Hearing about Mary’s nosy but normal mother makes that scar inside my soul start to itch. To distract myself, I turn the rearview mirror toward my side of the car and check my lighter shade of lipstick.
“I can’t, Mary. I’m sorry. With papà sick and mamma . . . gone . . .” I stop there, unable to say much else. I want to tell her how sick mamma is, that we have to pay for her medicine and her treatments and her room and board and that most of the time when I visit her, she barely remembers my name. But I can’t. Even Mary doesn’t know that mamma is in an institution. Papà told everyone she went to live with her sister after the “accident” because she couldn’t bear to live by the stream where Tony drowned. He taught Aria and me to lie.
“Do you think she’ll come home to help take care of your father?” Mary asks, and I hear real sympathy in her voice.
“Uh, no, she’s not . . . ready to move home yet.” I smooth my hair one more time and check my teeth for any rogue color and try to look casual as I bluff. As far as my friends and neighbors know, mamma comes to visit twice a year, and we go out to see her once a month at least. I confess my lies when I do actually go to confession, but Father Theodore rarely makes me say penance. I try not to take it as an endorsement of my deceit but rather an acknowledgment that in some way God understands.
“You’re a good girl, Vivian Santini.” Mary tucks a stray hair into my hairnet and rubs in the blush on my cheek. “But you can be good and also be yourself; you know that, right?”
I lean away from her nurturing touch and open the car door. There are so many things I can’t explain.
“Well, thanks for the ride.” I exit the vehicle quickly, the crunch of the gravel under my heels taking me by surprise. Mary follows, slamming her door and leaning against the car hood as she adjusts the buckle on her shoe.
“You’re welcome,” she says, dropping the whole roommate discussion, which is a relief. She squints in my direction. “See you after work?”
I’m already walking toward the road crossing, the towers and fences looking more friendly every day that I spend inside their confines.
“I have to work a little late and then voice lessons with Carly. I’ll catch the bus,” I call back to Mary with a wave and rush across the road without another look back.
Even with its foreboding fences, towers, guns, and barbed wire, I’m not scared of the camp anymore. In some ways, it feels even safer than the offices where Mary works. She tells stories of all sorts of fellas on base talking her up, but on my side of the road, the men are prisoners. Sometimes I find the uniforms and regulations and the overall otherworldliness of the Italian soldiers comforting.
That simplicity is strangely similar to what I feel onstage—I do my job; I do it well, and I don’t have to worry about much else until I step out of the spotlight or cross through the locked gates at the end of the day.
CHAPTER 9
Elise
Present Day
Holy Trinity Catholic Church
“Uh, will your fiancé be joining us?” Father Patrick asks when Ben claps the slate and steps out of frame. Mac’s in his position to the left of the desk, listening closely and watching both camera angles through a monitor.
“Eventually. But Hunter’s stuck in New York working on a big deal. So he won’t be here until he ties up some loose ends . . .” I swallow, my throat dry and my brain tired from the long day of travel, my eyes aching from the lights.
“Oh, that’s right. Mr. Garrot’s in finance or banking,” Father Patrick confirms. Hunter Garrot is a household name. I’m sure Father Patrick’s heard of him, but I also appreciate that he doesn’t act like he knows him just because he knows of him.
“Yes. CFO. He should be here next week,” I say, bluffing. I’m not sure if Hunter will visit next week or anytime in the next month. But, image-wise during filming, it’s important I make it sound like he’s interested in the wedding plans and appears to be a reliable partner.
“I look forward to meeting him officially,” he says, rearranging some papers on his desk. “So, we’ll start your Pre-Cana classes when I have both of you here, but for now—can you tell me a bit about yourself?”
“What do you need to know?” I ask, body language open, straight back.
He chuckles and crosses his arms on the desk. The dark vestments he wears don’t match the warmth of his personality.
“Okay, I’ll start, then. How long have you known your fiancé?” He picks up his pen like he’s ready to take notes.
“We had our first date last summer.”
“Oh, wow.” He writes something down. “Pretty recent, then. Love at first sight?” he asks as though he’s a hopeless romantic teen referencing a 1990s romcom. His conversational way of speaking puts me at ease.
“No. Not really. Hunter hired my PR firm, and we hit it off in our first meeting.” I quickly add, “I switched him to a different supervisor when he asked me on a date, to keep things aboveboard. But it clicked from there.”
“When did you get engaged?”
“February. It was very cold . . .” I pause, thinking back to the big performance on Forty-Fifth Street, the confetti in the air, and the crowd cheering. I’m sure Mac will want the footage from the photographer that night. “And romantic. Very romantic.”
“I’m sure.” He’s listening to every detail intently.
He’s easy to talk to, and our conversation is natural despite my embarrassment about the inappropriate comments I made in the nave. But it’s hard to ignore the black-and-white collar. The girl who used to believe so deeply can’t help but wonder if he’s silently judging her with each question.
“There were singers and people dancing and confetti—so much confetti,” I say, and he chuckles.
“It sounds like a fairy tale.”
“Yeah, it kind of was.” I try to sound wistful, grateful for the ethereal proposal, rather than diving into my honest feelings about fairy tales.
“A whirlwind romance?” he asks. That’s what the tabloids called it: “Elise and Hunter’s Whirlwind Romance—A Second Chance at Love.” In the entertainment business, there are three topics that steal headlines: engagements, babies, and scandal. It won’t be long before I’ll have to be careful about what dress I wear to keep pregnancy rumors at bay.
“Yeah, I guess, but . . . this isn’t our first time around,” I clarify, a touch defensive after being questioned one too many times by friends, colleagues, and reporters about the advanced pace of my relationship with Hunter. “We’re old enough to know what we want.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize that.” Glancing at Mac and then me, he inhales, shuffling through the papers again. “One of you was married before?”
“No, no. I was engaged. Not married. Is that a problem?”
“Ah. No. Engaged is not an issue.” He closes his folder again after making a note. “There are rules about marriages and divorces or annulments that would make the process more”—he searches for the right word—“more complicated.”
“Ah, yeah. I’m Catholic enough to remember your stance on divorce.” I narrowly avoid rolling my eyes.