My eyes open at the sound of the authoritarian voice. The scene has changed drastically. Guards hold back Romano and Bononcini. Trombello lies facedown on the tiled floor, his mouth bloodied and Talbot’s muddy boot on his back. A thick, middle-aged officer stands by the open front door, not seeming to notice the deluge of rain and cold air rushing in.
This must be Lieutenant Colonel Gammell. The boys I’ve danced with say he’s strict, fastidious, and quick-tempered. I can see why. If he were a Looney Tunes cartoon character, he’d have steam coming from his ears.
His outraged masculine voice makes my chest tighten and my shoulders stiffen. My father’s temper has the same effect on me. I try to be small and silent like I am when my father has an outburst. All the men in the room begin speaking at the same time, starting up the conflict again.
Hunched over, I glance around for an escape route, but all I can see are the outraged faces of angry men, and all I can hear are raised voices in two different languages, combining into a cacophony of confusion and commotion. There’s no escape.
I close my eyes again and try to disappear, hide inside my mind while they fight in front of me. There’s nothing I can do. Because, in this world of war, one nineteen-year-old girl is meaningless.
And just like inside my father’s house and inside Edinburgh, Indiana—I’m stuck.
CHAPTER 3
Elise
Present Day
I-65 Indiana
The brownish-green grass of early spring flashes past my window at a blurry speed of sixty-five miles an hour. The sky is a bright, late-March blue, and it’s warm enough to wear one layer on top of my long-sleeved T-shirt but still chilly enough that I’m not about to roll down my windows and take in the country air.
My flight was delayed by a few hours. Mac had sent me a first-class ticket, and I sat next to a silent businessman who thankfully spared us both from small talk or, God forbid, actual conversation.
When I checked my phone after we touched down, I’d expected the deluge of texts, social media notifications, calendar reminders, and one or two messages from Hunter. I had a few from my assistant and from Conrad, Mac’s assistant, sending over my car rental and hotel reservations. But the one name that didn’t show up was . . . my fiancé’s. I checked at least three more times, wondering if his message had somehow been delayed by my lack of Wi-Fi. But eventually I accept that he hasn’t texted me.
He’s busy, I remind myself. I get it.
But Hunter was the one to greenlight this whole thing. I told my mom no at least ten times before Hunter got involved. Getting married in a small town in Indiana to appease my mom and appear in a Mac Dorman documentary is going to be torture. It’s great PR for my mom and Mac, and this whole engagement has been a huge boost for Hunter’s image—but all this press and attention are a living hell for me.
But that’s when I feel self-centered.
How fair is it for me to push back? This is Hunter’s first wedding. Yes, technically it’s my first wedding, too, but I already planned my dream wedding six years ago. I wanted it all—five hundred guests, a tent in the backyard of my mom’s Malibu house, catering from Tramonto Bistro, and Maroon 5 for our reception. We’d ordered a cake from Sylvia Weinstock and sent invites out to our friends and family. My dress, my perfect dress by Romona Keveza, an off-the-shoulder, fairy-tale-inspired gown with a crystal-encrusted belt was on order. I was scheduled to come in for the final fitting a few weeks before the wedding when Dean had his stroke.
Even before the stroke, I knew he wasn’t cured. No one is “cured” of a glioblastoma, an aggressive and always fatal brain tumor, but I thought we had more time. I thought I’d marry him, take his name, be his wife for a few years. We’d even discussed having a kid, maybe two. That would be his legacy, our legacy.
Some people said it would be selfish to have children, but to me it seemed like the most selfless thing possible—his willingness to have a child he might never hold, who would only know him by pictures and through his movies. It made me love him more. But then he was gone. Boom.
And suddenly I was planning his funeral rather than our wedding. The sit-down dinner was changed to a funeral luncheon. And my dress—we forgot to cancel it, and another lucky bride got a huge discount on my dream.
I twist my grandmother’s ring around on my left finger. It’s starting to feel at home there again. But sometimes I wonder if I’m wearing it just for Hunter. Sometimes it feels like I’m wearing it to remember Dean and to keep alive the feeling that he’s still mine in some way and I’m still his.
My phone buzzes.
Finally!
On my screen, Hunter’s face grins back in a photo I took last August on a walk in Central Park, when I wasn’t sure if he’d be a long-term commitment or another attempt at love that would fade into the background of my life. That was the day he told me he couldn’t stand the nonexclusive nature of our “thing” anymore, and I took a risk and chose to lean into him rather than run away.
I answer on speaker.
“Hey, babe! There you are.”
His deep chuckle makes my stomach bubble happily.
“Sorry! Lots of meetings this morning, but I’m glad you got in safe. How long till you get to the town? Edinburgh? Is that how you say it?” he asks with a slight Scottish accent.
He makes it sound like I’m visiting a mythical land like Narnia rather than an average small town in the Midwest. Though I guess to someone like Hunter, a simple, anonymous town like Edinburgh is a fantasy land, hard to understand for this man who’s grown up in New York City with a philandering billionaire father and a distant, heartbroken mother—all under the media’s microscope. Our childhoods were very different, my mother eccentric but involved, my father career driven but always there for me even after their divorce. But the media spotlight burned both of us at one time or another.
“It’s apparently pronounced ‘Edinburgh’ not ‘Edin-burrow.’ Made that mistake right off the plane. And it’s not as remote as you’d think. Cornfields, for sure, but also towns and subdivisions. Middle America, I guess.”
“The pictures Mac sent over make it look so quaint. But the church seems epic for a small town.”
“Yeah. It’s nice. I’m pretty sure I’ve been inside a few times, but I don’t remember details.”
“Is that where you did all your Catholic stuff?”
“Said like a true atheist there, Hunter.” I laugh, not that I’m any more religious than he is. My mother claims to be “more spiritual than religious,” but my grandmother had definitely claimed Catholicism as her religious affiliation.
My siblings and I were baptized at Nonna’s request. And Nonna made sure I had my First Communion and even squeezed in Confirmation one summer when I stayed with her in LA. I was a true believer for a while. Even considered myself “very religious” for some time. But just like I grew out of my belief in fairy tales, eventually the realities and tragedies of life pulled me away from my religious beliefs as well.
“Well, I don’t know what it’s called,” he says, laughing. “You gotta find out if a sinner like me can even be married by a priest and all that.” It sounded like he put verbal quotes around “sinner.”