When We Were Enemies: A Novel, page 15
“My thoughts exactly,” I say as the song comes to a close. I tear my eyes away from Tom and Pearl and face Carly. “Time for my first set. Everything look okay?”
She looks me over, smooths my hair again, and pinches my cheeks lightly.
“Everything is perfect, as always.” And though it’s Carly saying it, and Carly isn’t more than fifteen years older than me, I pretend she’s my mom and give her hand a squeeze.
As I take the stage, introduced as Vivian Snow, I greet the room and get a round of exploding applause and whistles. And as my voice fills the room, now distilled by the swaying bodies dampening the echoes of the space, I pretend Tom never existed, that my mom is watching in the wings, and my true love is out there somewhere waiting for me, possibly even on top of the Empire State Building.
CHAPTER 15
Elise
Present Day
Streets of Edinburgh
“Tell her to call me immediately,” I grumble through the phone at the third of my mom’s assistants to give me some lame excuse about why she can’t come to the phone. I hate being aggressive with her employees, but I can’t stand the possibility of Mac getting to her first. Someone needs to look out for our family’s best interest, and it’s becoming clearer every day that that someone is not Mac Dorman.
I called my oldest brother, Jimmy, and started to fill him in, but he’s on set in Iceland and had to go almost immediately. “We don’t need more scandal” was the last thing he said before rushing off to makeup. I considered calling my other brothers, but Chris hasn’t talked to Mom in six years since she orchestrated a failed intervention for him in Fiji, and Lawrence is on a cleansing retreat for who knows how long, which really means he’s getting face work done and going on some fad diet at a modern-day fat farm. My dad mumbled something about warning me not to get involved and then sent his love, which didn’t exactly translate through the phone.
It sucks to feel alone.
I dial Hunter’s number again. I left a message earlier when my first call went to voice mail, and I’m disappointed I haven’t heard from him. I need someone sane and on my side to talk me down from my panic. And if I need to pull the plug on this small-town-wedding thing, he should be the first to know.
The phone rings. And rings. And goes to voice mail.
I leave a message.
“Hey, babe. I know we’re supposed to talk tonight, but—like I said, I need you to call me right away. Um . . . I love you. Bye.”
I hang up and sigh, and my warm breath turns to a moisture cloud in the below-freezing air. It’s started to snow, and though my new winter coat keeps my top half warm, my thin jeans are close to soaked through, and my heeled booties are not only pinching my toes but doing a shit job at keeping out the slush on the side of the road.
When I left the cemetery, I had no idea where to go. Part of me felt like running, sure that one of the black production SUVs would be on my tail immediately. But after I took several evasive turns and called every one of my mom’s phone numbers and assistants without luck, the spire of Holy Trinity pierced the skyline above the houses surrounding me. So I’m heading there.
I text and walk, sending a message to Farrah, my assistant, asking her to keep working on connecting with someone from my mom’s team.
When I find myself at the bottom of the hill where the church perches, my fingers are throbbing from the cold, and my feet are so numb that I can’t imagine what kind of aches and pains I’ll have as they thaw.
I climb the snow-dusted steps; the white layer is thin where they’ve been shoveled very recently. I leave my footprints behind to be filled in by the peaceful but rapid descent of the late winter storm.
Reaching the door, I test the handle and find it unlocked. I’ll slip inside and wait for my mom’s call and hopefully avoid catching the attention of either priest.
The door swings open with a squeal. It echoes through the shadowy, empty entry. The only light comes from the stained-glass windows. The rope connected to the belfry is tied up to the right of the entry, undisturbed. I wonder what it sounds like, though I’m not tempted to take a pull and find out. When the door closes, the bowels of the church turn eerie. My footsteps echo as I walk down the carpeted aisle, sidestepping the antique vent in the middle of my path.
