but I pretended nothing was wrong. After the meeting I knew it was time to visit the prayer chapel. As I knelt, I recalled that last Sunday in class we’d seen a video where the speaker had two glasses filled to the brim with beads. When he knocked them together, several beads popped out of both of them because of the impact. The speaker explained that we can’t blame other people for bringing out the worst in us because nothing can come out of us that’s not already in there to begin with. I left the chapel knowing I had been forgiven, but I still felt I’d let down God and myself. Driving home, I hit road-construction traffic and turned off on a street I rarely take. As I was passing a church, my eye caught a message board sign out front. “Jesus still loves you” was all it said. I let out a deep cleansing breath, thankful that not only are God’s mercies new every morning but so is His unchanging love. Dear Jesus, show me the hidden places inside of me where I need Your mercies every morning, so I can live better days for You. Amen. —Karen Barber Digging Deeper: Jl 2:12–13; Heb 4:16

He lifted her chin so she was looking directly in his eyes. "I have every faith that whatever you take on in your life, you'll do it with passion and determination, and I know you'll succeed." And then before she could make any sort of reply, he dipped his chin and placed his lips on hers.

Hugo and I sat together in the chapel and didn’t say a word to each other. We’d already said them all, in better times and in better places.

The build-your-own-website program was child’s play to him, and before long we had a home page with photographs that changed every five seconds, starting with a full sanctuary that looked very racially diverse (taken the day we’d invited a nearby Baptist church to our worship service); followed by Amira officiating at a lesbian wedding; then a pan-racial group of laughing kids eating cupcakes (same Baptist church visiting day); a shot of Arroyo House foregrounded by orange trees, with the snow-covered San Gabriel Mountains behind; and last, a yoga class in the new chapel, ten human triangles in a downward facing dog.

The ceremony consisted of vibrant pink, purple, and coral details that complemented the rustic wood and lush green vines climbing up the chapel. Abigail's team constructed an arbor made entirely of drooping orchids and palm fronds that framed the wooden doors perfectly. The aisle was lined with thousands of coral-colored rose petals and more orchids spilling over the end of every row of seats. It was a tropical dream.

Family is the most valuable thing on earth, though Lord knows I didn’t live my life with that conviction. Remember that family isn’t just blood kin but anyone who fits into your heart.

Remember that family isn’t just blood kin but anyone who fits into your heart.

Finding nothing, she went back inside and MacGyvered a reflector using pieces of cardboard covered with tinfoil.

Matlock House after a small, private wedding at an chapel. where he had served as Richard’s groomsman.

There are nineteen such wedding chapels in Las Vegas, intensely competitive, each offering better, faster, and, by implication, more sincere services than the next: Our Photos Best Anywhere, Your Wedding on A Phonograph Record, Candlelight with Your Ceremony, Honeymoon Accommodations, Free Transportation from Your Motel to Courthouse to Chapel and Return to Motel, Religious or Civil Ceremonies, Dressing Rooms, Flowers, Rings, Announcements, Witnesses Available, and Ample Parking. All of these services, like most others in Las Vegas (sauna baths, payroll-check cashing, chinchilla coats for sale or rent) are offered twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, presumably on the premise that marriage, like craps, is a game to be played when the table seems hot.

