When We Were Enemies: A Novel(92)

“And you don’t think Mac knew this when he started his project?” I ask, pointing a finger in her boyfriend’s direction. “This was all a setup; can’t you see that?”

Mac holds up his hands like I’m pointing a gun at him.

“I did know some of it,” he says. “I knew Tom Highward didn’t die in battle. I knew he wasn’t buried in Rest Haven, and I even knew his family was wealthy and had shunned your mother and Vivian after he abandoned them. But only recently did I learn about the priest—the one in the albums, I mean,” he clarifies, and I cringe at even the slightest reference to Father Patrick.

“And that’s why you had that DNA test,” I say to my mom. Mac’s storyline is coming together. He started out to tell the story of Vivian Snow’s granddaughter getting married in the same small town where Vivian had her own wedding eighty years ago. But somewhere along the line, as he learned more salacious details about a potential love affair and the possible illegitimate offspring of a Hollywood sweetheart, he couldn’t resist.

My mother nods dramatically, tears glittering on her lower eyelids. “I’ll have the results in a few weeks. I’d like to have you there when I open them.”

“Of course.” I take my mom’s hand. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be at seventy-nine years old to possibly have the whole framing device for your life change. My father took a paternity test as soon as they were widely available. At the time, I was offended. But years later when I was starting to understand my mother, I was grateful for the undeniable knowledge that he is my dad. And that can’t be taken away from me in some shocking revelation of infidelity or deceit.

“I guess what I need to know from you and Hunter,” Mac addresses both of us, patting the air like he’s trying to keep us calm, “is if you’d like to go through with the wedding at Holy Trinity. Now, I understand that we have a few kinks to iron out with these new revelations. How would you feel about changing the venue? Perhaps somewhere in Italy. We could track down Antonio Trombello’s family line, find a lovely church in the local town or village. Make it an international affair?”

I shake my head, anger turning into outrage. I’ve gotten so lost in the story of my grandmother and grandfather, whoever he may be, I’ve become distracted from the real reason I’m in their room. And why Hunter is here at all.

“No, no. I don’t want to even think about that.” I wave violently, my volume turned up to an eight or a nine. “Mom, I’m sorry about your dad. I’m sorry Nonna kept things from you, well, from all of us. I’m still trying to imagine a scenario where she’d do something like this. And Mac—I’m glad you’re there for my mom or whatever you’re doing for her. But I cannot focus on your stupid documentary right now. I have a life. And now, because of my soap-opera-worthy family, it’s in shambles. So if you’ll excuse me and Hunter, I think we need a minute.”

“Of course. I wasn’t trying to pressure you into an answer immediately. I wanted to put it out there for consideration,” Mac says. Then, taking my mother by the elbow, he tenderly helps her up from her seat. “Come, dear. Let’s leave the children to chat, shall we?”

“Absolutely,” she says, kissing my cheek one more time. “You’ll always be my baby no matter what the test says,” she says, as though I’m the one waiting on DNA results for my parentage.

“I know, Mom,” I say, humoring her out of compassion. I give them a moment to clear the room before scooching over to the edge of my seat so I’m close enough to Hunter to touch his knee. I spread my hand out on his leg and squeeze, my grandmother’s engagement ring catching the light. He doesn’t withdraw from my touch, but he doesn’t return it either.

“Hey,” I say as my opener. He’s staring at my hand on his thigh, or maybe the engagement ring he gave me three months ago with my mother’s help.

“Hey,” he responds finally.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I say, whispering, knowing Mac and my mom can likely hear through the wall.

“Yeah?” he asks, touching the diamond with his pointer finger.

“Why wouldn’t I be? I told you—it’s all gossip. I’m here because of you. I’ve been dying to see you. I was planning our wedding. You can ask Father Patrick. There’s nothing between us. I promise. Nothing.”

He nods, and I hush the nagging guilt I feel from saying “nothing” so emphatically. But I don’t think I can find a way to explain that despite starting to have feelings for Patrick, I didn’t indulge those feelings. Hunter would never believe me.

“So, you still want to get married?” he asks, a sweet, soft vulnerability in the way he looks up at me.

“Of course I want to marry you, babe. I love you. But not here.” I gamble and try a laugh, hoping Hunter doesn’t think I’m taking things too lightly. But he joins me, chuckling.

“No, not here. I’ve only been in this town one hour, and I’m ready to get the hell outta here. So, Italy?”

“With Mac? No damn way. I’m so done with this thing. They have enough material without us now. I just want to focus on us,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him in for a soft kiss. I’ve missed him, missed those lips, missed his smell and his easy smile. I breathe him in, and my nerves start to calm.