When We Were Enemies: A Novel, page 26
I had shown Cammi and Wanda a photo of my grandmother’s dress, but my mother dismissed each gown they brought out. “You cannot wear long sleeves in June, Elise,” she said repeatedly.
“We can make any alterations in-house. Including removing sleeves or adding embellishments,” Cammi explained.
“No, thank you. We have our own seamstress,” my mom, who can be as cold as she can be charming, snipped back.
“Vintage-inspired works too. Long transparent lace for the sleeves would give you the silhouette you’re looking for, but with a tight, trendy bodice. Train or no train? Satin was very much the fabric of the day, but lace works too. Or we can go with something more modern,” offered Wanda, the older of the two women, a pincushion on her wrist and pencil tucked into the expanse of her graying hair.
All the dresses were beautiful and had intricate details, buttons, embroidery, beading. But when I looked at my reflection wearing white, off-white, or even ivory, the bride staring back didn’t look like me.
“Veil or no veil?” Cammi asked, holding a floor-length veil the same ivory as the dress.
“Veil. Must have a veil,” my mom said from her seat on one of the green velvet couches in the fitting room. “But a simple one like the Pronovias veil that went with the Dean dress.”
My mother is not an evil woman; she’s not cruel, and usually I believe she’s not calculating. But saying Dean’s name in the fitting room of the bridal boutique was a step too far, and despite her intentions, I lost the slowly slipping grip I’ve kept on my grief during this whole process.
Warm, heavy tears dripped off my chin and onto the lace collar of the gown.
“The bride gets the final say in these things,” Cammi said to my mother, which I found brave as Gracelyn Branson’s superstar status usually mutes even the strongest personalities.
“I think the bride could use some privacy,” Wanda said solemnly, seeing my tears, like a nurse asking visitors to leave a patient’s room when visiting hours end.
It took some doing, but Wanda and Cammi cleared the room and helped me take off the dress, passing me tissue after tissue as I continued to cry the tears I’d bottled up for months, maybe years.
“I really do love Hunter,” I said to Cammi as I sat on the elevated platform where I’d been showing off my dresses.
“I’m sure you do. This is very normal, I promise,” she said, hanging the gown.
“Nothing about this is normal,” I said, gesturing to the tripods and can lights.
“I guess that’s not normal, but your tears are.” She handed me another tissue. “Weddings are stressful, and throw in an opinionated parent or two, and something little girls dream of their whole lives becomes a big ole nightmare.”
“I guess,” I said, but what I thought was, But it didn’t feel like this with Dean. My mom was still my mom back then, so what’s the difference?
“The advice I give to every girl going through ‘mamma drama’ is—this is your wedding and your marriage. This is your story—you have to live with what you write. So don’t let nobody take your pen away.”
It was a deep moment from Cammi, who I doubt was more than a year or two out of high school, but it’s what I needed to hear. I wiped my tears away and had Wanda call Lisa back in to redo my full face of makeup. Within an hour, I’d chosen a dress, and we took the ninety-minute drive back to Edinburgh in silence.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
My phone explodes again on the bedside table.
“Ugh.” I blindly grab for it, keeping my eyes closed for a minute longer.
I squint at the screen. It’s full of notifications. Texts, social media tags, emails. I scroll through, searching for one that clearly explains whatever media disaster we’ve somehow stumbled into. Did one of my clients tweet a sexist comment? Forget to wear panties to a club? Have a total meltdown? Die?
Oh God, I hope not.
Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s something we’ve seen before at Toffee Co. Usually I’m insulated from it, the news filtering through one of my associates or assistants. But clearly, I’ve been gone too long, and someone has dropped the ball. Which I can only partially blame on my team because I’m spending most of my days in a one-gas-station town, planning a wedding, worrying about dates on headstones, and accidentally stalking the local priest. Who am I?
I tap on a random notification. As the social media app opens, my phone rings. It’s Marla, my VP. Damn. This must be big.
