When We Were Enemies: A Novel(43)

“I guess we’re about to find out,” I say as I clean off my own shoes and follow Mr. Christianson inside.

It’s warm in here, and the wood-paneled walls are as comforting as they are tacky. Mac follows close behind, holding the door for a cameraman and a boom mic operator who settle into strategic positions in the room. Mr. Christianson closes a file drawer and plops down a green book with red binding on his desk.

“Here it is.” He flips to a yellowed page and reads it under his breath before landing on one spot that he taps his finger on repeatedly. “That’s odd.”

“Is it a mix-up with the plots?” I ask, skirting around the edge of the desk and planting myself by his side. It’s a half-typed and half-handwritten form with scrawling, elegant handwriting filling in the gaps.

“No. It’s your grandparents’ plot. That’s for sure.”

“Then, what is it?” Mac asks, sliding up on the other side, sandwiching Mr. Christianson between us.

“Your grandmother purchased her plot in 1949 and paid for the perpetual maintenance plan.”

“And Tom Highward?” I ask. “What about his plot?”

“That’s the thing. It was purchased in 1947.” He hands me the ledger and points out the handwritten record.

“Nineteen forty-seven?” The date screams at me, and I pass the book to Mac.

“That’s three years after the date on Tom Highward’s headstone,” Mac states the obvious.

“Nineteen forty-nine makes sense for Nonna’s payment. That’s the year Summer in Salerno came out. Her breakout hit with MGM. She’d have had the money for it at least.” I know the date like it’s a national holiday. My mom pushed my grandma to tell the story over again every time she wanted to impress someone.

Though it was Nonna’s talent that carried her career and her beauty that launched it, it was her story of being a war widow that truly captured the hearts of her fans. I check the cameras again—still running. My stomach clenches, and tension grips my shoulders.

This could be really bad.

“Nineteen forty-seven is late but accurate enough for Tom Highward with repatriation; uh, that’s when the bodies of our soldiers were brought back from Europe and the Pacific. If he’d been in the Battle of the Bulge, but—”

“As far as we can tell, he didn’t die in that battle,” I say, the series of terrible realizations pouring in so fast, I feel like I’m drowning.

“Exactly,” Mr. Christianson says like Sherlock Holmes.

“So, who paid for the headstone?” I ask, noting that he’d mentioned my grandmother paid for her plot in 1949.

“Antonio Trombello?” Mr. Christianson reads off the ledger. The name rings no bells. Likely a distant Italian relative stepping in to help his bereaved niece or cousin.

“Is there any way for us to know for sure who, if anyone, is in that grave?” Mac asks theatrically.

“‘Who if anyone’? Seriously?” I scowl at Mac. “Don’t you think there’s an easier explanation. The dates are wrong, or the headstone is in the wrong place. You’re jumping to some majorly outrageous conclusions. Right, Mr. Christianson?”

The sexton is quiet. He shrugs and looks back and forth between me and Mac and once or twice at the camera.

“There’s no way to know for certain without an exhumation.”

The word “exhumation” hangs in the air. I feel nauseated, and I start shaking my head, but Mac looks right at the sexton without taking note of my reaction.

“What would that take?” Mac asks, grasping his chin contemplatively.

“Cut. Okay? That’s too much,” I say, running my hand across my throat in a slicing motion. I can’t play along anymore. Mac continues to ignore me completely and readdresses Mr. Christianson, who’s situated both literally and figuratively between us.

“Well, uh”—he swallows loudly, sweat beading on his brow—“it starts with the family giving the go-ahead. There are some forms and such.”

The family. He’s not referring to me and my brothers. No. My mother is the closest next of kin, and if Mac is the one asking—I can’t predict what her response might be. I’m done with this ambush. I start to remove my mic.

“Where are you going?” Mac asks as I yank wires out from under my clothing.

“I told you—I’m done for today. I’m not signing any papers, and I really don’t want my mom dragged into this mess. I’m here to film a documentary about my grandmother’s early life. I’m giving up time at work and letting you film my goddamn wedding. But digging up my grandfather? That’s just gross, Mac.”

“Hey, no one said we’re doing anything of the sort. I just want to know the procedure . . .” I can hear the BS in his claims of innocence.

“Thanks for the tour, Mr. Christianson.” I drop the portable mic on the table and then rezip my coat, preparing for the cool breeze outside, ready to walk if Mac refuses to provide transportation.

“Elise,” Mac calls after me, but I don’t stop. Let him have his little chat about digging up my family and any secrets my grandmother may have had. Clearly, he wants to use us to bolster his career and make money.

I pull out my cell phone to call my mom but pull up Hunter’s number first. He’s a “take no prisoners” kind of businessperson, and I could use an enthusiastic cheerleader right now. I wish he were here. We’d be an unstoppable team, plus it’d feel good to have his arm around me while I had a good cry into his shoulder. But I’ll settle for a call—for now.