“I think we’re both sinners in the eyes of the church, babe.”
“Okay, okay. Fine. You’re a sinner—I’m a godless heathen.”
“Who wants to date a saint?” I attempt a sexy rasp.
“Don’t you mean marry a saint?” he corrects me, lingering on the word “marry.” I don’t know what it is about this guy, but he loves the idea of marriage almost as much as the idea makes me anxious.
“Ha—you know what I mean.”
“I’m glad you don’t mind my godless ways,” he says, flirting. He’s always been a flirt. I used to worry that meant he flirted with all women, like his father, but he insists he’s worked hard to be the exact opposite of Kenneth Garrot when it comes to relationships.
“I love your godless ways.”
“Even if they cause problems with the wedding?” He brings up the concern again and seems to be asking seriously this time around.
“We should be fine. You were baptized Catholic as a baby, so I think that’s all they need. Possibly one or two other things. Gotta do that Pre-Cana class with the priest. If they ask about your views on God now . . . plead the Fifth if you’re sold on this ‘church wedding’ idea . . .”
My GPS interjects, directing me to take the next exit. I drift into the right lane without using my blinker.
“Our kids will get to watch the documentary.” Hunter’s voice returns, and I catch only part of what he’s saying.
“Sorry, the GPS cut you off, babe,” I say, dodging the question of kids with Hunter. I want them, obviously, but rushing into parenthood with a man I’ve loved for less than a year is different from rushing into a marriage. Children don’t go away with divorce decrees. And I want to give my children a more stable life than I had. Thankfully, he drops the topic.
“Oh, that’s fine. I have another meeting waiting. I was just saying I’m definitely still up for it. Can we FaceTime later? After your church inquisition? Is it dumb I miss you already?” The sweet vulnerability to his question doesn’t match his public business persona. It’s that tender part of this man that I love.
“Not dumb,” I say, softening my voice to match his tone. “I miss you too.”
The roads have narrowed, and I slow my speed. The GPS declares I’ve reached my destination.
“I’m glad I’m not the only one.”
“Never,” I say, settling into an empty spot on the one-way street lined with brick storefronts and old-timey streetlamps. Quaint. Just like Hunter said. And he’s right—this’ll look great on camera.
I pick up the phone and press it to my cheek. I like holding him close like that; it’s more natural, intimate. “You’re still planning to come out next week, right?”
He hesitates. In that quiet moment, I understand his plans have shifted already. This is what it’ll be like as Hunter’s partner, how it’ll always be.
“I hope so, but the guys from Stockholm are talking about flying in next week, and if so, I gotta be here.”
He’s a romantic. He’s loving. He’s all in. But he’s also only actually here half the time.
“I get that.” Irritation bubbles up like it always does when I’m stuck in people-pleasing mode. I can be stern in my job, no problem. I can be kind but firm with my employees. But with people I love, it’s harder. I give in, probably too much.
“I mean, I’ll make it out there ASAP. I promise. You know how important this deal is.”
I do know, but I also know how many important things I put on hold for this trip, how I shifted my schedule to work virtually. I moved much of my case load to Marla, my associate and VP, who is likely cursing my name right now—and who has made it no secret that she thinks this whole documentary thing is a terrible idea.
“You mad?” he asks coyly, as though he can read my mind.
“Not mad, really. Just . . .”
“Disappointed?” he asks, teasing, as though I’m a mom giving her child a guilt trip.
“Ha, no. More like . . .” I search for a gentle way to say that it feels like I’m making all the sacrifices in our relationship and he’s making all the big decisions and that I feel overwhelmed and alone. But that’s a lot, especially for a quick little “checking in” phone call.
Instead, I say, “I don’t know. Nervous, I guess? You know how I feel about being on camera.”
“You shine on camera, Lisey,” he reassures me. “I’ve seen it before. It’s in your genes.”
It’s always awkward when people remind me of the famous legacy I was born into.
“I guess . . . I guess what I’m really trying to say is . . .”
As I’m about to blurt it all out, a loud thump lands on the car window, and I scream like I’m in the middle of a carjacking.
“You okay?” I hear Hunter’s voice distantly as I hold the phone away from my face to investigate the loud noise.
Outside the window stands Conrad, Mac’s high-strung assistant who’s been my main contact through the planning of this whole thing. I know him from the headshot he uses as a signature on his emails. He’s holding the clipboard he used to assault my window and wearing a Dolce & Gabbana blazer and Colorblock sunglasses, looking about seven thousand dollars fancier than any Indiana native I’ve seen so far. He spins his finger in circles to get me to roll down the window.
I press the phone against my face and whisper, “It’s Conrad. I gotta go.”
“Conrad?” Hunter still sounds anxious from my scream.
“Mac’s assistant,” I say through pressed lips.
“Ohhhh, Mr. Text You Incessantly at Three in the Morning about Flight Options. Fun for you.”
“Yeah, yeah, I wouldn’t get on too high a horse there, mister. When you get out here eventually, I’ll make sure he has your personal number.”
“Wow. You do love me; don’t you?”
Conrad attempts to get my attention again, a tap this time. I grab my computer bag and sling it over my shoulder.
“I think you’ll have to check in with me tonight. This is going to be . . .”
“Fun? Exciting? Romantic? Entertaining? Memorable? Educational?”
“Don’t you have a meeting to get to? Stop gaslighting me!” I say to Hunter, laughing as I slam the car door and pop the back hatch of the Explorer to retrieve my bags. Conrad watches, and I can predict the dialogue inside his head, “I’m an assistant, not a servant.”
I say a quick goodbye to Hunter and hang up. But as soon as I take a deep breath of the cool spring country air, my real feelings return.
I’m here—where my grandmother grew up, met my grandfather, got married, had my mom. Where the only evidence my family once lived within this town’s borders is the cluster of headstones in the local cemetery. I’m here to plan my own wedding, get interviewed on camera, be asked plenty of questions I’m sure I’m not prepared for. And at least for now—I’m doing it alone.
CHAPTER 4
Vivian
Monday, April 26, 1943
Camp Atterbury