“So, you still want to get married?” he asks, a sweet, soft vulnerability in the way he looks up at me.
“Of course I want to marry you, babe. I love you. But not here.” I gamble and try a laugh, hoping Hunter doesn’t think I’m taking things too lightly. But he joins me, chuckling.
“No, not here. I’ve only been in this town one hour, and I’m ready to get the hell outta here. So, Italy?”
“With Mac? No damn way. I’m so done with this thing. They have enough material without us now. I just want to focus on us,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him in for a soft kiss. I’ve missed him, missed those lips, missed his smell and his easy smile. I breathe him in, and my nerves start to calm.
He pulls away and touches my cheek and my damp lips and then grasps my chin between his finger and thumb, cocking his head. I expect something sweet, healing, or an apology for not believing me.
Instead, he asks, “Are you sure? After all the work you’ve done on the documentary. I mean—it’s Italy.”
His comment feels like a shift from a major key to a minor key, making my chest tighten.
I lean back so I can see his expression more clearly.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“You’re asking a question about asking a question?” he jokes. I usually like his humor, but right now it hits me wrong, like he’s trying too hard to be charming or he’s trying to distract me from something. I continue without laughing.
“Why are you here early?” It struck me as odd when I first walked into the hotel room, but I was so wrapped up in the moment, I nearly forgot to ask.
“I got done with work early. Thought I’d surprise you but heard the news on the way and didn’t know what to do, so I came up here to talk to your mom.”
I nod at the very reasonable explanation. I want to believe it. I want to ignore the alarm bells ringing louder than ever before. They rang back when he had my mom sneak him my grandmother’s ring for his proposal. They rang when he talked to my mom about the documentary before he’d discussed it with me. They rang when he pushed me to have our wedding in Edinburgh, and they rang when he didn’t mind the idea of being followed around by cameras or the idea of my family’s dirty laundry hung out for the whole world to see. They rang again when he didn’t answer my calls and again when he didn’t comfort me when he opened that hotel room door.
“Why are you so dedicated to this film, Hunter?”
“I . . . I don’t know. It makes me feel like part of the family, I guess.” He shrugs and then, standing up, releases my hand. “We can talk wedding stuff later. I’m starving. Let’s grab dinner and then make up for lost time?” he offers, trying to change the subject. When he retrieves his suit jacket from where it’s draped over the desk, something heavy hits the floor.
“What was that?” I ask, on my feet and by his side in a flash.
“I . . . I don’t know,” he says, kicking something under the desk to my right. I fall to my knees and reach under the lower edge of the frame and pull out a compact camera. I’ve seen it on pretty much every interview we’ve shot so far. It’s Mac’s camera—and it’s recording.
“What the hell is this?” I ask, holding up the device. I’d turn it off, but I don’t know how.
“I have no idea. I was just putting on my jacket.” He holds up his hands like he’s showing me he’s not a criminal. I don’t believe him. “Mom! Mac! Come out here,” I shout as loud as I can, holding the camera while scanning the rest of the room for equipment.
My mom bursts out from the bedroom like she was listening through the wall, which she likely was. Or through headphones or a screen, because just as she notices I’m holding a camera in her direction, I find another one, this one a bigger model, also running. A mic sticks out from behind the picture above where I was sitting with my mom, and I spot another one clipped to the lamp shade. How’d I miss any of this?
“You were filming me?” I ask my mom and Hunter at the same time. A dozen other moments I’d assumed were private flash through my mind. Were those recorded too? I don’t address Mac because the idea of him invading my privacy isn’t shocking, but the other two—I thought they loved me.
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my idea. They already had it set up when I got here.” Hunter’s being honest, finally. But it’s too late for me to be moved by honesty. I’m wounded, maybe mortally so. What else has he hidden from me?
“What the hell? Why are you so invested in this?” As soon as I say the word, I know. Invested. Is Hunter the anonymous investor who’s been funding this whole project?
“I thought you’d like it. I thought it’d be fun or something. I didn’t know it’d end up like this.”
“Are you, like, Mac’s partner?”
He stares at me in silence and then mutters, “You weren’t supposed to find out . . .”
“What the hell . . .”
“It’s not his fault, baby,” my mom jumps in. “Don’t be mad at Hunter and Mac. They meant well . . .”
“Oh my God, Mom,” I gasp, feeling like a lamb cornered in a den of lions. “Don’t you see—your boyfriend leaked the story and called the paparazzi. He’s willfully ruining my reputation for what? A little free publicity?”
“I did no such thing,” Mac says defensively, his accent giving him an air of dignity I don’t think he deserves. “I knew more than I let on, and Hunter has been instrumental in getting this project off the ground, but I’ve done nothing I’m ashamed of. It can take some finagling to get a project like this out of development and into production. But I never leaked a story or pictures to anyone. I do have some journalistic integrity.”
“That’s doubtful,” I say, glaring.
“No, dear, it’s true,” my mom says, coming to her man’s defense, as always. She never sides with her children, her family, not even herself—always her man.
“Mom, stop standing up for this guy. He’s clearly lying.”
“He’s not lying, hun. I was the one who called ZTM and gave them the pictures. I’m the source.”
I drop the camera. My mother. Not Hunter or Mac but my very own mother. I can’t be in this room, this building, anymore. My surroundings spin, and I pivot on one foot, glad that I’m wearing gym shoes.
I run.
I run into the hall and down the stairs. I run through the side door and past the antiques mall and Cracker Barrel and follow the wide asphalt road that goes past industrial parks and smells of freshly tilled earth now that it’s planting season.
I should’ve known better. I’ve lived and worked long enough in entertainment to know that everything around me is a mirage. They’ll be close behind me, I’m sure, trying to reason with me or change my mind or pay me off. But for now, I’ll run to the only place I’ve known without a doubt is real—the church on the hill and the man inside it.
CHAPTER 32
Vivian
Saturday, June 19, 1943