When We Were Enemies: A Novel(25)

“A whirlwind romance?” he asks. That’s what the tabloids called it: “Elise and Hunter’s Whirlwind Romance—A Second Chance at Love.” In the entertainment business, there are three topics that steal headlines: engagements, babies, and scandal. It won’t be long before I’ll have to be careful about what dress I wear to keep pregnancy rumors at bay.

“Yeah, I guess, but . . . this isn’t our first time around,” I clarify, a touch defensive after being questioned one too many times by friends, colleagues, and reporters about the advanced pace of my relationship with Hunter. “We’re old enough to know what we want.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize that.” Glancing at Mac and then me, he inhales, shuffling through the papers again. “One of you was married before?”

“No, no. I was engaged. Not married. Is that a problem?”

“Ah. No. Engaged is not an issue.” He closes his folder again after making a note. “There are rules about marriages and divorces or annulments that would make the process more”—he searches for the right word—“more complicated.”

“Ah, yeah. I’m Catholic enough to remember your stance on divorce.” I narrowly avoid rolling my eyes.

“Ah. But are you Catholic enough to agree with it?”

I open my mouth to make a safe statement about divorce and religious beliefs, but then I think of my grandmother and how much she suffered for her faith.

“I can’t say I agree,” I answer honestly. I’m about to explain my reasons when Father Ignatius chimes in from the darkness behind the lights.

“It’s an important principle in the church, though not popular in the world.”

“I know,” I say directly to Father Patrick to discourage more interruptions from Father Ignatius. “My mom told me stories from when my grandma, Vivian, was married to director Martin Twilson. He all but ruined her career. Broke her cheekbone one night because she kissed her costar in a scene. She had to back out of the film. And the way he was to my mom . . .” It’s not my story to tell, but I’ve reviewed enough versions of her never-before-seen one-woman show to know about the late-night visits, creaking floorboards, threats if secrets weren’t kept. “Anyway, Nonna stayed with that man for far too long because she was taught divorce was a sin.”

“That’s heartbreaking,” Father Patrick says with what seems like empathy. It doesn’t make me feel better, strangely.

“It was. It’s hard enough for someone to get out of an abusive relationship. But then to have their church guilt them into staying? It’s not right. And my mom taught me that no one should stay in a situation that’s hurting them.”

“Well then, you’re more Catholic than you think,” he says, a gentle smile emerging slowly. “No one’s expected to stay in an abusive marriage. Acting to end abuse doesn’t violate the marriage covenant.”

I’m almost taken in by his soft response, but I remember sitting in those pews and seeing my sweet grandmother’s face fall as we listened to the homilies denouncing divorce.

“I appreciate that sentiment, but you’ve gotta know that’s not how it feels to faithful parishioners.”

I expect continued pushback or another canned line that clearly comes from some religious document, but his response surprises me.

“I know.”

“You know?” I echo, unsure if I should believe him. The collar and the cross above his desk make me ask one more question. “How? Because running a marriage retreat in Angola doesn’t count.”

Father Patrick shifts in his seat, checking the positions of the cameras and the crew behind them and possibly Father Ignatius, who has remained mute since his first outburst. Then he looks back at me and exhales.

“Uh, my sister. She . . . she got married when I was a teenager. She was only eighteen but pregnant, so she thought it was, you know, the right thing to do.” He swallows and clears his throat. “They had two girls—Ruth and Liza. Her husband, Jim, was an unhappy man; okay—he was a mean man. An abusive man.” He pauses again like he’s gathering the energy to finish the story. The residual trauma I read in his face makes me wish I hadn’t forced him to open up—not just to me or this room full of people, but potentially to a worldwide audience.

“You don’t have to tell me. I believe you know.” I stop him with an outstretched hand. I’ve put him in an impossible position.

“Let him finish,” Mac mumbles, and even with the cameras focused on me, I roll my eyes, annoyed.

“You’re under no obligation to tell me anything, Father. I signed on for this, not you. I’m used to it. The tabloids had a picture of me before my grandmother died. One time, a pap dressed up like a nurse to get pictures of my grandma in the hospital.” And then I remember the worst incident. “Goddamn ZMT flew a drone over Dean’s funeral.”

“Ahem,” Father Ignatius clears his throat at my curse, reminding me I’m in a church.

“Sorry. Sorry,” I say to the general darkness and then back to Father Patrick. “I think you shouldn’t have to do this whole ‘share everything’ bit unless you really want to.”

He takes a microscopic glance at the cameras and then speaks.

“Well, thank you, Miss Branson. That’s very thoughtful of you,” he says, nodding his head casually, but I can tell he means it.