When We Were Enemies: A Novel(26)

I’m relieved that he’s not going to share the rest of his story. Not because I don’t want to hear the end but because it’s nice to see someone say no to all this Hollywood shit.

“Call me Elise. Miss Branson is my mother. Er, or Ms. Branson. Madame Branson?” I try to turn it all into a joke, mostly because all this fame stuff is a joke but also to take the focus off Father Patrick.

“Back to your question. I haven’t been married before. Neither has Hunter.” I restate my earlier answer so I can get us back on track with the interview. Later I can ask Mac to exclude that whole abuse conversation. “We’re marriage virgins”—I hesitate—“but not actual virgins.” I clarify, in case it’s important. “Just our first marriages. Shit. Do we have to be virgins?”

Father Self-Righteous coughs again as I stumble through my answer. No one would guess I’m the head of a multimillion-dollar, internationally acclaimed PR firm. It’s been a long day. I need a good meal and a solid night’s sleep before getting in front of the camera again.

“Uh, ha. Um, well, I won’t write anything in your file, and we’ll have a nice long chat about what’s required before your wedding day when your fiancé is here.”

“Sounds delightful,” I say, heavy on the sarcasm.

“It’s not as terrible as it sounds. I promise. But while I have you alone. Do you . . .” He lowers his voice and leans forward as though the microphones can’t pick up even the shifting of his hair. “Do you mind if I ask you one more personal question? Then we can get into the wedding particulars.”

“Maybe?” I say, reserving the right to say no if it turns out to be too personal.

“I thought it might be more appropriate to ask you before your fiancé arrives to avoid any awkwardness.”

My eyes widen, but I don’t stop him.

“What happened to your first engagement?”

It takes a moment for the question to make sense.

“You don’t know?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is there a summary here somewhere?” He opens the file folder again.

“No, uh, no. It was a pretty public thing, so I always assume most people have heard . . .”

“I really don’t keep up with the Hollywood rumor mill.” It’s the closest to pompous he’s sounded in our back-and-forth, and I snip back sharply.

“Brain cancer isn’t exactly hot gossip.”

“Brain cancer?” he asks. His brows turn in, and the humor drains from his voice.

“Yeah. Six years ago, my first fiancé, Dean Graham, died from a brain tumor. Two weeks before our wedding,” I say frankly, not because I don’t care anymore, but because I don’t want to be vulnerable in front of this stranger and potentially millions of strangers once the documentary is released.

“Dean,” Father Patrick repeats. Hearing his name in a priest’s mouth again after all these years gives me chills. “Yes. You said there was a drone flyover at his funeral, right?”

“Yup.”

“That’s terrible. I’m truly sorry.”

I nod, wanting to move on.

“So,” Father Patrick finally speaks again, “how does it feel to be planning your marriage to Hunter?”

I answer quickly with a pat line and a stiff smile.

“Great. It’s been a long time since my first engagement. I’m ready for a new chapter.” I shift in my seat, and after a few more moments, I dart a glance toward Mac, checking in. He seems fine with the turn of topics, which means I’m on my own.

“Sure. I can see that,” he replies, raising his eyebrows like he knows I’m hiding my true feelings. He doesn’t follow up immediately with another question. Instead, he sits in the stillness like it’s a refuge, studying me, perhaps waiting for additional details or a trace of emotion. I brace for a deluge of questions about the worst time in my life when Father Patrick takes out a blank piece of paper and abruptly changes the subject.

“Have you considered wedding dates?”

A weight the size of a boulder lifts from my chest, and I can breathe normally again. He’s letting me off the hook like I did for him. We’ve got each other’s backs.

We move on to more basic details of the wedding and my Catholic upbringing but nothing particularly controversial. Autopilot clicks on, and I play the part of bride, daughter of celebrities, and granddaughter of a legend.

As we speak, the sun finishes setting, and the windows go from yellow to orange to black.

“It was nice to meet you, Father,” I say, holding out my hand as we close out our conversation, cameras still running.

Despite his formal uniform, it feels strange to call this handsome stranger a paternal name. I liked him before, when I assumed he was part of the crew, when I hoped he could be a friend during this whole fiasco. But his chosen career and what it stands for—though commendable—places a barrier between us and removes the option of close friendship. Because Father Patrick has given himself and his life over to God, and though I can’t admit it openly and still get married in his church, I’ve come to believe that the God we used to share might not exist.

“You, too, Miss Branson.” He takes my offered hand casually in a firm but gentle grip. When my fingers slide across his palm, over the desk with neatly stacked documents, gilded pens, and religious relics, I feel something I haven’t in a long time. An electric charge powered by an unseen battery. I yank my hand away, wondering if he felt it, too, but he shows no sign of the lightning bolt in his expression or manner as he returns to his seat and rests his hand genially on the desk. My hand burns like it’s been scorched.