“Hey, Mar, what’s up?” I ask, trying not to sound groggy, which is pretty much impossible.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice sounding as tired as mine.
“Uh, yeah. Long day but I’m fine. Why? What’s going on?”
Dead air.
“You haven’t heard?”
“Uh, no. I’ve been . . .” I try to think of a better excuse than napping. “On set. What should I have heard?” I put the phone on speaker, curiosity growing, going back to my list of notifications as Marla hems and haws. I’ve never heard Marla like this. She’s a no-nonsense businesswoman who tells it like it is. Whatever the disaster, it must be huge, and it must affect our company directly.
“Marla, give it to me straight. What’s the lowdown?”
“I don’t know what happened. I thought Terry at ZTM was our inside guy.”
“Marla. Stop. I can’t be any help if I don’t know what happened. You know what—hold on. I’ll brief myself.”
I tap on the blue-and-white Twitter logo with a shocking number of notifications in a red circle in the corner. The app pops open, and so does a grainy picture of two figures sitting in a car in an intimate conversation. Another photo of the figures standing outside a hotel, looking as though they’re holding hands. I zoom in on it to get a better look.
It’s me and Patrick.
My stomach drops, and I click on the link.
The headline pops up: ELISE BRANSON CAUGHT WITH PRIEST LOVER!
I read the first few lines.
Our sources say Elise Branson, former fiancée of deceased star Dean Graham, and currently engaged to business icon Hunter Garrot, showed she has more in common with her famous grandmother Vivian Snow than her smile when she was discovered outside a hotel in a compromising position with a local religious leader, Father Patrick Kelly. Mac Dorman’s newest documentary on the early life of icon Vivian Snow reveals a similar love triangle in the actress’s early life. Like grandmother like granddaughter, it seems . . .
“Shit,” I say into the phone. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”
Marla lets me have my moment of panic. It’s a normal response; I’ve seen it countless times with my clients.
All the things that I roll my eyes at when other people say them pop into my mind. I want to tell off every single one of my contacts at ZTM. I want to sue everyone who picked up the story after the picture was leaked. I want to write a comment on every post to rebut the claims. I want to send out my own statement ASAP, correcting every assumption made in this stupid article.
But I know that’s not how things work.
“Well, what do you think?” Marla asks eventually.
“I think we need to find out who the source is,” I say, scanning through the rest of the article that’s filled with claims not only about my “relationship” with Patrick but also my grandmother’s relationship with an Italian prisoner in the POW camp in 1943.
The prisoner’s name is familiar—Antonio Trombello.
Oh my God—the guy from the pictures and the one who bought Grandpa’s burial plot. It’s extremely specific information that could only come from someone working on this film.
“I agree. I’ll reach out to Terry, but you know he’s pretty tight-lipped about these things.”
“I know, which usually is good for us . . . ,” I say, recognizing the irony.
“Messaging strategy?” she asks, going through the crisis checklist.
“No statement. Not yet. So far, it looks like it’s just trash mags that have anything. Retweets by a few Snow/Branson fans. I’d like to know the media impressions if Farrah could run that. And have Helen add some alerts for my name, Hunter’s name, Father Patrick Kelly—you know what—just everyone named in that article. I don’t want to be surprised again.”
“Agreed,” Marla says, typing as I speak. “Your mom? Hunter? Should I call them, or do you want to?”
Hunter. My fiancé whom I’m supposedly cheating on with a priest. Oh my God. Hunter, who this very minute is probably getting ready for his flight, who is supposed to spend the next four days here. Hunter, who has enough staff to keep on top of every single media hit mentioning his name.
“I’ll call them. Please tell everyone to insulate Hunter and my mom from this as much as possible, okay?”
“Will do.” Marla pauses, and it sounds like she’s waiting for a statement or some words of wisdom from me.
“Just so you know, it’s not true,” I say, wanting to maintain my dignity with my staff. I may have feelings for Father Patrick, and I may have let things go a little too far, but he’s not my lover in any way, shape, or form.
