“Hollywood doesn’t even know I exist yet,” I say timidly.
Then as we start to move past the waiting prisoners to the front of the line, Trombello acknowledges Tom with a quick, “Ufficiale.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tom asks, lunging forward. I grab his tensed bicep and pull backward with no effect.
“Officer. He just called you an officer, that’s all.”
Trombello doesn’t respond to Tom’s aggressive move. He remains firmly in place, and I can imagine him as a soldier. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his pulse pounding at his jugular at double speed.
“Tutto bene, Padre?” Are you all right, Father? Ferragni asks in a low mumble.
“Padre? You think I don’t know what that means?” Tom says, his body a brick wall, heaving like it’s undergoing an earthquake.
“Father. It just means father,” I explain, pulling back on Tom so hard that I’m certain I’ll leave a mark on his arm.
“I’m not stupid, Viv. I know what it means. But do you know what it means? That’s what I’m wondering ’cause I’ve been hearing some things about this guy. I think this one could use a reminder.” He points a finger into Trombello’s firm, broad chest.
“It’s a joke,” I say, thinking back to when I heard Talbot first use the phrase right after Trombello’s proposal to Gammell. “Because he’s in charge of the chapel committee. Right, Signor Trombello?” I ask, hating the trill in my voice I get when I’m nervous or frightened.
“You wanna tell her or should I, Padre?” Tom asks, his aggression swelling and exploding with a fingertip shove into Trombello’s chest. “Or should I say—Father Antonio?”
“Father Antonio?” I ask, cocking my head, my eyes connecting directly with Trombello’s.
He nods with a seeming internal peace I wish I had. And at once I understand a lot of things.
“You’re a priest,” I gasp.
Trombello bobs his head again, his eyes locked with mine.
“Lo sono.” I am.
“I didn’t know priests could join the army,” I say, feeling stupid for not understanding his role in his community sooner.
“Padre, tocca a noi,” Ferragni says, beckoning the priest to move away from the conflict with a tug on his sleeve.
The committee members have gathered around, and I can see why—Trombello’s not only their friend and compound leader; he’s also their religious guide.
“We should get inside,” Tom says, backing away from the clogged line and the crowd forming around us. He yanks at his uniform, straightening and smoothing the fabric until all that remains wrinkled is his forehead.
He offers his arm and I take it, waving goodbye to the committee members.
“Buon appetito, Padre,” I say to Trombello as we head up the steps toward the dining hall, trying out his official title and wondering at how curious it feels in my mouth.
“Buon appetito, figlia mia,” Trombello says to my back, his words meaning Enjoy your meal, my child. It’s a paternalistic greeting I’ve heard from the priest at Holy Trinity every Sunday since I was christened. It makes me feel more like a confused child than I have in a long, long, long time.
CHAPTER 13
Elise
Present Day
Rest Haven Cemetery
I haven’t been to a cemetery since visiting Dean’s headstone at Westwood Village Memorial Park when I was in LA. It’s hard to avoid the memories as we walk through the grounds of Edinburgh’s Rest Haven Cemetery, where my grandmother and grandfather are buried. It’s nothing like sunny Westwood with its grand mausoleums and graves of celebrities with benches and meticulously maintained gardens surrounding them. But here, seeing the headstones—two dates carved into them and only a dash between to represent the life that person once lived—reminds me of how short it all is, how fragile.
My sadness will translate well on camera since it’s perfectly okay to fight back tears about my grandparents. No one needs to know that some of those tears are for my long-dead fiancé.
The map I hold has a highlighted line that should lead us to my grandparents’ headstones. The cemetery sexton, a short, balding man wearing a white collared shirt under a khaki windbreaker, leads the way through the tidy but dreary paths. The temperature has dropped after a few days of warmth, and everyone makes jokes about Mother Nature’s mood swings. Conrad even approved a winter coat for the shoot today, but not the purple one I came with. He purchased a more flattering jacket from the local outlet mall last night and styled it with a bright green scarf that Lisa says goes perfectly with my eyes and skin tone. Right now, I’m glad the cashmere adds an additional layer of warmth.
“Almost there,” the sexton, Mr. Christianson, says as we enter a part of the cemetery where the headstones have a worn look, their carved markings dulled from years of standing as sentinels above the long departed six feet under the ground.
We approach a simple pair of headstones: one with my grandfather’s name and the dates of his birth and death and one that’s a brighter gray granite, clearly more modern, with my grandmother’s married name and the dates of her birth and death.
“Here they are. Our town’s little secret—Mr. and Mrs. Vivian Snow. Well, a secret till now at least.” He gestures to Mac and the camera crew following our trek through the graveyard.
“Yeah, Nonna wanted to be buried here with Grandpa and her parents, but she knew it’d be a hassle, so she had half her ashes buried in Hollywood and the other half here. We had the big funeral as a family, but my mom was the only one present for this one.”
Actually, it was my mom and her boyfriend, but I don’t add that. I’d like to think it’s to spare Mac’s feelings, but really it’s to protect my mother from looking like the mess she is.
“We worked under total confidentiality. I didn’t even tell my wife,” the sexton says, like the covert operation had the importance of a state secret.
“I can’t tell you how much that was appreciated,” I answer, playing the PR game perfectly, though at the time, I was so wrapped up in my grief over losing Dean that I had little room for the intricacies of the double burial. I still hold some guilt for that to this day.
“Of course.” He turns to the cameras and speaks to them directly, breaking the fourth wall, which must make Mac cringe. “I’ve never shown anyone this grave. Though Miss Snow’s husband’s headstone has been here since before my time and has received a visitor or two.”
He points at the stone with the name TOM HIGHWARD carved in it. Born June 9, 1921, and died December 23, 1944. I take a second glance at the dates.
“Are you sure this is the right spot?” I look at the map again and spin around, checking the surrounding headstones.
“Yes, no doubt at all. I maintain Miss Snow’s plot myself.”
Mac steps forward, concern obvious in his furrowed brow. “Is there a problem?”
I look back at the headstones and consider saying nothing, but it’s hard not to wonder if someone messed up royally after my grandmother passed away. I step closer to Mr. Christianson.
“You’re sure this is my grandfather’s headstone?” I ask in a whisper. “Because these dates—they aren’t right.”