When We Were Enemies: A Novel(102)
Thankfully, I was able to convince papà that Tom is missing in action. With his limited English, I don’t have to worry too much about him hearing otherwise. It’s the story I tell everyone. And since I’m a married woman, even old-fashioned papà couldn’t keep me from auditioning with Archie Lombardo or saying yes when I was offered the touring position.
Judy clutches my hand to examine the ring. “Yeah, it was delivered right before I left for Chicago. It’s a bit much for a USO girl.”
“No. It’s beautiful.”
The stone sparkles in its white gold setting—three carats. I have no need for a three-carat diamond. The moment Ari and I opened that box, I was filled with guilt. If things hadn’t taken a turn, if Tom were around and we were happy, I’d make him take it back, get something a little simpler, and use the rest of the money for more important things like family and our future.
At first, I planned to sell it. I hoped that if I got rid of the ring, I’d get rid of the guilt. But that was right around the time the military police started showing up searching for Tom. So I needed the ring—to avoid suspicion. But I didn’t need the stone.
What Judy doesn’t know, and what no one will ever know, is that the stone in the ring is as fake as my status as an army wife. I sold the real diamond weeks ago. I paid off mamma’s debt at Mount Mercy and papà’s medical expenses, and I set up an account to pay for Aria’s college in case something happens and I get sent away. Everyone is taken care of.
Well, almost everyone.
“All right. It’s decided. I forgive you.” She stares at the ring and then at me like I’m the luckiest girl around. “How long are you here?”
“Just for the chapel dedication. I have to be back on the tour tomorrow.” I have twenty-four hours to make the trip from Chicago to Edinburgh and back. I’m already blurry eyed from the late-night drive and nauseated from my empty stomach, but as soon as I got Trombello’s latest postcard with his sketch of the finished chapel, I knew I needed to be here. “But I’ll return for a few months soon.”
“Oh yeah? You gonna take your old desk back?” she asks, looking at the tidy desk in the corner and the sweet little blonde girl sitting there tapping away.
“Ha. No—this is not a hostile takeover. I’ll be busy with . . . other things.” I keep my response vague and check my watch. “I should sign in and get over to the meadow. You coming?”
Judy passes me the sign-in log and shakes her head.
“Nah. Prisoners only, besides you and some guards and the priest doing the service.”
Priest.
The term brings up so many emotions. It used to be a word of safety and comfort, but it’s very different now for many reasons. I haven’t seen Father Theodore since the night he drove me home, bruised and bloodied, my voice scruffy from Tom’s hands around my throat. He debated taking me to the hospital, but I begged him not to. My family couldn’t afford one more medical expense, and the doctors would have had questions I couldn’t answer.
I never went to him and confessed what happened that night with Tom. And to this day I don’t know what happened after Gravano escorted me out of that middle school locker room. All I know is Tom never came back. And Trombello and the rest of the crew never mentioned the incident. I ran away to audition for Archie in Chicago as soon as my throat had healed enough for me to sing again.
“Well then. We’ll have to catch up when I sign out. I want to hear all about your guy and what’s been going on here since I left.” I give her arm a little squeeze as I head toward the door, both dreading and desiring my next challenge.
“Sure. Sounds great. And how about a cup of coffee, you know, when you come back round Christmas?” Judy asks, hand on her hip, pencil buried in the curls of her bob haircut. “Mary should be back by then. We can all complain about our husbands and exchange casserole recipes like all the good married girls do.”
Mary found her own soldier and married him only a month after she watched me walk down the aisle. She’s visiting his family in North Carolina for a few weeks, but we write often, and she promises to be home for Christmas. I hope her dreams of marital bliss have come to a happier ever after than mine.
“It’s a date,” I chirp cheerfully, pretending I’m the same as Judy and Mary, worrying about my housekeeping and meal planning.
As I take the transport to the chapel site, I do all I can to maintain a cheerful expression. I keep up the fa?ade, not to hide my feelings about seeing Judy or the familiar scenery, or the regrets that pop up at the most unexpected moments, but to hide how I feel about coming home again in December and the reason why.
Archie’s going to call it medical leave, say I have pneumonia. But pneumonia rarely leads to a baby, so that’ll only work for so long. There’s no scandal in a married woman having a child, but it does change how a casting director sees an actress, and so Archie suggests keeping it as quiet as possible. A child is far easier to explain than a husband who never comes home from a war he’s not fighting in, but I guess I have some time to figure out those details.
When the truck takes a left instead of a right at the front gate, my attention shifts. We’re heading through the heart of the camp, passing the barracks and the mess hall, to the westernmost border of the camp. The ride is bumpy, and I have to grab my hat a few times to keep from losing it. And the rough drive does little for my already tender stomach.