“Snow,” I said, using my stage name, grief coming over me. I’d thought Trombello might be the one person I could be myself with. The one man who might see and accept me for who I really am—Vivian Santini. But I guess not. So, I’ll be Vivian Snow for Trombello and all the men at the USO and Archie Lombardo and even for my father, whether he knows it or not.
And even though by the end of this ceremony I’ll be Mrs. Tom Highward, I’m still Vivian Snow to my future husband. I wonder if I’ll ever be the real Vivian again.
“It’s time, Viv,” Aria says, stopping in the doorway and holding a bouquet of flowers from her garden. Her hair is neatly braided for once, and she’s dressed in her best dress, blue as the sky the day Tony drowned. Her mouth drops open. “You look like a movie star.”
“Don’t make me cry,” I say, looking up to keep tears from ruining my makeup.
“I’m already crying,” Ari says, rushing into my arms and resting her head against my chest.
“I wish mamma were here,” Ari says when she pulls away, drying her face.
“Me too, love. Me too.”
“You’re not gonna leave me too, are you, Viv?” I shake my head and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Never, darling. I promise.” And I won’t. Even if I go on tour or to Philadelphia with Tom or to Hollywood, I’ll always be back. I’ll leave Tom before I leave her.
The organ starts to play in the church. I can’t wait any longer.
“Get in there! Hurry. Hurry!” I urge her out with a little wave. She mouths, “Love you,” and I do the same. She rushes away, and I take a moment to sneak one last look in the mirror, checking my lipstick and veil. But even with the organ music vamping in the background and the little tap on the door, Carly coming to get me this time, I stare at my reflection.
I do look like a different version of myself. She’s calm and collected and pretty enough, I guess. I’ll get used to this girl. I think I’ll have to.
“Goodbye, Vivian Santini,” I say to the reflection in the mirror, and then walk out the door to my future.
CHAPTER 31
Elise
Present Day
Room 435
“You knew Grandpa wasn’t your father?” I ask my mom, my head swirling with all the new information.
“No, no. I was always told Tom Highward was my father. Always. He and your grandmother were legally married in 1943. But it turns out he didn’t die in the war. That was a lie Archie came up with to get around the morality clause when mamma signed her contract with MGM. I never considered, never once till now, that he wasn’t my daddy after all.”
“And you don’t think Mac knew this when he started his project?” I ask, pointing a finger in her boyfriend’s direction. “This was all a setup; can’t you see that?”
Mac holds up his hands like I’m pointing a gun at him.
“I did know some of it,” he says. “I knew Tom Highward didn’t die in battle. I knew he wasn’t buried in Rest Haven, and I even knew his family was wealthy and had shunned your mother and Vivian after he abandoned them. But only recently did I learn about the priest—the one in the albums, I mean,” he clarifies, and I cringe at even the slightest reference to Father Patrick.
“And that’s why you had that DNA test,” I say to my mom. Mac’s storyline is coming together. He started out to tell the story of Vivian Snow’s granddaughter getting married in the same small town where Vivian had her own wedding eighty years ago. But somewhere along the line, as he learned more salacious details about a potential love affair and the possible illegitimate offspring of a Hollywood sweetheart, he couldn’t resist.
My mother nods dramatically, tears glittering on her lower eyelids. “I’ll have the results in a few weeks. I’d like to have you there when I open them.”
“Of course.” I take my mom’s hand. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be at seventy-nine years old to possibly have the whole framing device for your life change. My father took a paternity test as soon as they were widely available. At the time, I was offended. But years later when I was starting to understand my mother, I was grateful for the undeniable knowledge that he is my dad. And that can’t be taken away from me in some shocking revelation of infidelity or deceit.
“I guess what I need to know from you and Hunter,” Mac addresses both of us, patting the air like he’s trying to keep us calm, “is if you’d like to go through with the wedding at Holy Trinity. Now, I understand that we have a few kinks to iron out with these new revelations. How would you feel about changing the venue? Perhaps somewhere in Italy. We could track down Antonio Trombello’s family line, find a lovely church in the local town or village. Make it an international affair?”
I shake my head, anger turning into outrage. I’ve gotten so lost in the story of my grandmother and grandfather, whoever he may be, I’ve become distracted from the real reason I’m in their room. And why Hunter is here at all.
“No, no. I don’t want to even think about that.” I wave violently, my volume turned up to an eight or a nine. “Mom, I’m sorry about your dad. I’m sorry Nonna kept things from you, well, from all of us. I’m still trying to imagine a scenario where she’d do something like this. And Mac—I’m glad you’re there for my mom or whatever you’re doing for her. But I cannot focus on your stupid documentary right now. I have a life. And now, because of my soap-opera-worthy family, it’s in shambles. So if you’ll excuse me and Hunter, I think we need a minute.”
“Of course. I wasn’t trying to pressure you into an answer immediately. I wanted to put it out there for consideration,” Mac says. Then, taking my mother by the elbow, he tenderly helps her up from her seat. “Come, dear. Let’s leave the children to chat, shall we?”
“Absolutely,” she says, kissing my cheek one more time. “You’ll always be my baby no matter what the test says,” she says, as though I’m the one waiting on DNA results for my parentage.
“I know, Mom,” I say, humoring her out of compassion. I give them a moment to clear the room before scooching over to the edge of my seat so I’m close enough to Hunter to touch his knee. I spread my hand out on his leg and squeeze, my grandmother’s engagement ring catching the light. He doesn’t withdraw from my touch, but he doesn’t return it either.
“Hey,” I say as my opener. He’s staring at my hand on his thigh, or maybe the engagement ring he gave me three months ago with my mother’s help.
“Hey,” he responds finally.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I say, whispering, knowing Mac and my mom can likely hear through the wall.
“Yeah?” he asks, touching the diamond with his pointer finger.
“Why wouldn’t I be? I told you—it’s all gossip. I’m here because of you. I’ve been dying to see you. I was planning our wedding. You can ask Father Patrick. There’s nothing between us. I promise. Nothing.”
He nods, and I hush the nagging guilt I feel from saying “nothing” so emphatically. But I don’t think I can find a way to explain that despite starting to have feelings for Patrick, I didn’t indulge those feelings. Hunter would never believe me.