My stomach drops, but I don’t allow him to see my alarm, turning up the corners of my mouth ever so slightly and hoping my lipstick is still nicely in place. I’ll find another position. Perhaps not as well paid and perhaps not as close to home, but I can find something. Plenty of women have taken factory jobs with the boys away.
“I understand, sir.” I bob my head and shift my feet. A bus will arrive on the hour. I wonder if I can wait in the guardhouse out of the rain. I’d rather endure Talbot’s looks than the chill against my legs. I reach for the door.
“You aren’t leaving, are you?” His full baritone makes me freeze in place.
“I thought . . .”
“Judy, set Miss Santini up in the office with you. The spare desk, there. We’ll find another girl for the switchboard. We’ll keep you here to give Judy a hand and help out when our interpreter, McNeil, is busy.” I blink rapidly, dizzied by the changes happening right in front of my eyes. Then he turns to me, his face as stern as ever. “That is, if you’re up for it.”
“Absolutely. I would love to,” I say, as though I’m accepting a date, not a job offer. I don’t need to fake my gratitude. I should thank my lucky stars I got a promotion on my first day. Goodness, I should be grateful I even still have a job, but I have to be sure of one more thing.
“And Trombello?” I ask, holding on to my courage.
“I’ll check into it” is all he says, but it’s enough. Without any further discussion, he yanks open the door to a hallway that must lead to his office. Inside, several doors line a tiled hall. The first one looks to be the entrance to Judy’s secretarial sanctuary, a room I’m sure I’ll become well acquainted with. I expect the lieutenant colonel to stomp to his office, but instead, he holds the door open, takes a step back, and grumbles, “Welcome to Camp Atterbury, my dear.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, rushing through into a new world, a new job, and potentially a new life for me and my family.
CHAPTER 5
Elise
Present Day
Edinburgh, Indiana
“There you are!” Mac calls out to me as he walks down the middle of East Main Cross Street like he’s the king of the town. Mac looks just as flamboyant standing in front of me as he does on any news broadcast, TV show, awards ceremony, or after-party. His silvery-gray hair rests a touch above his shoulders, and a pair of dark-rimmed reading glasses acts like a makeshift headband, looking stylish and cool rather than utilitarian. He wears dark, crisp jeans that look like Conrad purchased them right before leaving New York, and his brown woolen blazer is tailored to his exact measurements. The whole getup is accented with a fuzzy tan-and-light-blue scarf tied in a messy but sophisticated knot around his neck.
I see why my mom is drawn to Mac. He has an air about him that makes it seem like he knows exactly what’s happening now and has a good grasp on what will happen next. But every time I see handsome, older Hollywood men, I can’t help but think of the unfair beauty standards in my mother’s industry.
Though his teeth are capped and bleached, his face is lined, and he still looks like a well-kept version of his sixty-something self instead of the stretched, filled, and polished version of most women in the industry. While I don’t agree with the double standard, I try not to push the idea of aging naturally on any of my clients, and I never shame them for their pursuit of eternal youth, impossible as it may be.
“Hey, Mac.” I take his outstretched hand and meet his smile with one of my own.
“Great to meet you finally, Elise. You’re as lovely as you look in your pictures, I must say.”
I’m immune to false flattery, but I know how to take it as well as dole it out.
“You’re even better in real life, Mac. My mother filled me in on all your best qualities. Can’t wait to get to know you better.” We continue to give compliments back and forth for a moment or two. I’ve witnessed this sort of feather fluffing my whole life and may have fallen victim to it if not for my father, who always kept me grounded. He left the realm of fame to live on his ranch in Montana after he and my mother divorced when I was a little girl. He’s busy with his ranch and refuses to learn how to use the internet or a cell phone, and when I finally connected with him last week, his advice came too late.
“Don’t do it, punkin,” he said in his adopted western drawl. “Nothing grows well under those stage lights, especially new relationships. I should know.”
That’s the most I can get out of my dad about his relationship with my mother—a quip or two, maybe a sage musing while staring at the horizon. Being raised by actors gets existential sometimes.
He’s the more stable parent, but I didn’t spend nearly as much time as I would’ve liked with him on the ranch. During my teen years, when my mom was away at her ashram cult in Brazil, I learned what it was like to be a country girl, or at least my father’s version. I think that’s why I’m the only one of my siblings who didn’t end up going to Julliard and using my mother’s name to make it in Hollywood. I came to respect hard work and a touch of solitude.
I can’t say that I never took advantage of my family’s dynasty. I worked hard for my degrees, but when I started my PR firm, Toffee Co., I had an advantage as Vivian Snow’s granddaughter and Gracelyn Branson’s daughter. If I were a purist, I’d have kept my father’s last name, McFadden, instead of using my mother’s.
“I’ve got us a five-thirty appointment at Holy Trinity Church, right around the corner. You’ll get a tour, and then you’ll have your first sit-down with the priest, a ‘get to know you’ kind of thing. I’d love to get your first reactions to the building.”
This is not a casual invite, though Mac makes it sound that way. It’s on the shot list Conrad sent in his most recent email.
“Uh, I’m not really camera ready.” I gesture to my rumpled traveling clothes and makeup-less face. “I’m all for being myself on camera, but this isn’t a good look.”
“No problem. I have Lisa here for hair and makeup. She can touch you up in the car. Do you have a top in a solid color, not black? Something more bridal like a pink or a purple? Oh. Or off-white, even. I don’t think that would push the envelope too much, would it, Marty?”
Mac looks to the man standing behind him whose existence I had barely registered. He’s short with a dark cap and carrying a camera case.
“Actually, the interior is pretty light, so I think a richer palette would give some contrast. No red or black.”
“Sound good?” Mac asks, and I already hate my position in this project, more of a prop than a person.
“I have tops in all those colors, but I don’t know that I’m ready for anything in front of the camera today,” I say again, but he’s not listening.
“You’ll be great.” He squeezes my upper arm in a slightly patronizing way, clearly unaware that I’ve spent years giving advice to clients about on-camera styling when needed.
Mac addresses me again, a low, dramatic tenor to his voice. “I’m beyond eager to start working together, Elise.”
“Same,” I say, matching his tone.
Nothing like jumping right in, I guess. And the only way to get myself into a pool of cold water is to dive in headfirst before I can think better of it.