“Listen, hun; be careful, all right?” The faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes remind me that she’s seen more of life than I have. “We all know the rules, but I’m no fool—all the hometown boys are gone, and these polished-up young men in nice uniforms look like great husband material for you gals. But I see these boys when you all aren’t around, and most of them have girls at home, some of them wives. You’ve got a good head on ya, so we’ve never had this chat before, but when a guy pursues a girl like he has a fire under his hat that he can’t put out—usually that means he has his mind where it shouldn’t be. The nice boys don’t corner you in an empty kitchen. Remember that, okay?”
I’ve heard this warning before. I’ve even been the one to warn other girls when I’ve gotten intel about one guy or another. But Tom—I just met Tom. It’s not like I want to do anything more than dance with him.
“Thank you, Carly,” I say instead of all the other things I’m thinking. I fix a stray little curl that has fallen onto her forehead. “I’ll be extra careful. I promise.”
“You’re a real doll; you know that, don’t you?” she says. “Get back out there before the men storm the kitchen. At least four fellas asked me about ya after your set. You’re gonna have to endure one more hour of adoration, you poor thing.”
“I’ll go out there whether you flatter me or not, so . . .”
“In that case . . .” She takes a deep breath like she’s preparing for a long string of insults.
“I’m leaving! I’m leaving!” I call out.
As I spin through the doors into the hall, it feels like I’m already dancing. The cheerful timbre of the brass instruments urges my feet to move in time with the music. Emerging from the lights of the kitchen to the sparsely lit dance floor, I’m momentarily blinded.
“You sure know how to make a guy work for a dance, don’t you?”
I don’t need light to know who’s waiting for me a few steps away. Without any further conversation, he leads me onto the dance floor where my feet answer the call of the rhythm. Despite his lanky, tall frame, Tom moves gracefully, like he’s been dancing his whole life. He takes the lead, urging me into spins and twists and lifts with subtle flicks of his wrist. I immediately know that if I were smart, I’d heed Carly’s warning, walk out of this dance, and stay away from Tom Highward forever.
Instead—I keep dancing.
CHAPTER 7
Elise
Present Day
Holy Trinity Catholic Church
The inside of the church is tidy and well maintained but less spectacular than I expected. The walls are yellowed eggshell, and the stained-glass windows hold none of the wonder and majesty of the grand cathedrals of Europe or St. Patrick’s back in New York City.
“This will need some work before the wedding,” the director of photography mutters to Conrad.
“The transformation will be impactful,” Mac says with a broad sweep of his hand that shuts them up immediately. “Hey, darling. How are you doing?” he asks, taking my hands like I’ve witnessed the death of a much-loved pet. The cameras follow.
“It’s . . . different from what I remember.” The age of the structure would be hard to determine with carpet runners covering large portions of the oak flooring, but a notice on a bulletin board near the entrance narrows the founding date down to sometime in the 1850s. A giant wooden crucifix hangs above the altar, and I feel a pang of my remaining Catholic guilt that we’re using this holy place as a setting for my mom and Mac’s project.
“We’re bringing in Terri Fitzgibbons, the wedding planner, and flying in flowers for the big day. Today, let’s not focus on the aesthetics, okay? Let’s focus instead on memories of your grandma and your first meeting with Father Ignatius.”
“Sounds good,” I say, and slip away from Mac. When the cameras are rolling, he’s so welcoming, like we have a close friendship or like he’s my actual stepfather instead of the man who’s been sleeping with my mom for a couple of months. I think I prefer cold, snobby Mac. He seems more real.
I look up at the arched ceiling of the open, airy room and the choir loft. The beams are painted white, though I’m sure they were stained brown the last time I was here as a child. The cameras focus on my exploration, and it makes me nervous, so I block them out. Instead, I study the multicolored-glass windows made up of geometric shapes and lead lines. What would the off-white walls look like with the lights off and the sun shining through?
“What do you think?” a crew member asks. It’s not Conrad or one of the cameramen. This man is only a few inches taller than me, with light brown hair combed over to one side. Younger than me, too, I think, but dressed in a light jacket that I swear my father wore in a film in 1989. He might be the location manager or a gaffer assessing the lighting. It’s a little surprising being addressed by someone other than Mac with the cameras still rolling, but he must know something I don’t.
I whisper, glad to have someone normal to talk to before Mac comes back.
“Cathedrals are breathtaking, but this”—I gesture to the glass windows and arched roof—“it’s not showy or a waste of money or the result of some medieval pissing contest; it’s just”—I search for the right description—“simple and beautiful and probably a labor of sacrifice and love when it was built.”
He bobs his head, one finger over his mouth, taking in the multicolored glass.
“Hmm . . . poetic,” he says with a touch of sarcasm that makes me think he’s smirking. A quick check out of the corner of my eye confirms it.
“What?” I whisper, realizing why he’s laughing. “You don’t find a pissing contest to be an apt description?”
He takes his hand away from his mouth and clasps both behind his back. I can see his smile now. It’s brilliant and gives me the sense he’s been in far more mischief than his clean-cut look would suggest.
“Well, I guess I’ve never heard the term used in church or in reference to holy cathedrals.”
“Oh shit,” I say, covering the mic clipped under my collar. “You’re right. Do you think my mic picked it up?”
He shrugs with a bemused expression on his face.
“You’re no help.”
“It’s above my pay grade, I guess.” He’s still smiling.
“Mine too,” I try to joke but end up biting my lip instead.
“Nervous?” he asks, still staring over my head.
“Yeah, pretty nervous.”
“It doesn’t run in the family, the ‘on camera’ thing?” His questions are casual and insightful. He must be part of the production team, likely taking mental notes or recording our conversation through my mic to share with Mac later.
“Nooo. No. Not at all.”
“Why not? You don’t seem shy.”
“Ha. It’s not that. I used to be quite the camera hog.”
“What changed?” he asks.
I turn around and finally get a good look at my conversation partner as he continues to stare at the windows over my head. He’s even more buttoned up than I first thought, but interesting enough to make me curious. I want to find out his name.