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No chance of a ceremony inside the church,” he reported to Kev and Cam as they gathered in the main parlor. “It’s a sodding mess.” “We’ll get married on the church steps, then,” Kev said. “Impossible, I’m afraid.” Leo looked rueful. “According to the rubric of the church, it has to be inside a church or chapel that has been officially licensed. And neither the vicar nor the rector dare go against the laws. The consequences are so severe that they might receive three years’ suspension. When I asked where the nearest licensed chapel was, they looked in the records. As it happens, about fifty years ago our estate chapel was licensed for a family wedding, but it ran out since then.” “Can we renew it?” Cam asked. “Today?” “I asked that. The rector seemed to think it was an acceptable solution, and he agreed as long as Merripen and Win promised to privately solemnize the marriage at the church as soon as the roof is repaired.” “But the marriage would be legal starting today?” Kev demanded. “Yes, legal and registered, as long as it’s held before noon. The church won’t recognize a wedding if it’s held even one minute after twelve.” “Good,” Kev said curtly. “We’ll marry this morning at the estate chapel. Pay the rector whatever he demands.” “There’s only one problem with this plan,” Cam said. “We don’t have an estate chapel. At least, I’ve never seen one.” Leo looked blank. “What the bloody hell happened to it?” They both glanced at Kev, who had been in charge of the estate restoration for the past two years. He had taken down walls, razed small buildings, and made new additions to the original manor house. “What did you do with the chapel, phral?” Cam asked apprehensively. A scowl settled on Kev’s face. “No one was using it except some nesting birds. So we turned it into a granary and attached it to the barn.” In the face of their silence, he said defensively, “It still counts.” “You want to be married in a granary?” Leo asked incredulously. “Among bins of animal feed?” “I want to be married anywhere,” Kev said. “The granary’s as good a place as any.” Leo looked sardonic. “Someone may want to ask Win if she is willing to be married in a former chapel that now amounts to a shed attached to the barn. Forbearing as my sister is, even she has standards.” “I’m willing!” came Win’s voice from the stairs. Cam smothered a grin. Leo shook his head and spoke in his sister’s direction. “It’s a barn, Win.” “If our Lord didn’t mind being born in a stable,” she replied cheerfully, “I certainly have no objection to being married in a barn.” Briefly lifting his gaze heavenward, Leo muttered, “I’ll go take care of the renewal fee. I can hardly wait to see the vicar’s expression when I tell him we’ve turned the chapel into a granary. It doesn’t reflect well on this family’s piety, let me tell you.” “You’re concerned about appearing pious?” Kev asked. “Not yet. I’m still in the process of being led astray. But when I finally get around to repenting, I’ll have no damned chapel for it.” “You can repent in our officially licensed granary,” Cam said, shrugging into his coat. 

What was the subject matter of ‘Electronics’?” “That too is written,” said Francis, who had searched the Memorabilia from high to low in attempt to find clues which might make the blueprint slightly more comprehensible - but to very small avail. “The subject matter of Electronics was the electron,” he explained. “So it is written, indeed. I am impressed. I know so little of these things. What, pray, was the ‘electron’?” “Well, there is one fragmentary source which alludes to it as ‘A Negative Twist of Nothingness,’” “What! How did they negate a nothingness? Wouldn't that make it a somethingness?” “Perhaps the negation applies to ‘twist.’” “Ah! Then we would have an ‘Untwisted Nothing,’ eh? Have you discovered how to untwist a nothingness?” “Not yet,” Francis admitted. “Well, keep at it, Brother! How clever they must have been, those ancients – to know how to untwist nothing. Keep at it and you may learn how. Then we’d have the ‘electron’ in our midst, wouldn't we? Whatever would we do with it? Put it on the altar in the chapel?

What was the subject matter of 'Electronics'?" “That too is written,” said Francis, who had searched the Memorabilia from high to low in attempt to find clues which might make the blueprint slightly more comprehensible - but to very small avail. “The subject matter of Electronics was the electron,” he explained. “So it is written, indeed. I am impressed. I know so little of these things. What, pray, was the ‘electron’?” “Well, there is one fragmentary source which alludes to it as ‘A Negative Twist of Nothingness,’” “What! How did they negate a nothingness? Wouldn't that make it a somethingness?” “Perhaps the negation applies to ‘twist.’” “Ah! Then we would have an ‘Untwisted Nothing,’ eh? Have you discovered how to untwist a nothingness?” “Not yet,” Francis admitted. “Well, keep at it, Brother! How clever they must have been, those ancients – to know how to untwist nothing. Keep at it and you may learn how. Then we’d have the ‘electron’ in our midst, wouldn't we? Whatever would we do with it? Put it on the altar in the chapel?” ― Walter Miller, A CANTICLE FOR LEIBOWITZ

