“These friends. Men as well?”
“No!” I rush to correct the narrative, knowing how dangerous it sounds. “No. My friend from the USO, Pearl. Her brother drives her and a few other girls into Edinburgh every week. They were giving Tom a ride back to the base. I swear.”
“This Tom—is he trying to court you? I told you—no army men. Not to be trusted. Doesn’t even come meet your father and shake his hand. That’s how it’s done. I went to your grandfather and asked if I could take his lovely daughter to the church supper. He said yes. We went. Two months later, she was my wife.”
“It was late, papà. And . . . and we aren’t courting . . . or whatever you used to call it back then.”
“He doesn’t want to court you? You are beautiful and sing like a bird. He could be so lucky to spend time with you.” His temper is rising again, but this time I find some humor in his words, and I’m touched by the rare compliment. He lifts his finger to the sky. “Ah. It’s because you’re Italian!”
“No, papà,” I blurt. “He wants to take me out and to meet you. Tomorrow, in fact. I was about to tell you.”
Papà tears off another piece of bread and then uses it to gesture as he talks.
“This man—is he Catholic?”
“I don’t know, papà,” I say, collecting the bread and the grappa bottle, attempting to act as though his passions, as he calls them, have passed. Which may or may not be the case—I’ll know for certain in the next few minutes.
“He has a good family? A good home?” He continues to ask questions I don’t know the answers to.
“I don’t know, papà. It’s our first date.”
“You know nothing of this man. Stranger. Foolish girl.” He shakes his head, but I’m not discouraged. I know papà wishes he could give his daughter to a man from Italia, but it’s far safer to let me be seen with a GI. This works in my favor. “And this man—where will he take you? You go nowhere till this man shows his face to me.”
“He is coming to meet you, papà. He wants to. You can ask him all the questions you like then.” The last thing I want is for my father to question my date, but then again—it’s Tom. Not only can he take a little ribbing—he kind of deserves it.
When papà reaches for his empty glass, I pour him a mixture of lemon and strawberry that Aria’s made out of flavor packets and fruit from the garden.
“Have this, papà. It’s good for you.”
“What is this mess? Look at this,” he complains without tasting it. But I’m so relieved, I don’t care about his grievances now. I know we’ll speak of all this again. It’ll come up when he’s frustrated or angry or worried about the future. But for now, my father has decided, unilaterally, that we no longer need to discuss the lies I’ve told. And I know why.
It’s not because he approves of even half the things I’m doing outside our house—but he understands something I hadn’t realized until now. If he pursues the conflict, it will ultimately uncover layers of his insecurity. It’ll reveal the real reason I work outside the home—because he cannot provide for his family. And it will be a reminder of how his wife, the love of his life, has lost her mind, placing a heavy burden on us all.
We, his daughters, are his only shield from reality and from a society that doesn’t care if he lives or dies. Fear fuels my father’s anger and encourages my lies. We are not too different in that way, my father and I—he attacks perceived threats, while I dodge them with a smile, a story, and a laugh.
CHAPTER 25
Elise
Present Day
Holy Trinity Catholic Church
“My parents were divorced when I was three. My dad’s been remarried three times, my mom four,” Hunter says through the computer screen. The first two Pre-Cana sessions I did alone, but Father Patrick reminded me at our last session that he’s required to speak with both the bride and groom for at least half the lessons. Hunter agreed to the Zoom meeting today, and the in-person meeting this weekend brings us up to the requirement. It’s the last step before we’re officially cleared for our wedding.
Hunter arrived early today. When I logged into Zoom, with my laptop positioned between us on Father Patrick’s desk, he was sitting there waiting in his favorite Tom Ford suit, navy blue, with a slate-gray tie and engraved golden tie clip. He’s hot, like David Beckham hot, smart, successful—now and then I wonder if he’s an actor being paid to pretend to love me. Which would make sense with all the cameras and lighting equipment around.
He greeted me with a “Hello, hot stuff,” and I blushed.
Patrick didn’t flinch, which means he either has a great poker face or I was reading into things last night. When he walked into the office this evening, his hair parted neatly on one side and a sweater over his collared shirt, I felt it all again. I can hardly breathe when he’s nearby, which makes “playing it cool” even more difficult.
“Thank you both for sharing about your family of origin. It’s important to look at how your families process conflict and communication in order to build a new and evolved healthy marital relationship,” Father Patrick reads from the binder in front of him and then flips to the next tab and clears his throat. “Section four. Marital Intimacy and Sexual Purity. I’ll start our next topic by reading a scripture from First Thessalonians, chapter four: verses three to eight. For this is the will of God, your sanctification: that you abstain from immorality; that each one of you know how to control his own body in holiness and honor, not in the passion of lust like heathen who do not know God . . . For God has not called us for uncleanness, but in holiness. Any comments on this passage?”
The computer mic picks up Hunter’s chuckle, and I’m sure my eyes are wide. I knew a little about the Pre-Cana from my time as an all-in Catholic, but I guess I didn’t consider that Patrick would lead a discussion with me and Hunter about sex and purity. Especially not on camera. I address Mac directly rather than express my not-so-holy thoughts about the Bible verses we just heard.
“I’m not comfortable with this.”
“Sorry, dear. What don’t you feel comfortable with specifically?” he asks in his charming British accent, looking at me over his monitor.
“Talking about my sex life in front of a viewing audience,” I clarify, bristling at his pushback. Mac doesn’t respect my boundaries—must be why he gets along so well with my mother.
“I don’t mind,” Hunter chimes in through the screen, straightening his suit coat. “What’s wrong, babe? Worried we’ll make ’em jealous?” He’s joking, and normally I’d laugh, but this isn’t some cute banter between the two of us about our sexy love life. Father Patrick is the last man I want thinking about me having sex with my fiancé.