When We Were Enemies: A Novel(18)

I whisper, glad to have someone normal to talk to before Mac comes back.

“Cathedrals are breathtaking, but this”—I gesture to the glass windows and arched roof—“it’s not showy or a waste of money or the result of some medieval pissing contest; it’s just”—I search for the right description—“simple and beautiful and probably a labor of sacrifice and love when it was built.”

He bobs his head, one finger over his mouth, taking in the multicolored glass.

“Hmm . . . poetic,” he says with a touch of sarcasm that makes me think he’s smirking. A quick check out of the corner of my eye confirms it.

“What?” I whisper, realizing why he’s laughing. “You don’t find a pissing contest to be an apt description?”

He takes his hand away from his mouth and clasps both behind his back. I can see his smile now. It’s brilliant and gives me the sense he’s been in far more mischief than his clean-cut look would suggest.

“Well, I guess I’ve never heard the term used in church or in reference to holy cathedrals.”

“Oh shit,” I say, covering the mic clipped under my collar. “You’re right. Do you think my mic picked it up?”

He shrugs with a bemused expression on his face.

“You’re no help.”

“It’s above my pay grade, I guess.” He’s still smiling.

“Mine too,” I try to joke but end up biting my lip instead.

“Nervous?” he asks, still staring over my head.

“Yeah, pretty nervous.”

“It doesn’t run in the family, the ‘on camera’ thing?” His questions are casual and insightful. He must be part of the production team, likely taking mental notes or recording our conversation through my mic to share with Mac later.

“Nooo. No. Not at all.”

“Why not? You don’t seem shy.”

“Ha. It’s not that. I used to be quite the camera hog.”

“What changed?” he asks.

I turn around and finally get a good look at my conversation partner as he continues to stare at the windows over my head. He’s even more buttoned up than I first thought, but interesting enough to make me curious. I want to find out his name.

“My mom’s acting coach said I didn’t have ‘the face’ for it.”

“The face for it?” he asks incredulously, refocusing his gaze on me.

“Yeah. He said my face doesn’t work.”

He gives me a quick once-over like he’s searching for the supposed error in my features.

“I think he was wrong about that.”

I blush. I shouldn’t be surprised that I get along with the crew better than the primaries. It’s been that way since I was little. They were the ones to sneak me a bagel from food services, or “crafty” as we always called it, or play a game of gin rummy during reshoots or carry me to my mom’s trailer when I fell asleep during a late shoot.

Why I chose to run PR for sometimes self-centered, often out-of-touch movie stars, I’ll never know.

“You’ll see,” I say. “I can’t hide anything. My mom thought I was a prodigy or something at first ’cause when I was little, I never needed a tear stick, you know, the stuff they put on your lower lid to make you cry. But then she realized I wasn’t crying on cue; I was crying for real because I didn’t want to be in front of the cameras.”

He chuckles, looking up at the windows again. As the sun starts to set, the stained glass on the eastward-facing side of the church swiftly loses most of its brilliance, and the windows on the west side change colors in the orange light, sending a blanket of golden hues through the nave.

The crew member grows contemplative, and a yellow triangle of light from the western stained glass falls on his cheek, making him seem warm, glowing.

“And what about now?” he asks seriously. “Do you want to be here? Now?”

I should answer, “Yes, I’m honored to be here,” but I have a feeling this guy will know I’m lying.

“Actually—I don’t know yet.”

“That’s . . . honest.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully.

“Elise!” I hear my name called, and my head snaps in that direction. “Darling. This way.”

Mac stands under the giant Jesus on a cross, waving at me like a member of the paparazzi trying to get my mom’s attention. I wince. His whole attitude clashes with the reverence intended for this place.

An elderly-looking priest in a long black coat and a white collar, with graying hair and horn-rimmed glasses, stands next to Mac. He seems annoyed with Mac’s volume and the hive of activity that’s invaded his sanctuary. I want to apologize, smooth things over like a good PR agent would, but I don’t work for Mac. God, I don’t even work for my mom. If I do any smoothing, it will be for the sake of my conscience only.

“I better go do some damage control,” I say, turning back to the production man and his tan coat, soft voice, and curious line of questioning. But—he’s gone, likely called away by some voice in his earpiece while I was distracted by Mac. I glance around, not finding him anywhere, but I’m sure we’ll see plenty of each other over the next few weeks.

I hurry down the main aisle to Mac, quick enough to show urgency without disrespecting the church. I can’t help but think that in the near future, I’ll be walking down this aisle very slowly with a veil over my face and flowers in my hands.