“Oh, I’m sure we could make that work. We always need volunteers, but that’s not what I was talking about.”
“Oh, no?” I drop my phone into my lap as we pull up to the Chapel in the Meadow. Conrad starts unloading the bags of food from the back hatch. I meet Dottie at her side of the car. She takes my hand as she descends from the elevated front seat.
“I was talking about Father Patrick,” she says once she’s found her equilibrium. “Isn’t it a shame he’s unavailable? You two sure seem to have hit it off.”
I don’t know what to say, but with the blush spreading across my cheeks, it must be easy for Dottie to see how I feel.
“I think you’re reading far too many romance novels. Besides, he’s a priest and I’m engaged.” I wiggle the finger holding my grandmother’s ring.
She waves her gloved hands like she’s washing away the statement.
“I’m sure my imagination is running away with me because of the stories, you know, about your grandma and that priest.” She says it like this is a well-known fact. If I’d been drinking water, I’d have given a spit take.
“I’m sorry, what?” She starts walking toward the chairs we’d abandoned close to an hour ago. I rush after her.
“Your grandma and the priest who helped build this chapel.” She points at the handmade structure. “The rumors about their love affair used to be whispered all around the camp. You never heard?”
“No!” I insist defensively. “She’d never even think about doing something like that. She was far too faithful . . .”
“Sorry, dear. I’m sure it was just silly gossip,” Dottie says, seeing my reaction. I probably freaked her out with my explosive response.
“It’s okay. Gossip is a part of the job,” I say without digging further. A gust of chilled wind hits us, sending a shiver up the back of my arms and neck. Dottie tugs her zipper up to her chin.
We both let the topic go.
I’ve heard so many salacious and totally untrue tabloid stories over the years. How Vivian Snow was engaged to Ronald Reagan until Nancy put a hit out on her. Or that Vivian Snow was bald, and she kept young children on her payroll to grow hair for her wigs. Or that she’d been abducted by aliens and secretly replaced by a reptilian creature who wore her skin suit.
A priestly love story from her prefame years has never been one of them. I should dismiss it as quickly as I do the other rumors, but Dottie’s little aside sticks with me.
I pick at my salad, my stomach already full. I don’t know if I linger on the idea because I’m in Nonna’s hometown, learning about the chapter of her life I know the least about.
Or is it because of a fleeting but very real moment I’m trying to ignore. One that Dottie, an eighty-year-old stranger, picked up on. That moment at the cafeteria table when I temporarily forgot about the ring on my finger, and the enigmatic Father Patrick became a captivatingly insightful man with a smile who made me want to talk for hours—instead of a man of God.
CHAPTER 12
Vivian
Tuesday June 1, 1943
Camp Atterbury
“We’ll start clearing the meadow next week and then break ground as soon as it’s dedicated. The foundation can be poured and set by the end of the month.” I take notes in English shorthand as a group of prisoners talk in Italian around a table that’s draped with structural drawings on butcher paper.
The six Italian prisoners and I are the only inhabitants in the small boardroom other than a guard standing in the corner. This is our first official committee meeting.
I attended two weeks of preplanning with Trombello and Ferragni where they handpicked the rest of the men at the table and worked through preliminary details for the chapel. I took notes and translated communiqués between the main office and the Italian representatives.
It meant extra pay, which we desperately need, but it also meant increased familiarity with the prisoners. Which isn’t an issue when it comes to gruff, middle-aged Ferragni, but Trombello—he’s different. There’s an inexplicable and intense curiosity that spikes inside me whenever we cross paths. I can’t indulge it. So, I’ve made a concerted effort to keep my distance from Antonio Trombello because I can’t risk doing anything that would put my job in jeopardy.
Papà’s leg has become infected, and without my income, we’d sink further into debt. I paid mamma’s hospital bill last month before paying anything else, knowing she was on the verge of expulsion. But it gobbled up my whole paycheck, and if I lose my job here, it won’t be long before we’re not only worrying about where mamma lives but where we’ll live too.
The gig at the USO brings in very little. I heard about an open call in Chicago for the Midwest Talent Agency, and I know, I know if I could get in there, I could start making more money. But I need a headshot for the open call, and those cost money. And I’d need more money for bus fare to the city. Let alone finding a way to get there without papà knowing.
Tom thinks I could be a model; he tells me all the time when we dance at the USO. Every time I see him, he begs me for a date. He’s figured out my work schedule, and most days he walks me to and from the bus stop outside Atterbury or Mary’s car on the days my schedule aligns with hers.
I don’t know how he finagles the free time, but he’s in the Eighty-Third Infantry Division, which is signified by the yellow-and-black symbol on his sleeve. They’re called the Thunderbolts, and according to Tom, they’re a step above the average soldier in basic training. He’s hoping to move on to Ranger training by the end of the summer, and I like to cheer him on toward his dreams like he does for me.
Carly is wary of Tom but understanding since he’ll be moving on sooner rather than later. Mrs. Portia, a gray-haired former schoolmistress and the only paid member of staff at the USO, has already put me on warning with Tom—I’ll have my card pulled if it looks like I’m encouraging his advances. But it’s not easy to dodge his determined advances. Not to mention that he’s handsome, charming, and has a brilliant smile.
“Signorina Santini.” Hearing Trombello say my name in his sweet, steady baritone brings me back to the present moment.
“Yes?” I respond in Italian, finding it easier than forcing the prisoners to stumble through their limited English vocabulary.
“Is that possible? The timeline?”
I glance at the notes I’ve taken and shrug.
“Lieutenant Colonel Gammell will have to look it over and give his approval.”
“Sure. Sure. But what do you think? Possible?”
“Oh,” I say with a slight gasp. “You want my opinion? But . . . I don’t know much about building things.”
Having an opinion often means running up against someone with the opposite ideals, which is why I usually keep my thoughts to myself. Trombello beckons me to the table, not accepting my nonanswer. I glance at the guard, Mike Craig, one of Tom’s buddies. He stares off into space, apparently lost in his own daydreams.
“Would you like to see?” Trombello asks. I do want to see the plans. I’m intrigued.
I slide out from behind the small desk in the corner and put down the notepad and pencil. I smooth my skirt and walk across the room. I expect Trombello to watch, as most men do, especially soldiers, but he doesn’t. He turns to the rough sketches at the table and the rudimentary architectural plans drawn out in pencil on oversized pieces of butcher paper.