“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.
“You can sit here as long as you need. I have confession at seven; otherwise, I’d offer you a ride.”
“It’s all right. I’ll get someone to pick me up in a bit,” I say, taking another sip.
“I’ll be in the sacristy if you need me,” he says as he walks away.
When he reaches the altar, I call out irreverently, “Can you turn off the lights again?”
He flicks them off without saying a word.
“Thank you.”
I sit in the dark, listening to the snowstorm as it surrounds my sanctuary, asking questions, searching for answers.
What if I can’t stop Mac? And what if my grandmother was a liar? What if she made up a nice story about my grandfather to cover up something even more embarrassing or scandalous or horrifying? What if I quit the documentary—will Mac go on without me? Will Hunter leave me? And what if he’s right—about the documentary, about my career, about me?
What if my whole life is about to change? Again.
CHAPTER 16
Vivian
Friday, June 4, 1943