“Okay,” she says with doubt in her voice.
I get it—it’s not our job to determine if our client is telling the truth. It’s our job to create a positive image and then help protect that image in moments of crisis. But I wish I knew she believed me. I need someone to believe me.
“Reach out when you know more. I’ll go talk to my mom and have someone get in touch with Father Patrick to give him a heads-up and fill him in on some best practices.”
“Perfect plan. I’ll brief the team while you call Hunter.” When I hear her say his name, intense anxiety crushes my lungs. I feel like I can’t take in even the smallest amount of oxygen. “Good luck,” she adds, the phrase turning up at the end like it might be a question.
I hang up without a goodbye, still struggling to breathe. What can I possibly say to him?
Hey, Hunter. I know the papers say I’m screwing the local priest, but don’t worry—that picture isn’t what it looks like.
What if he doesn’t believe me?
Well, whether he’ll believe me or not, I have to call him. I rush to the bathroom, nauseated. I fill a plastic cup with water from the tap and chug it, fill it again and chug until I can take a breath. Then I pace around the room, each buzz from my device amping up my anxiety until I can’t take it anymore. I dive onto the bed, pick up the phone, and call Hunter’s number.
Oh God, I might vomit.
I roll onto my back, my waterlogged stomach bloated and near bursting.
The call goes straight to voice mail. I hang up and call again with the same result. One more time. Nothing. I switch to text.
ELISE: Can’t wait to see you soon! Call me as soon as you get this. Crazy tabloid shit going on today. I’ll tell you everything when you call.
Send.
The blue message turns green; then a red warning appears next to it.
This message is undeliverable.
I send another test text, just to make sure. Same result.
He’s either turned off his phone, which is likely if his is blowing up as much as mine, or . . . he’s blocked me. No. That’s too childish. Hunter isn’t the kind of man to hear a rumor about his girlfriend and block her without a discussion. That’s teenage melodrama stuff. Not millionaire businessman stuff.
I go into the settings and put my phone on Do Not Disturb to silence all the notifications, and I approve only two contacts to break through the barrier—Marla and Hunter.
I can’t do anything more without talking to Hunter, so I shove the phone in my pocket, put my bra back on, and wrestle my feet into my gym shoes. No one’s in the hallway when I rush out of my room with only my wallet in my hand and my phone in my back pocket. I run to the stairwell, avoiding the elevator and anyone whom I might bump into there. I’m out of breath when I finally reach room 435. I knock three times on my mom and Mac’s door.
Now for step two of my crisis management plan—talking to Mom and Mac. Even though Mac’s documentary is mentioned in the gossip columns, it’s my mom I’m the most worried about. She’s so wrapped up in her relationship with Mac that I wonder when she’s finally going to realize what all this is leading up to—a question of who her real father is and whether she’s been lied to by her mother, the iconic Vivian Snow.
Though there’s a chance she already knows—the DNA test in her bag could be a sign that I’m the only one on the outside of this secret. No matter what the truth is and how embarrassing this hit piece is, at least I know my mom and Mac can’t ignore me or my questions anymore. I’m about to get answers, and that takes the edge off my nerves enough to keep me from vomiting.
I knock again.
This time I hear voices on the other side of the door and a scratching at the doorknob. I tidy the strands of hair sticking out from my ponytail and tickling my face. I go to readjust my tangled bra straps when the door swings open. I look up, expecting to see my mom or Mac or even Conrad. But instead, standing in front of me in a pair of Armani slacks and a white button-up shirt, his tie loosened, is the last person I expected to see—my fiancé.
CHAPTER 28
Vivian
Monday, June 14, 1943
Camp Atterbury
It’s been two long days and nights since Tom’s drunken confession of love and subsequent proposal. By the time I got home, papà himself was drunk, and the house was filled with cigar smoke. He must’ve known I’d scold him for it because as soon as I crossed the threshold, he excused himself and went to bed. I washed my face and brushed my teeth until my gums bled, floating in a post-romance haze. When I crawled into bed beside Aria, I kept my face turned away so she wouldn’t detect the alcohol on my breath.
