“My mom’s acting coach said I didn’t have ‘the face’ for it.”
“The face for it?” he asks incredulously, refocusing his gaze on me.
“Yeah. He said my face doesn’t work.”
He gives me a quick once-over like he’s searching for the supposed error in my features.
“I think he was wrong about that.”
I blush. I shouldn’t be surprised that I get along with the crew better than the primaries. It’s been that way since I was little. They were the ones to sneak me a bagel from food services, or “crafty” as we always called it, or play a game of gin rummy during reshoots or carry me to my mom’s trailer when I fell asleep during a late shoot.
Why I chose to run PR for sometimes self-centered, often out-of-touch movie stars, I’ll never know.
“You’ll see,” I say. “I can’t hide anything. My mom thought I was a prodigy or something at first ’cause when I was little, I never needed a tear stick, you know, the stuff they put on your lower lid to make you cry. But then she realized I wasn’t crying on cue; I was crying for real because I didn’t want to be in front of the cameras.”
He chuckles, looking up at the windows again. As the sun starts to set, the stained glass on the eastward-facing side of the church swiftly loses most of its brilliance, and the windows on the west side change colors in the orange light, sending a blanket of golden hues through the nave.
The crew member grows contemplative, and a yellow triangle of light from the western stained glass falls on his cheek, making him seem warm, glowing.
“And what about now?” he asks seriously. “Do you want to be here? Now?”
I should answer, “Yes, I’m honored to be here,” but I have a feeling this guy will know I’m lying.
“Actually—I don’t know yet.”
“That’s . . . honest.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully.
“Elise!” I hear my name called, and my head snaps in that direction. “Darling. This way.”
Mac stands under the giant Jesus on a cross, waving at me like a member of the paparazzi trying to get my mom’s attention. I wince. His whole attitude clashes with the reverence intended for this place.
An elderly-looking priest in a long black coat and a white collar, with graying hair and horn-rimmed glasses, stands next to Mac. He seems annoyed with Mac’s volume and the hive of activity that’s invaded his sanctuary. I want to apologize, smooth things over like a good PR agent would, but I don’t work for Mac. God, I don’t even work for my mom. If I do any smoothing, it will be for the sake of my conscience only.
“I better go do some damage control,” I say, turning back to the production man and his tan coat, soft voice, and curious line of questioning. But—he’s gone, likely called away by some voice in his earpiece while I was distracted by Mac. I glance around, not finding him anywhere, but I’m sure we’ll see plenty of each other over the next few weeks.
I hurry down the main aisle to Mac, quick enough to show urgency without disrespecting the church. I can’t help but think that in the near future, I’ll be walking down this aisle very slowly with a veil over my face and flowers in my hands.
“This is Elise Branson, our bride.” Mac gestures in my direction from the front of the sanctuary, his voice still loud enough to echo. “Elise, this is Father Ignatius.”
“Hello, Father,” I whisper solemnly, extending my hand.
“This way,” he says, walking toward the back of the nave.
I slide my unshaken hand into my jacket pocket and follow the priest.
We enter a small office to the side of the church. Inside, a desk sits a few feet away from a rear wall that’s covered in bookcases filled with books of all sizes. Some of the bindings look ancient and others like they came from the local thrift store. Two wooden chairs sit in front of the desk, and the windows to my right let in the dimming light of the evening.
Mac enters and takes a full turn around in the middle of the room like he belongs here. I stand in the corner as the camera and sound crew pack into the small space.
“Ben, the lighting in here needs some help,” Mac snaps. A twenty-something with long hair in a ponytail starts rearranging the room.
So, the window guy isn’t the gaffer.
Cameras go from handheld to stationary as everyone waits for proper lighting.
In the middle of the room, Conrad holds a pen and an open folder. He’s explaining the Image Release form to Father Ignatius. The clergyman doesn’t seem to like the idea of signing.
“What is this again?” the priest asks for the third time.
“It says that we can use your image on camera for the film. I sent your secretary a copy a few weeks ago but haven’t heard back. We need it on file before we start filming.”
Father Ignatius holds up the release form and reads it under his breath and then coughs and puts it back into the folder.
“I won’t sign this.”
“What . . . what do you mean? You approved everything already. I passed it by the archdiocese.” Mac lets down his cool, composed mask for half a second, and I swear I see panic there. Father Ignatius closes the folder and leaves it with Conrad without a glance in my direction.
“I don’t like the cameras,” he says dismissively. “I told Bishop Lovedale this whole venture is fraught with pride and vanity. I can show you around the grounds and such, but Father Patrick will be on camera for the Pre-Cana and the ceremony.”
“Father Patrick?”
“Yes, Father Patrick is here at Holy Trinity. I split my time between this church and three others in the area in more of a . . . supervisory role.”
“So, this Father Patrick will be taking your place, then?” Mac asks, seeming calmed by the offer of a replacement.
“If you all insist on moving forward . . .” He pauses, as though Mac will suddenly see the wisdom of his old-fashioned values and cancel the whole film. But when Mac stares back at him, no change of heart evident, he continues. “Then, yes, he will be your partner in the proceedings. You can still reach out to me with any supervisory concerns or questions, and I can assist.” He places the pen in Conrad’s shirt pocket. “Off camera, of course.”
“That’s fine. As long as we can stay on schedule. Conrad, change the names on the release.”
“Will do.” The young assistant rushes through the cluster of crew members and out of the office while Mac leans against the desk, checking his watch.
“So, this Father Patrick—will he be available to shoot today? We had the first meeting on the schedule I sent over that you and your bishop approved.”
“Yes, yes. He was out on a call, but I think I saw him come in. You have to understand—our first priority is our parishioners. I want that to be very clear.” He holds up a warning finger, swollen and spotted with age.
“We completely respect that, and I promise to be careful with your time and Father Patrick’s time.” Mac nods, answering like he really understands, but I can see he’s insincere. Once he realized Father Ignatius wouldn’t appear on camera, he stopped really listening to him.
Mac glances at his watch again and calls me over and points to one of the chairs across from the desk. I wish they’d remove the empty chair where Hunter should be sitting.