In the dark like this, I can almost believe I’ve stepped into a holy place. The giant cross above the altar appears to float, and I stop at a row of pews in the middle of the hall, intimidated by its tremendous presence. The stillness and dimness create a feeling of anonymity, and despite my frozen hands and damp hair, I settle into a pew and lean back with my eyes closed.
As I take deep, calming breaths, I think of all the people from this small town who’ve sat here, prayed, worshipped, wed, mourned. They’re part of my history, my past. If my grandmother hadn’t taken that job with the USO while she was pregnant with my mom, if she hadn’t followed her dreams and gone to Hollywood, this church on the hill could be mine, and that graveyard could be my future.
A door squeaks open from somewhere inside the church, and I jump. A sliver of light shines out from behind the altar. If I let my imagination have its way, it could look like a portal bringing a supernatural being into the church to give me words of wisdom. But in the dim light, my fantastic thought dissolves as a man dressed in priestly attire comes into focus.
“You can turn on the light when you come to visit,” Father Patrick says in an official priest voice, making me wonder if he realizes who I am.
“I . . . I’m sorry I broke in.” I sniff and shove my wet gloves into my pocket, positive I look like a drowned rat.
“Miss Branson?” he asks. I think I hear an extra lilt to his question that almost sounds like amusement.
“I hope I didn’t frighten you. I just needed a minute out of the storm,” I say, and sniff again, melting snow dripping down the sides of my cheeks, back of my neck, and into the top of my shirt.
Father Patrick makes his way to me. I wish the lights were on so I could read his expression. Then again—the brightness would expose my embarrassingly disastrous state.
“That’s why the door is always open. There are lots of storms out there,” he says, sitting in the row in front of me but turning around enough that I can see his eyes and the easy, welcoming expression on his face.
“I know you’re being all deep and figurative, but there’s a literal storm out there.”
“Sure. But there are lots of places to find shelter from that kind of storm. You chose the church. I think there’s usually a reason for that, even if the one in need of respite doesn’t know it.”
“Damn, you’re deep today,” I say, making a joke, the parable he’s spinning hitting a touch too close to home. “You don’t lock the doors—ever?”
He shakes his head. “They did for a long time, probably twenty, thirty years. Especially after the mall was built and we got more occasional tourist traffic. But what good is God’s love when it’s limited or conditional? And since when does sorrow follow a nine-to-five schedule? We decided to keep the doors open to all who need to find rest and comfort here.”
“You’re not worried about vandals or theft?”
“I mean, the cameras and motion detector by the front door help.” He holds up an older version of an iPhone with a list of alerts on it, and I laugh loud enough for it to echo around the room.
“Here I thought you were gonna give me some speech about God protecting you, but it’s a doorbell camera like the rest of us have.”
“God’s busy. It’s a bit much to ask him to take care of something when I could solve the problem with two-day delivery of a door cam.”
I laugh again and shake my head.
“Look at you, a funny priest. I bet you and Father Ignatius have a classic ‘butting of heads.’ I feel a movie plot in this somewhere.”
“We have our differences of opinion; that’s for sure,” he says, putting the phone away and then getting serious again. “You’re dripping.”
“Oh, I know. I’m making a mess. These must be antique.” I wipe away a trail of melted snow, and a pool of cold water soaks into my already-damp pant leg. “I can call a car in a few minutes. I’m waiting for a phone call. Or I could walk to the library and wait there. It’s not that far . . .”
“No, no. Stay as long as you need. I don’t want you to get cold. One moment,” he says, returning to his office. I take off my coat and keep it turned in on itself to trap all the moisture. He comes back carrying a terry cloth towel, flipping on a row of can lights on the way.
“Here.” He passes me the towel, and I use it to dry the bench and then my face and hair. “Do you need coffee, tea?”
“Coffee sounds like heaven, but please don’t make a new pot for me.”
“Mrs. Thompson, our volunteer secretary, bought us a Keurig last year, so one cup of coffee is almost too easy.”
“Cameras and coffee machines—I’m impressed. But I don’t want to be a hassle. I plan to get out of your hair soon.”
