Each family member had their own suite of rooms where they could disappear when family got to be too much. The original Great Hall dominated the center of the main level, where a wall of twelve-foot windows overlooked the backyard and forest beyond. At opposite ends of the Hall, two enormous fireplaces flared to life, during the cooler months, warming the family as they indulged in spirits and gossip.
As he neared the chapel, he waved to his mom, who was hiking up the drive and likely headed to her office in the Annex. He parked beside Grams’s UTV, scanning the off-road vehicle for fresh scratches or grass clumps clinging to the roof. His grandmother could literally do anything she set her mind to, except drive.
Lynette did her best to reduce the time Grams spent behind the wheel, but the wily old girl liked to burn rubber and found ways to evade her daughter-in-law’s keen eye.
He climbed the three stone steps leading to the chapel’s entrance, turned both handles, and swung open the double doors with ease. The long, open room still retained its austere origins—white walls, high ceiling, stained glass windows, organ pipes, altar, and godlike pulpit overlooking the masses.
Beyond the altar, two hidden doors were carved into the paneled wall. One led to a small kitchenette and restroom, the other to a secret bunker below ground level. The former youth camp leadership, or the Franciscan monks before them, must have been expecting one hell of an apocalypse, given the number of canned goods they’d found on the shelves. The bunker even had an emergency exit out the back that poured its occupants into the forest about fifty yards away.
Since his family had purchased the property, this building was no longer a place of worship, but of reflection. At the far end of the chapel, wooden steps led up to a dais where the altar languished in all its wooden glory.
Grams sat with a mug of coffee on the top step, waiting.
Time for reflection.
Much reflection.