When We Were Enemies: A Novel(35)

“What did you major in?” I pop one of the fried pieces of dough into my mouth and crunch through the crispy edge, crumpling with pleasure when its airy sweetness hits me.

“I have a master’s in divinity.”

“And—” I don’t let him off the hook, tossing another treat into my mouth.

“Fine. My BA was art history, and I had a minor in secondary education.”

“You went from art to religion? That’s an unexpected jump.”

“It was very unexpected.”

“Oh yeah? Not part of your five-year plan after your undergrad?”

He shakes his head and looks into the space beyond again.

“No. Not at all. Things changed pretty soon after that trip.” I don’t know why, but I’m relieved when he looks at me again.

“And that made you change your trajectory?” I match his generalities.

“It did.”

“Must’ve been monumental.”

“Completely.” I can see the emotional fences around him. I want to break through. His title and his vestments must work well to keep the world out, but I’m longing to sound a trumpet and make his walls come crashing down.

“There are no cameras here, Father. No silent partners or mics or lights.” I fold my arms on the table and close the space between us so no one else can hear our conversation. His breath brushes against my cheek, and my elbow grazes his as he matches my position. The walls wobble ever so slightly.

“It’s hard for me to talk about—it’s easier to . . .” He cuts his sentence off like he’s struggling against invisible restraints.

“Talk about everyone else’s problems?”

“I was going to say, ‘get lost in service,’ but yes, when it comes down to it, I’d rather focus outward.”

“But . . . honest question.” I touch his sleeve. “How do you ever learn how to help others resolve their trauma if you’re still caught up in your own?”

He’s going to say God, I think, knowing how easy it is to look to a supernatural power to self-medicate the pain.

“Well . . .” I hang on the edge of his silence, ready for the story to pour out, when a tap on my shoulder sucks me back to reality.

It’s Conrad, live and in person. Swear words flash through my mind, but I smile instead of saying them, though I wouldn’t be surprised if it looks more like I’m gritting my teeth.

“There you are. Food’s ready on set.” He gives a side glance to my empty tray but doesn’t call me out. “And Mac is ready, so I need to get you back in hair and makeup.”

“Thanks. I’ll be out in a few minutes,” I say, hoping he’ll wait for me in the car. He checks his watch and doesn’t move.

“It’s a little more urgent than that,” he replies, pushing.

I catch Dottie out of the corner of my eye. She’s leaving with another assistant, and I understand I won’t be finishing this conversation with Father Patrick today. I pat his forearm in closing.

“To be continued?” I ask, arranging my used utensils and garbage on the tray.

“Absolutely,” he says, and then, “Let me get that for you.”

I waver, not wanting to look entitled or like I’m treating him as a servant. But that’s my work mind talking. Hunter is right—I don’t know how to let go and enjoy a moment.

“Well, thank you.” I offer the tray up, and he takes it from my hands.

“Yeah, thanks,” Conrad says from behind me, and his kindness, in contrast to Father Patrick’s, sounds forced and formal.

“No problem,” Father Patrick says as he walks toward the gray bins.

I don’t wait for him to return, mostly because I think Conrad might murder me if I don’t get out the door. As we walk to the car, he fills me in on the complications with the cameras and his personal frustrations as an assistant. I listen patiently and climb into the back seat, Dottie already loaded in the front. She turns around and shows me her dentures in a sweet smile. We’re friends now, and that makes me feel a little less lonely.

“It’s such a shame,” she says with a little sigh.

“Yes! I want to know so much more about this part of the camp. If there’s a gap in our filming schedule, could I volunteer?”

“Oh, I’m sure we could make that work. We always need volunteers, but that’s not what I was talking about.”

“Oh, no?” I drop my phone into my lap as we pull up to the Chapel in the Meadow. Conrad starts unloading the bags of food from the back hatch. I meet Dottie at her side of the car. She takes my hand as she descends from the elevated front seat.

“I was talking about Father Patrick,” she says once she’s found her equilibrium. “Isn’t it a shame he’s unavailable? You two sure seem to have hit it off.”

I don’t know what to say, but with the blush spreading across my cheeks, it must be easy for Dottie to see how I feel.

“I think you’re reading far too many romance novels. Besides, he’s a priest and I’m engaged.” I wiggle the finger holding my grandmother’s ring.

She waves her gloved hands like she’s washing away the statement.

“I’m sure my imagination is running away with me because of the stories, you know, about your grandma and that priest.” She says it like this is a well-known fact. If I’d been drinking water, I’d have given a spit take.