“You’re no hassle, Miss Branson.”
“I’m sure you have better things to do than bring me towels and hot drinks—things like feeding and clothing literal refugees. That’s pretty amazing work you do, by the way.”
“I could tell it affected you when I saw you on base.” He pauses and searches my expression like he’s trying to figure out an interesting word problem or brainteaser. I wait for some pointed or deeply religious question, but instead he says simply, “Working with the families on base is humbling.”
“I told Mac he should talk to the people at Atterbury and possibly do a segment in the film about your efforts.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
“When do you go again?” I ask, finally warm and nearly dry, and blissfully distracted from the crisis I’ll have to address as soon as my phone rings.
“I teach a class there on Thursday.”
“A class? Like, a religious class? I guess I assumed most of the refugees were Muslim.”
“Oh, it’s not religious. I teach art therapy,” he says in a rush. Then I remember his background before joining the priesthood, and a new burst of respect ignites in me.
“That’s right. Your art degree.”
He shrugs like he’s uncomfortable with acknowledging his accomplishments. After making a career out of the egos of Hollywood stars and millionaire businesspeople, I find his modesty fascinating.
“You’ve got lots of layers there, Father.”
“One or two, I guess.”
My phone buzzes in my coat pocket, and I jump.
“Oh shit!” I say, digging through the rumpled pile of fluff.
“Your call?” he asks, not even flinching at my second swear word of the conversation.
“Oh God, I hope so.” I retrieve the buzzing device out of the coat’s zippered pocket. But it’s not my mom or her assistant or even Farrah. It’s Hunter. I want to talk to him, I really do, but a small part of me wants to hit the cancel button and call him back later, fill him in without Father Patrick listening in the background. That way I can keep talking to the unusual clergyman who still hasn’t told me his, I assume, tragic backstory that I want to know. No—that I crave to know.
“Your fiancé?” Father Patrick asks, seeming to catch on to my hesitancy.
I nod.
“You should get it.”
He’s right. Plus, how would it look to not pick up my fiancé’s call? Father Patrick is supposed to take us through the rest of our Pre-Cana. Marry us. Send us on our way into marital bliss. I wouldn’t blame him for judging me if I dodged Hunter so cavalierly.
I hit the green button and put the phone up to my ear. Father Patrick takes my towel and coat and excuses himself as I answer.
“Hey, babe. Got your message. Everything okay?” I can hear traffic sounds in the background. I’m guessing he’s in the back of a car in transit between meetings.
“Not really.” I try to whisper.
“What’s wrong? Are you safe?” There’s an immediate edge to his voice.
“I’m fine. It’s just more drama with this documentary.”
“Oh, thank God. You scared me.” Hunter’s tone softens. If he were here, he’d be running his fingers through my hair to comfort me. “What’s up? More delays? More Mac stuff?”
“A lot more Mac stuff. He wants to dig up my effing grandpa.” Saying it out loud makes me chuckle at the audacity of the man.
“What?”
“Yeah. Some really crazy stuff has come up. There’s a possibility my grandpa, my mom’s dad, didn’t die a war hero or whatever shit I’ve been told my whole life.”
“Oh my God, really? Like, some big scandal?”
“Yeah, like maybe my grandpa ran off or Nonna lied or some other crazy theory.”
Hunter is silent for a second, and all I can hear is the whisper of someone in the background. The driver?
“So they want to run the DNA?” he says a moment later.
“I don’t know what the hell they want to do, but I’m trying to put the kibosh on it. You gotta try to talk to my mom and have her say no. She’s sweet on you. Plus, you two were the first to buy in on this project. But this storyline isn’t good for any of us. Even just a rumor could do a lot of damage. Jimmy’s freaking out.”
“Well, maybe he’ll finally help out, then.” A double bump in the background and the sudden absence of traffic noise lead me to believe he’s entered a parking garage.
“No, you know how he is. His career is the only love of his life.”
“I know. I know.”
