When We Were Enemies: A Novel(48)
It sucks to feel alone.
I dial Hunter’s number again. I left a message earlier when my first call went to voice mail, and I’m disappointed I haven’t heard from him. I need someone sane and on my side to talk me down from my panic. And if I need to pull the plug on this small-town-wedding thing, he should be the first to know.
The phone rings. And rings. And goes to voice mail.
I leave a message.
“Hey, babe. I know we’re supposed to talk tonight, but—like I said, I need you to call me right away. Um . . . I love you. Bye.”
I hang up and sigh, and my warm breath turns to a moisture cloud in the below-freezing air. It’s started to snow, and though my new winter coat keeps my top half warm, my thin jeans are close to soaked through, and my heeled booties are not only pinching my toes but doing a shit job at keeping out the slush on the side of the road.
When I left the cemetery, I had no idea where to go. Part of me felt like running, sure that one of the black production SUVs would be on my tail immediately. But after I took several evasive turns and called every one of my mom’s phone numbers and assistants without luck, the spire of Holy Trinity pierced the skyline above the houses surrounding me. So I’m heading there.
I text and walk, sending a message to Farrah, my assistant, asking her to keep working on connecting with someone from my mom’s team.
When I find myself at the bottom of the hill where the church perches, my fingers are throbbing from the cold, and my feet are so numb that I can’t imagine what kind of aches and pains I’ll have as they thaw.
I climb the snow-dusted steps; the white layer is thin where they’ve been shoveled very recently. I leave my footprints behind to be filled in by the peaceful but rapid descent of the late winter storm.
Reaching the door, I test the handle and find it unlocked. I’ll slip inside and wait for my mom’s call and hopefully avoid catching the attention of either priest.
The door swings open with a squeal. It echoes through the shadowy, empty entry. The only light comes from the stained-glass windows. The rope connected to the belfry is tied up to the right of the entry, undisturbed. I wonder what it sounds like, though I’m not tempted to take a pull and find out. When the door closes, the bowels of the church turn eerie. My footsteps echo as I walk down the carpeted aisle, sidestepping the antique vent in the middle of my path.
In the dark like this, I can almost believe I’ve stepped into a holy place. The giant cross above the altar appears to float, and I stop at a row of pews in the middle of the hall, intimidated by its tremendous presence. The stillness and dimness create a feeling of anonymity, and despite my frozen hands and damp hair, I settle into a pew and lean back with my eyes closed.
As I take deep, calming breaths, I think of all the people from this small town who’ve sat here, prayed, worshipped, wed, mourned. They’re part of my history, my past. If my grandmother hadn’t taken that job with the USO while she was pregnant with my mom, if she hadn’t followed her dreams and gone to Hollywood, this church on the hill could be mine, and that graveyard could be my future.
A door squeaks open from somewhere inside the church, and I jump. A sliver of light shines out from behind the altar. If I let my imagination have its way, it could look like a portal bringing a supernatural being into the church to give me words of wisdom. But in the dim light, my fantastic thought dissolves as a man dressed in priestly attire comes into focus.
“You can turn on the light when you come to visit,” Father Patrick says in an official priest voice, making me wonder if he realizes who I am.
“I . . . I’m sorry I broke in.” I sniff and shove my wet gloves into my pocket, positive I look like a drowned rat.
“Miss Branson?” he asks. I think I hear an extra lilt to his question that almost sounds like amusement.
“I hope I didn’t frighten you. I just needed a minute out of the storm,” I say, and sniff again, melting snow dripping down the sides of my cheeks, back of my neck, and into the top of my shirt.
Father Patrick makes his way to me. I wish the lights were on so I could read his expression. Then again—the brightness would expose my embarrassingly disastrous state.
“That’s why the door is always open. There are lots of storms out there,” he says, sitting in the row in front of me but turning around enough that I can see his eyes and the easy, welcoming expression on his face.
“I know you’re being all deep and figurative, but there’s a literal storm out there.”
“Sure. But there are lots of places to find shelter from that kind of storm. You chose the church. I think there’s usually a reason for that, even if the one in need of respite doesn’t know it.”
“Damn, you’re deep today,” I say, making a joke, the parable he’s spinning hitting a touch too close to home. “You don’t lock the doors—ever?”
He shakes his head. “They did for a long time, probably twenty, thirty years. Especially after the mall was built and we got more occasional tourist traffic. But what good is God’s love when it’s limited or conditional? And since when does sorrow follow a nine-to-five schedule? We decided to keep the doors open to all who need to find rest and comfort here.”
“You’re not worried about vandals or theft?”
“I mean, the cameras and motion detector by the front door help.” He holds up an older version of an iPhone with a list of alerts on it, and I laugh loud enough for it to echo around the room.