I was crying so hard that I didn’t even want to bring my hands away. “Babe, stop crying,” he said with a chuckle. He looked at me and bit down on his lip making me all shy-like again. I backed away and tried to pull away from him to keep myself from crying even more. “You did all this?” I asked him, and he nodded. “I mean…I made sure it got set up. Tangie helped, but that’s why ain’t nobody been up here. They been taking care of this and making sure everything was right for you. Remember the chick that came through and said she needed our IDs and for us to sign for some insurance and shit?” “Yes,” I said and looked up at him and into his eyes. “That was my homegirl from the clerk’s office. She was filling the shit out we needed for the marriage license.” I laughed and hit Khi on the arm. I looked around, still amazed at how beautiful everything was. The place was filled with flowers, and a few candles were even lit at the front of the small chapel. “What about my hair…and what about what I have on?” I asked Khi, and he bit down on that damn lip again. “Don’t worry about your hair. You was ugly when I met you, so it’s only right I marry you looking the same way.” I cracked up laughing, and so did the nurse that stood by next to the wheelchair that she had wheeled Khi down in. I looked up at him with seriousness in my eyes and mouthed thank you to him. This wasn’t the dream wedding that I had wanted, but it was better, because my soon-to-be husband had planned it.

Why are you building that house, Caleb Halliday, when we both know you’re going to hightail it back to Pennsylvania and drag me right along with you?” She couldn’t read his expression, but she saw that he was climbing deftly down the roof. He reached the ladder and descended to stand facing her, his shirt in one hand, his muscular chest glistening with sweat even as the first chill of twilight came up from the creek. “Half of that farm is mine,” he said. Lily sighed. “So go back to Pennsylvania and fight for it,” she said, exasperated. “You’re not the only one with problems, you know.” Caleb looked at her closely as he shrugged back into his shirt and began doing up the buttons, but he didn’t speak. He seemed to know that Lily was going to go on talking without any urging from him. “It just so happens that my mother is dead, and I’ll probably never find out where my sisters are.” “So that’s why you were willing to marry me all of a sudden—you’ve given up. I don’t know as I like that very much, Lily.” “What you like is of no concern to me,” Lily said briskly. She started to turn away, but Caleb caught her by the arm and made her stay. “You can’t just up and quit like this. It isn’t like you.” “You’ve said it yourself, Caleb: The West is a big place. My sisters could be married, with no time in their busy lives for a lost sister they haven’t seen in thirteen years. They might even be dead.” Caleb’s mouth fell open, but he recovered himself quickly. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this. You’ve fought me from the day we met because you wanted to find your sisters, and now you’re standing there telling me that it’s no use looking for them. What about that letter you had from Wyoming?” “It said Caroline had disappeared, Caleb. That’s hardly reason for encouragement.” “Maybe we’d better go there and find out.” Lily had never dared to think such a thought. “Travel all the way to Wyoming? But what about the chickens?” “What’s more important to you, Lily—your sister or those damn chickens?” Despite herself, Lily was beginning to believe her dreams might come true after all. “My sister,” she said quietly. Caleb reached out at long last and laid his hands on Lily’s shoulders, drawing her close. “Lily, come to Fox Chapel with me,” he said hoarsely. “I’m going to need you.” Lily looked up at her husband. He was, for all practical purposes, the only family she had, and she couldn’t imagine living without him. “What if I hate it there?” she asked, her voice very quiet. “What if I miss my house and my chickens so much I can’t stand it?” He gave her a light, undemanding kiss, and his lips were warm and soft as they moved against hers. “If you hate Fox Chapel, I’ll bring you back here.” “Is that a promise?” “Yes.” “Even if you work things out with your brother and want to stay?” Caleb sighed. “I told you—your happiness is as important to me as my own.” Lily was not a worldly woman, but she’d seen enough to know that such an attitude was rare in a man. She hugged Caleb. “In that case, maybe you won’t be mad that there’s nothing for supper but biscuits.” Although his lips curved into a slight smile, Caleb’s eyes were serious. He lifted one hand to caress Lily’s cheek. “I’m sorry about your mother,” he said quietly. Lily straightened in his arms. “I didn’t even know the woman, really,” she said lightly. “So it’s not as though I’m grieving.” She would have walked away toward the house, but Caleb held her fast. “I think you are,” he said. Lily swallowed. Damn the man—now he had her on the verge of tears. She struggled all the harder to maintain her composure. “If I wept for her, Caleb, I’d be weeping for a woman who never existed—the woman I needed her to be. She was never a real mother to us.” At

They celebrated in a bar, and after half a dozen cocktails came to the mutual decision that it would be a blast to get married. So Lisa bought a couple of rings in a pawnshop and they did the deed in the hotel chapel, reading their vows in Klingon off an iPhone in front of a guy in golden robes and Spock ears.

