When We Were Enemies: A Novel(3)
Of course she does. Gracelyn Branson is rarely single for long. She’s been married three times, and she cycled through relationships during the times she wasn’t legally bound to one of her husbands, and even then, there was likely overlap I don’t like to think about for too long.
“Who is it this time?” I ask, and it comes out more judgmental than I intended. Thankfully, my mother is too busy rearranging her dressing gown to notice.
“It’s Mac Dorman,” she says like she’d just said Brad Pitt’s name. I raise my eyebrows, not knowing who the heck Mac Dorman is. The name sounds familiar but not familiar enough to bring up any memory of a face or recollection of a recent meeting.
“Who?” A warm whoosh of heated air pours from the overhead vents, rustling my hair and tickling my cheeks, reminding me how cold it is outside. I wrestle out of my wool peacoat as my mom sits up straighter, moving to the edge of her seat.
“Mac Dorman,” she repeats slowly. “You know—the documentarian.”
Oh yeah. Mac Dorman. I do remember him now. Shoulder-length graying hair, tortoiseshell glasses, and an air of superiority that follows him like a fancy cologne.
“The guy doing Nonna’s documentary?” He’d called me at my office about six weeks ago and pitched something about telling the “true story of Vivian Snow.” I’d seen him lurking about at various parties I’d attended with my mom but never actually talked to him. Mac Dorman is branded as the Ken Burns of celebrity biographical documentaries—but I think he makes them mostly because he’s nosy. He’s nominated for an Oscar or Emmy every year and has won a few, not that I’m keeping score.
“Yes! We started out exchanging emails, of all things, and then talking on the phone, and once we met in person a few weeks ago, the chemistry was unreal . . .”
“Too much information, Mom . . .” I wave away the image of my seventy-something mom with the snobby filmmaker.
“He’s very talented, and I believe you’ll like him more than you think. Has a lovely idea for the documentary about Mother.” She pauses and glances at me out of the corner of her swollen eyelids. I wonder how much the skin peeling and spa treatments have to do with her new love interest and find it noteworthy how quickly our discussion has gone from my engagement to her romance.
“You know how I feel about that film. If he insists on making some sort of gossipy tell-all about Nonna, I prefer we’re not involved. Otherwise, we give it legitimacy.” I twist my grandmother’s beautiful ring around on my left hand. I’m not used to it again. I wonder how long it took Nonna to get used to wearing it when she married for the first time. I wonder how long it took to get used to not wearing it when her husband died in the Battle of the Bulge a year and a half after their wedding.
“Nonna’s story deserves legitimacy. It’s a beautiful tribute, and he’s not the only one who thinks so. Mac recently had a huge influx of funding so . . . we had a thought.”
“We?” I try not to groan. Things are clearly getting serious with Mac. I can only assume my mother with her paycheck from her latest film is the “sudden influx.” Like the skilled method actor she is, my mom takes on the interests and passions of any man she falls in love with. When she dated Kurt Harverson, the NASCAR driver, she decided “going fast” was a metaphor for life, so she invested in his NASCAR team. Likewise, when she fell in love with her yoga instructor, she helped build an ashram in Brazil that ended up being a front for a cult.
“Yes. He appreciates my input. I do have years of experience in the industry. And let’s not forget the subject of this particular film is my own mother. Would you sit and listen?” She’s getting defensive, and I’m forgetting it’s not my job as a thirty-seven-year-old woman to make life choices for my grown-ass mother.
“Fine.” Folding my coat over the back of the sofa, I drop my purse on the floor and sink into the cushions. I won’t take off my shoes—I’m supposed to meet Hunter at Claro for lunch. If I stay here much longer, I’ll be late.
My mother smiles, once again resetting her expression like she’s ready for her next take. It’s hard to stay upset with her for too long. To the outside world, her life seems easy, full of money, fame, beauty, and success, but in many ways, my mother’s life has been a lonely, lost existence—the life of a fatherless little girl who flits between men like a hummingbird sipping what nectar she can find even as the flowers of her youth die off.
“Mac and I were thinking it might be lovely if you got married in Edinburgh.”
“Scotland?” I ask, not understanding the significance of the random suggestion.
“No, dear. Indiana. Where your grandmother grew up.”
“Indiana?” I gasp, my patience lasting not even halfway into one sentence.
“Yes,” she says, raising her manicured hand, seemingly annoyed with my interruption. I wave for her to finish her cockamamie idea. It’s better to say no after she’s put it all on the line. “It would be a stunning modern peg for the film. The church in town where Mother and Father were married is lovely. We went there when you were little—when my grandmother passed. I have fond memories from my childhood as well. I tried to get your father to marry me there, but he insisted on Bali.”
“It’s a romantic idea, but I’m sure Hunter will want to be married close to home.” Or far away, or anywhere but Indiana, I think but do not say. “And I’m not sure I want to be a part of this film. You know how I feel about being on camera.” I’m barely used to the idea of getting married. I’m not about to have it recorded for all mankind to see.