After six minutes of sprint-dressing in the bathroom of the local diner, I exit through the glass door, satisfied with the deep plum-colored blouse I’ve tossed on with a tailored leather jacket, a pair of dark trousers, and heeled booties. No one can see my outfit under my puffy plum coat, but Conrad gave it a thumbs-up, and I’m guessing that means Mac approves too.
I climb into the back seat of the idling black Escalade to find a forty-something woman wearing all black with dyed red hair pinned up in a bun waiting for me.
“Hey there, hun. I’m Lisa. Just a quick little touch-up for you, okay?”
Mac jumps in, and we make the short drive to the church as Lisa applies my makeup and tidies my hair.
“The church is Holy Trinity Catholic Church, and we’ll be meeting Father Ignatius. It’s just an intro prior to the Pre-Cana class required for the wedding prep.”
“They’re all right starting without Hunter?”
“Yeah. It’s just the basics, and we’ll get you together for the next one, even if he’s virtual.”
Lisa has me open my eyes and applies mascara with a disposable wand. My nerves are starting to simmer under the surface. I can hold meetings with high-powered famous people. I can face PR disasters, Twitter gaffes, and celebrity feuds, but stepping in front of the camera to talk about myself and my family is suffocating. I feel like I did when Dean was filming in Maui and there was pineapple in my daiquiri, which I’m deathly allergic to. My throat closed up so fast I could feel the sides meeting in the middle, shutting off my airway.
Dean reacted immediately. Called for help. Gave me CPR. Obtained an epi pen from someone at one of the tables next to us. He saved my life. I wish Dean were here.
Lisa puts on a final coat of gloss, and I rub my lips together, chastising myself. Not Dean. Hunter. I wish Hunter were here.
Lisa produces a handheld mirror as the car slows. I barely look but say thank you, and when the car comes to a complete stop, Mac jumps out like he’s escaping a kidnapper.
“By the way,” Lisa adds once Mac is gone, “I’m a big Vivian Snow fan. I need to know: Was she really as sweet in real life as she seemed on camera?”
I’m usually uncomfortable when strangers ask about my famous family. But lately when I talk about my grandmother, it doesn’t feel like an intrusion. Most tell me about how Vivian Snow made a difference in their life, and it’s like she’s resurrected for a moment.
“Absolutely,” I say, and Lisa swoons. She’s about to ask another question when the Escalade’s door opens, and a sound engineer taps her out. He hands me a mic. I remove my outer coat, snake the mic through the back of my shirt, and clip it to my collar. After a few sound checks, he gives me a thumbs-up and dips out of the car, the same way he came in.
I hear a slate clap outside and Mac say action. The door swings open again, but this time Marty stands outside with a camera on his shoulder and Mac right next to him.
I straighten my jacket and blouse, rub my lips together one more time, and then work my way out of the elevated back seat, my feet landing on a cement curb. Ignoring the blank stare of Marty’s camera and the smaller, handheld camera focused on Mac, I catch my first real glimpse of Holy Trinity.
I’ve been here before but never as an adult, and it looks almost as large as I remember. The church is built on a hill, the greenery sweeping up to the steepled tower and cement steps leading to the arched carved front doors.
“What do you think? First impressions?” Mac asks, his voice low and hypnotic like he doesn’t want to wake me from some sort of trance.
“It’s beautiful.” I barely get the words out before my throat tightens again, not only from nerves but from a rush of feelings I can’t turn off. As I take in the vision of the church through the barely budding trees, tears sting my eyes.
“Has it changed much since you were here last?”
I caress every sharp angle and delicate curve of the structure with my gaze. I’ve seen greater buildings. I’ve visited the Vatican. I’ve walked on the Great Wall of China. I’ve strolled through the halls of Versailles, stood in Palace Square in St. Petersburg, and gasped at the brilliant beacon that is the Taj Mahal.
But what this site has that none of the others did is a piece of my history, my origin; it feels like it’s almost part of my DNA.
“It looks exactly the same as when I was a kid and . . .” I think back to the photo in the eight-by-ten frame my mother keeps by the side of her bed even to this day. “My mom has a picture of Nonna and Grandpa on their wedding day outside this place. Seeing those carved doors right now—it’s like they could walk out any second.”
“Really? It’s that well preserved?”
“I think so. You should ask my mom for her parents’ wedding picture. It’s a little fuzzy, but you’ll get the idea.”
“What does it mean to you that you’ll be married here in a few short weeks?” he asks in his interviewer voice.
I envision myself dressed in white with Hunter beside me in his tuxedo, the stair rails dripping with flowers and bells ringing in the background. Although I’ve been struggling to imagine our wedding day, in this moment, it seems so clear.
“I think it means . . . everything.” My comment hangs in the air, a meaningful, pregnant pause after my heartfelt sharing moment.
“Let’s cut there,” Mac says to the crew. All the cameras lift or droop, no longer focused on me or the church. Mac places an encouraging hand on my shoulder, squinting through his lenses. “Wow. Elise, that was great. Exactly what we need. Honest, vulnerable emotion. Perfect. Keep doing that, and we’ll be out of here in no time.”
Every piece of encouragement from Mac rings hollow. I feel silly for falling under his hypnotic spell and spouting something so cheesy, so melodramatic. Now, that sentimental moment belongs to Mac and the documentary, impossible to take back. I need to be more cautious. Mac is either a skilled director or a master manipulator—either way, there’s no doubt he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get “the shot.” And it looks like it’s up to me to protect my family’s dignity—as well as my own.
This could be an interesting few weeks, I think as I nod cooperatively at Mac’s stage directions while Lisa touches up the liner slightly smudged from my tears.
“Perfect,” she says, stepping back and smiling at me, although I’m sure she’s smiling at the “granddaughter of Vivian Snow” more so than at “Elise Branson.” But in this case, I’m not offended.
With the cameras rolling again, I walk up the long row of steps embedded in the hillside to the front of the church. I’d heard Mac talking about losing the daylight, so there’s a sense of urgency in the air. And though I’m cold without my fluffy coat, and I have to make a concerted effort not to look directly at the cameras, I realize my hands have finally stopped shaking.
CHAPTER 6
Vivian
Friday, May 7, 1943