“This whole thing is getting out of control,” I say, feeling so alone, helpless.
The sounds of car doors closing and murmurs of people chatting fill the quiet on the other side of the phone.
“Hey, babe. I’ve gotta go to my next meeting.” He’s distracted. “But know I’ve got your back no matter what, okay?”
“Even if it means no wedding in May?” I wait through another long pause before he responds.
“Really? It’s that extreme?”
Father Patrick emerges from his office with a steaming cup in his hands. He puts it on the pew next to me, mouthing the words, “For you.” I give a wordless thank-you but have to turn my back as he walks away because his kindness brings tears to my eyes that I don’t want him to see.
“Well, yeah, Hunter. What if the story about my grandpa’s all been a lie?”
“That’s what you’re worried about?” he says.
“It would be huge. Huge. And with that kind of a bombshell—this documentary won’t be some quiet release on a random streaming service.”
He’s silent. Clears his throat and then asks, “And that’s a problem?”
A stab of betrayal pierces my chest like a heated dagger.
“You were worried about the whole POW thing, but this is no big deal? My whole understanding of my family, my mother’s origin, are in question. And it’ll be on a screen for the viewing public to see, and people like Mac and his anonymous partners are going to profit from it. Get awards. Get richer off ruining my family’s name.”
“‘Ruining’ is a bit strong, Lisey. And to be clear—I was worried about your grandma being connected with internment camps until you explained the POW thing. That’s different from a family scandal. DNA is a bitch, and plenty of people are now finding out these kinds of secrets. It’s a relatable theme, actually.”
Now I can’t stop the tears. Out slips a small sob that I’m sure Hunter can’t hear, but I’m afraid Father Patrick can. A frustration that goes beyond Hunter and beyond our conversation boils inside of me.
“But they get to do it at home, in private. They get to choose who knows their secrets. Why don’t I get that choice? I’m not consenting to living in the public eye because my grandmother was famous. Or my mother, or father or brothers, or, God, even my fiancé.”
“Elise, do you really think you’re any different from the rest of us?” Hunter’s tone is no longer soft. He has that hard, cutting tone I sometimes hear him use at work.
“What?” I ask, my voice low and now obviously filled with emotion.
“You run a PR business dealing with the kind of publicity you seem to despise, and you benefit from your clients’ scandals continually.”
“I want to help them—shelter them from melodrama like this ’cause I know what it’s like.”
“You’re giving yourself too much credit,” he says in a biting way I’ve never, ever heard him wield with me. “You also help them profit off publicity—good and bad. If it were anyone but you—you’d agree with me. This is an opportunity. All of it. The documentary, the wedding, even the freaky DNA shit.”
“I . . .” I feel like I’m having a conversation with a stranger. “I should let you go.”
He exhales into the receiver.
“Sorry, babe,” he says. I recognize this voice. “You caught me at a bad time. I’ll back you up on whatever you decide, but think on it—okay? There’s a reason sex tapes are good for careers—people like seeing their heroes naked. It’s possible your grandma wasn’t a saint. Maybe she did lie about your grandfather, but maybe there was a good reason for it. You’re doing that PR thing again and jumping to the worst conclusions. I bet it’s not as terrible as you think.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, irritated at his lack of concern. I’m out of new words, so I pull out some old ones. “Have a good meeting.”
“Talk tonight?” he asks, and I don’t know if I’m lying when I say yes.
“Love you,” he says.
“You too,” I respond out of reflex, and we both hang up.
I sit, stunned, and take a sip from the warm mug Father Patrick delivered during the call. The coffee warms me and stings in a familiar way at the back of my throat. I feel more lost than when I was wandering in the snow.
“Everything okay?” Father Patrick asks, back in his spot in front of me.
I shrug, confusing thoughts going through my mind. Is everything okay? No. Will it be okay? I don’t know yet.
“Can I sit here for a little longer?” I ask as the wind slams against the windows. I shiver at the idea of going outside.
