“Here.” He passes me the towel, and I use it to dry the bench and then my face and hair. “Do you need coffee, tea?”
“Coffee sounds like heaven, but please don’t make a new pot for me.”
“Mrs. Thompson, our volunteer secretary, bought us a Keurig last year, so one cup of coffee is almost too easy.”
“Cameras and coffee machines—I’m impressed. But I don’t want to be a hassle. I plan to get out of your hair soon.”
“You’re no hassle, Miss Branson.”
“I’m sure you have better things to do than bring me towels and hot drinks—things like feeding and clothing literal refugees. That’s pretty amazing work you do, by the way.”
“I could tell it affected you when I saw you on base.” He pauses and searches my expression like he’s trying to figure out an interesting word problem or brainteaser. I wait for some pointed or deeply religious question, but instead he says simply, “Working with the families on base is humbling.”
“I told Mac he should talk to the people at Atterbury and possibly do a segment in the film about your efforts.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
“When do you go again?” I ask, finally warm and nearly dry, and blissfully distracted from the crisis I’ll have to address as soon as my phone rings.
“I teach a class there on Thursday.”
“A class? Like, a religious class? I guess I assumed most of the refugees were Muslim.”
“Oh, it’s not religious. I teach art therapy,” he says in a rush. Then I remember his background before joining the priesthood, and a new burst of respect ignites in me.
“That’s right. Your art degree.”
He shrugs like he’s uncomfortable with acknowledging his accomplishments. After making a career out of the egos of Hollywood stars and millionaire businesspeople, I find his modesty fascinating.
“You’ve got lots of layers there, Father.”
“One or two, I guess.”
My phone buzzes in my coat pocket, and I jump.
“Oh shit!” I say, digging through the rumpled pile of fluff.
“Your call?” he asks, not even flinching at my second swear word of the conversation.
“Oh God, I hope so.” I retrieve the buzzing device out of the coat’s zippered pocket. But it’s not my mom or her assistant or even Farrah. It’s Hunter. I want to talk to him, I really do, but a small part of me wants to hit the cancel button and call him back later, fill him in without Father Patrick listening in the background. That way I can keep talking to the unusual clergyman who still hasn’t told me his, I assume, tragic backstory that I want to know. No—that I crave to know.
“Your fiancé?” Father Patrick asks, seeming to catch on to my hesitancy.
I nod.
“You should get it.”
He’s right. Plus, how would it look to not pick up my fiancé’s call? Father Patrick is supposed to take us through the rest of our Pre-Cana. Marry us. Send us on our way into marital bliss. I wouldn’t blame him for judging me if I dodged Hunter so cavalierly.
I hit the green button and put the phone up to my ear. Father Patrick takes my towel and coat and excuses himself as I answer.
“Hey, babe. Got your message. Everything okay?” I can hear traffic sounds in the background. I’m guessing he’s in the back of a car in transit between meetings.
“Not really.” I try to whisper.
“What’s wrong? Are you safe?” There’s an immediate edge to his voice.
“I’m fine. It’s just more drama with this documentary.”
“Oh, thank God. You scared me.” Hunter’s tone softens. If he were here, he’d be running his fingers through my hair to comfort me. “What’s up? More delays? More Mac stuff?”
“A lot more Mac stuff. He wants to dig up my effing grandpa.” Saying it out loud makes me chuckle at the audacity of the man.
“What?”
“Yeah. Some really crazy stuff has come up. There’s a possibility my grandpa, my mom’s dad, didn’t die a war hero or whatever shit I’ve been told my whole life.”
“Oh my God, really? Like, some big scandal?”
“Yeah, like maybe my grandpa ran off or Nonna lied or some other crazy theory.”
Hunter is silent for a second, and all I can hear is the whisper of someone in the background. The driver?
“So they want to run the DNA?” he says a moment later.
“I don’t know what the hell they want to do, but I’m trying to put the kibosh on it. You gotta try to talk to my mom and have her say no. She’s sweet on you. Plus, you two were the first to buy in on this project. But this storyline isn’t good for any of us. Even just a rumor could do a lot of damage. Jimmy’s freaking out.”
“Well, maybe he’ll finally help out, then.” A double bump in the background and the sudden absence of traffic noise lead me to believe he’s entered a parking garage.
“No, you know how he is. His career is the only love of his life.”
“I know. I know.”
“This whole thing is getting out of control,” I say, feeling so alone, helpless.
The sounds of car doors closing and murmurs of people chatting fill the quiet on the other side of the phone.
“Hey, babe. I’ve gotta go to my next meeting.” He’s distracted. “But know I’ve got your back no matter what, okay?”
“Even if it means no wedding in May?” I wait through another long pause before he responds.
“Really? It’s that extreme?”
Father Patrick emerges from his office with a steaming cup in his hands. He puts it on the pew next to me, mouthing the words, “For you.” I give a wordless thank-you but have to turn my back as he walks away because his kindness brings tears to my eyes that I don’t want him to see.
“Well, yeah, Hunter. What if the story about my grandpa’s all been a lie?”
“That’s what you’re worried about?” he says.
“It would be huge. Huge. And with that kind of a bombshell—this documentary won’t be some quiet release on a random streaming service.”
He’s silent. Clears his throat and then asks, “And that’s a problem?”
A stab of betrayal pierces my chest like a heated dagger.
“You were worried about the whole POW thing, but this is no big deal? My whole understanding of my family, my mother’s origin, are in question. And it’ll be on a screen for the viewing public to see, and people like Mac and his anonymous partners are going to profit from it. Get awards. Get richer off ruining my family’s name.”
“‘Ruining’ is a bit strong, Lisey. And to be clear—I was worried about your grandma being connected with internment camps until you explained the POW thing. That’s different from a family scandal. DNA is a bitch, and plenty of people are now finding out these kinds of secrets. It’s a relatable theme, actually.”
Now I can’t stop the tears. Out slips a small sob that I’m sure Hunter can’t hear, but I’m afraid Father Patrick can. A frustration that goes beyond Hunter and beyond our conversation boils inside of me.