I believe I have thought of nothing but the mystery of your skin and the scent of your hair since the day we met. I believe I meant every word in that chapel about making you my wife, and I believe I am going to have the time of my life on our wedding night, my dear. Do you believe?

The wedding project failed because we were dealing with people accustomed to marriage and then we went right ahead and got married.” “We should have decided not to get married at the last second,” Camille offered. “Right, something that would surprise them, create a disorienting effect that we could harness. There was so much wasted potential.” “And there weren’t enough people to create the kind of event that we’re talking about in a little wedding chapel.” “Malls are perfect. Aside from college campuses and sporting events, where do you find this many people? And a mall has the most diverse makeup. You have a bunch of people, hypnotized by all this material consumption, stuck inside a big maze of a building that throws off their equilibrium.” “This could be good,” Camille said. “We need the Super 8 camera though,” Caleb said. He then pointed to the photo on the table. “We have to capture not just the initial moment but the resulting fallout and the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree effect of the event.” “But who’s to say that she’ll do it again?” Camille posited. She paused for a few moments, considering the ramifications of what they were discussing, and then said, “And who’s to say that we should make her do it again?” “What?” “Caleb, we placed our child in a situation that turned her into an earthquake.

The last thing I wanted when things were just barely started with Dax was having my friends make aware. What if they told my family? What was there even to tell so far? We'd kissed twice. We'd exchanged a few texts. I thought about him constantly. I'd named our first three children. So what?

We were laughing about nothing. At one point, we stumbled upon a chapel. There was a sign that read, Fake Weddings Here. Chance stopped me in the middle of the sidewalk. The vapors of alcohol on his breath infiltrated my nostrils as he spoke close to my face. “Marry me, Princess.” “What?” “We have an illegitimate goat—a fake child together.” He laughed. “It’s only proper that we partake in a fake wedding ceremony to make you an honest woman.” “You’re insane!” “Shit, we can text a picture to Harry. How fucking awesome would that be?” His mischievous smile sent tremors of desire through me. “Come on, it’ll be fun.

Kane laughed at the absurdity of that thought as he opened the big ornately carved chapel doors and let Paulie step inside before him. They both came to an abrupt halt. Kane had been involved in the wedding plans. He went to every meeting Avery asked him to attend, had a say in every part of the design, but nothing prepared him for this moment, for the sheer beauty Avery had created.

Elijah?” “Love?” She kissed him and peered at him with the sort of intensity Elijah suspected had to do with questions a newly engaged woman found difficult to keep to herself. How many children did he want? A special license or St. George’s or a wedding in the Morelands chapel? Would they reside with his family at Flint Hall, or live for a time at Bernward Manor? When would he speak to her father? She brushed his hair back from his forehead, a wifely caress if Elijah had ever felt one. “When I go to Paris, I will miss my family, but I will also miss… this.” She kissed him again, sweetly, gently. “I will miss you so very much.” Elijah’s hands stopped moving on her back; his lungs stopped drawing in air. When she went to Paris… When she went to Paris, exactly as planned, as if this night, as if he, meant nothing more than a passing whim. As if he’d completely misconstrued her words, her glances, her intentions, and seen them through a haze of lust and longing that had obliterated his judgment. But not his pride. Anger welled up, at her, at himself, at Paris, and following immediately after, like an undertow follows a wave, despair surged—for himself and for her. He did not want to go to Paris, much less in the company of a woman whose view of their dealings was radically different from his own. Jenny

It’s not my name. It’s Lola Sinclair’s name. And right underneath, beside Groom . . . . “Peyton Manning?” I say, looking up at Nate in bewilderment. He nods. “The man is a fucking god. You can’t blame me for wanting to be him for one drunken night, even in a Las Vegas wedding chapel.

