“Ah. But are you Catholic enough to agree with it?”
I open my mouth to make a safe statement about divorce and religious beliefs, but then I think of my grandmother and how much she suffered for her faith.
“I can’t say I agree,” I answer honestly. I’m about to explain my reasons when Father Ignatius chimes in from the darkness behind the lights.
“It’s an important principle in the church, though not popular in the world.”
“I know,” I say directly to Father Patrick to discourage more interruptions from Father Ignatius. “My mom told me stories from when my grandma, Vivian, was married to director Martin Twilson. He all but ruined her career. Broke her cheekbone one night because she kissed her costar in a scene. She had to back out of the film. And the way he was to my mom . . .” It’s not my story to tell, but I’ve reviewed enough versions of her never-before-seen one-woman show to know about the late-night visits, creaking floorboards, threats if secrets weren’t kept. “Anyway, Nonna stayed with that man for far too long because she was taught divorce was a sin.”
“That’s heartbreaking,” Father Patrick says with what seems like empathy. It doesn’t make me feel better, strangely.
“It was. It’s hard enough for someone to get out of an abusive relationship. But then to have their church guilt them into staying? It’s not right. And my mom taught me that no one should stay in a situation that’s hurting them.”
“Well then, you’re more Catholic than you think,” he says, a gentle smile emerging slowly. “No one’s expected to stay in an abusive marriage. Acting to end abuse doesn’t violate the marriage covenant.”
I’m almost taken in by his soft response, but I remember sitting in those pews and seeing my sweet grandmother’s face fall as we listened to the homilies denouncing divorce.
“I appreciate that sentiment, but you’ve gotta know that’s not how it feels to faithful parishioners.”
I expect continued pushback or another canned line that clearly comes from some religious document, but his response surprises me.
“I know.”
“You know?” I echo, unsure if I should believe him. The collar and the cross above his desk make me ask one more question. “How? Because running a marriage retreat in Angola doesn’t count.”
Father Patrick shifts in his seat, checking the positions of the cameras and the crew behind them and possibly Father Ignatius, who has remained mute since his first outburst. Then he looks back at me and exhales.
“Uh, my sister. She . . . she got married when I was a teenager. She was only eighteen but pregnant, so she thought it was, you know, the right thing to do.” He swallows and clears his throat. “They had two girls—Ruth and Liza. Her husband, Jim, was an unhappy man; okay—he was a mean man. An abusive man.” He pauses again like he’s gathering the energy to finish the story. The residual trauma I read in his face makes me wish I hadn’t forced him to open up—not just to me or this room full of people, but potentially to a worldwide audience.
“You don’t have to tell me. I believe you know.” I stop him with an outstretched hand. I’ve put him in an impossible position.
“Let him finish,” Mac mumbles, and even with the cameras focused on me, I roll my eyes, annoyed.
“You’re under no obligation to tell me anything, Father. I signed on for this, not you. I’m used to it. The tabloids had a picture of me before my grandmother died. One time, a pap dressed up like a nurse to get pictures of my grandma in the hospital.” And then I remember the worst incident. “Goddamn ZMT flew a drone over Dean’s funeral.”
“Ahem,” Father Ignatius clears his throat at my curse, reminding me I’m in a church.
“Sorry. Sorry,” I say to the general darkness and then back to Father Patrick. “I think you shouldn’t have to do this whole ‘share everything’ bit unless you really want to.”
He takes a microscopic glance at the cameras and then speaks.
“Well, thank you, Miss Branson. That’s very thoughtful of you,” he says, nodding his head casually, but I can tell he means it.
I’m relieved that he’s not going to share the rest of his story. Not because I don’t want to hear the end but because it’s nice to see someone say no to all this Hollywood shit.
“Call me Elise. Miss Branson is my mother. Er, or Ms. Branson. Madame Branson?” I try to turn it all into a joke, mostly because all this fame stuff is a joke but also to take the focus off Father Patrick.
“Back to your question. I haven’t been married before. Neither has Hunter.” I restate my earlier answer so I can get us back on track with the interview. Later I can ask Mac to exclude that whole abuse conversation. “We’re marriage virgins”—I hesitate—“but not actual virgins.” I clarify, in case it’s important. “Just our first marriages. Shit. Do we have to be virgins?”
Father Self-Righteous coughs again as I stumble through my answer. No one would guess I’m the head of a multimillion-dollar, internationally acclaimed PR firm. It’s been a long day. I need a good meal and a solid night’s sleep before getting in front of the camera again.
“Uh, ha. Um, well, I won’t write anything in your file, and we’ll have a nice long chat about what’s required before your wedding day when your fiancé is here.”
“Sounds delightful,” I say, heavy on the sarcasm.
“It’s not as terrible as it sounds. I promise. But while I have you alone. Do you . . .” He lowers his voice and leans forward as though the microphones can’t pick up even the shifting of his hair. “Do you mind if I ask you one more personal question? Then we can get into the wedding particulars.”
“Maybe?” I say, reserving the right to say no if it turns out to be too personal.
“I thought it might be more appropriate to ask you before your fiancé arrives to avoid any awkwardness.”
My eyes widen, but I don’t stop him.
“What happened to your first engagement?”
It takes a moment for the question to make sense.
“You don’t know?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is there a summary here somewhere?” He opens the file folder again.
“No, uh, no. It was a pretty public thing, so I always assume most people have heard . . .”
“I really don’t keep up with the Hollywood rumor mill.” It’s the closest to pompous he’s sounded in our back-and-forth, and I snip back sharply.
“Brain cancer isn’t exactly hot gossip.”
“Brain cancer?” he asks. His brows turn in, and the humor drains from his voice.
“Yeah. Six years ago, my first fiancé, Dean Graham, died from a brain tumor. Two weeks before our wedding,” I say frankly, not because I don’t care anymore, but because I don’t want to be vulnerable in front of this stranger and potentially millions of strangers once the documentary is released.
“Dean,” Father Patrick repeats. Hearing his name in a priest’s mouth again after all these years gives me chills. “Yes. You said there was a drone flyover at his funeral, right?”
“Yup.”
“That’s terrible. I’m truly sorry.”