The next two days went by in a blur of embarrassment and hope. I was unsure if I was in fact an engaged woman or if Tom had changed his mind after sobering up. Getting on the bus this morning felt like joining a funeral procession in which I didn’t know if the person in the casket was dead or alive.
But as soon as we turn onto Hospital Road, I can make him out, standing on the corner waiting for me. One of the girls across the aisle gives me a meaningful look. Apparently, Lilly and Sue have spread conjecture about me and Tom to every female at Camp Atterbury.
I’m too nervous to be overly annoyed. As I tromp down the bus steps, Tom offers his hand, helping me to the ground.
“I want you to wear this,” he says, taking me aside and pulling out a ring he’s made from what looks like tin. Metal of any kind is hard to find nowadays, so I suppose I’m lucky to have a ring at all.
“I ordered a big diamond from Tiffany’s. It won’t get here for a few weeks, but I wanted to see a ring on your finger right away.”
“Tiffany’s?” I’ve never dreamed of having anything from such a fancy store. Girls at college would cut out Tiffany & Co. ads from magazines and pass them around at lunchtime, seeming to me more persnickety about the ring than the man they’d spend their lives with.
“I hope you like it. I had my sister pick it out. She knows better than I do about that sort of thing.”
“That’s right; you mentioned her as your accomplice with the shoes.” I don’t know a whole lot about my future husband.
“Yeah, Moira. She’s a doll but a little spoiled; you know how it is.” I don’t “know how it is,” but I act like I do. “You’ll meet her in a few months, after Ranger training. Think what my family will do when I show up with you on my arm.”
“You’re not gonna tell them till then?” We’re nearing the gate where we part ways. I have so many questions, and it seems like there’s never enough time to ask them.
“They’d do something stupid like try to change my mind or send Franklin, my older brother, down here to stop things before our wedding.” My eyes widen. “Oh, don’t worry your little head. It’ll be all spiffy, once we’re official for a while. That’s why we gotta get this wedding done lickety-split, before my transfer. And Moira knows. She’s a gem, though. She won’t spill the beans. You didn’t tell your pa, did ya? It might be better to wait till after we’re married—when I’m far enough away he can’t shoot me.”
He laughs, and I fake a chuckle. I haven’t told papà yet mostly because I was worried I’d imagined the whole thing, but I hadn’t planned to keep it from him for long. Though I can see some benefit to eloping. No fights with papà. No issues with Tom’s family. And no need to wear my ring during auditions. But since Tom is a GI, I guess we wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret for long here at Camp Atterbury.
Eloping. My Lord, I’m about to elope.
“Can I tell my sister?”
“I don’t see why not. She seems like she’d be a far worse shot than your dad.” He winks, and all the jiggly warm feelings I had in the back seat of the car return, and I’m dizzy again, drunk on his charm.
He leans in to kiss me when a truck going through the gates catches my eye. It’s the one that transports the workers to the chapel construction site. My team stands in line thirty feet past the fence. They watch me. Only Trombello tries to be discreet, pretending to look at something on the ground. The other men point toward me. Even with his thick glasses, Gravano can see us and waves until Trombello pulls his arm down.
Tom notices the change in my focus, and his demeanor goes from light and hopeful to stormy.
“They act like they know you,” he says, moving his body between me and the line of men. “It’s disgusting.”
“We work together,” I say, trying to explain.
“Work together? Together? Can you hear yourself?” he asks, tapping my temple. “What am I supposed to tell my company? That while we’re out fighting, my wife’s back home giving these dagos a hard-on, swaying her hips, and laughing at their stupid jokes?”
“Tom,” I say, reprimanding his crass language. But his intensity only rises.
“I heard these yucks are having a dance next week at some church. Dancing with local girls. Can you believe that?”