You practically pulled me to the wedding chapel by my dick!” That’s not even close to true either. Flashes of dragging Will toward the stairs that lead to the chapel while Will followed, flushed and laughing, burn in his mind. Maybe

phone

We didn’t believe when we first heard because you know how church folk can gossip. Like the time we all thought First John, our head usher, was messing around on his wife because Betty, the pastor’s secretary, caught him cozying up at brunch with another woman. A young, fashionable woman at that, one who switched her hips when she walked even though she had no business switching anything in front of a man married forty years. You could forgive a man for stepping out on his wife once, but to romance that young woman over buttered croissants at a sidewalk café? Now, that was a whole other thing. But before we could correct First John, he showed up at Upper Room Chapel that Sunday with his wife and the young, hip-switching woman—a great-niece visiting from Fort Worth—and that was that. When we first heard, we thought it might be that type of secret, although, we have to admit, it had felt different. Tasted different too. All good secrets have a taste before you tell them, and if we’d taken a moment to swish this one around our mouths, we might have

We didn’t believe when we first heard because you know how church folk can gossip. Like the time we all thought First John, our head usher, was messing around on his wife because Betty, the pastor’s secretary, caught him cozying up at brunch with another woman. A young, fashionable woman at that, one who switched her hips when she walked even though she had no business switching anything in front of a man married forty years. You could forgive a man for stepping out on his wife once, but to romance that young woman over buttered croissants at a sidewalk café? Now, that was a whole other thing. But before we could correct First John, he showed up at Upper Room Chapel that Sunday with his wife and the young, hip-switching woman—a great-niece visiting from Fort Worth—and that was that. When we first heard, we thought it might be that type of secret, although, we have to admit, it had felt different. Tasted different too. All good secrets have a taste before you tell them, and if we’d taken a moment to swish this one around our mouths, we might have noticed the sourness of an unripe secret, plucked too soon, stolen and passed around before its season. But we didn’t. We shared this sour secret, a secret that began the spring Nadia Turner got knocked up by the pastor’s son and went to the abortion clinic downtown to take care of it. She was seventeen then. She lived with her father, a Marine, and without her mother, who had killed herself six months earlier. Since then, the girl had earned a wild reputation—she was young and scared and trying to hide her scared in her prettiness. And she was pretty, beautiful even, with amber skin, silky long hair, and eyes swirled brown and gray and gold. Like most girls, she’d already learned that pretty exposes you and pretty hides you and like most girls, she hadn’t yet learned how to navigate the difference. So we heard all about her sojourns across the border to dance clubs in Tijuana, the water bottle she carried around Oceanside High filled with vodka, the Saturdays she spent on base playing pool with Marines, nights that ended with her heels pressed against some man’s foggy window. Just tales, maybe, except for one we now know is true: she spent her senior year of high school rolling around in bed with Luke Sheppard and come springtime, his baby was growing inside her. — LUKE SHEPPARD WAITED TABLES at Fat Charlie’s Seafood Shack, a restaurant off the pier known for its fresh food, live music, and family-friendly atmosphere. At least that’s what the ad in the San Diego Union-Tribune said, if you were fool enough to believe it. If you’d been around Oceanside long enough, you’d know that the promised fresh food was day-old fish and chips stewing under heat lamps, and the live music, when delivered, usually consisted of ragtag teenagers in ripped jeans with safety pins poking through their lips.

christmas carol, 1977 artists: caleb and camille fang The Fangs were to be married, the union of two souls, till death do you part, I do, I do, the whole ridiculous charade. Caleb slipped the ring on Camille’s finger and repeated the minister’s unenthusiastic recitation of the vows. To the left of the altar, the minister’s wife, her fee for playing Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” on the chapel’s organ too expensive, filmed the proceedings on Caleb’s Super 8 camera, which whirred and clicked throughout the ceremony. Caleb feared the woman was missing the subtlety of the event, ruining the shot with static, uninteresting angles.

for his employees. As soon as Paige got here and they ate, he was heading home to his own bed and