“But they get to do it at home, in private. They get to choose who knows their secrets. Why don’t I get that choice? I’m not consenting to living in the public eye because my grandmother was famous. Or my mother, or father or brothers, or, God, even my fiancé.”
“Elise, do you really think you’re any different from the rest of us?” Hunter’s tone is no longer soft. He has that hard, cutting tone I sometimes hear him use at work.
“What?” I ask, my voice low and now obviously filled with emotion.
“You run a PR business dealing with the kind of publicity you seem to despise, and you benefit from your clients’ scandals continually.”
“I want to help them—shelter them from melodrama like this ’cause I know what it’s like.”
“You’re giving yourself too much credit,” he says in a biting way I’ve never, ever heard him wield with me. “You also help them profit off publicity—good and bad. If it were anyone but you—you’d agree with me. This is an opportunity. All of it. The documentary, the wedding, even the freaky DNA shit.”
“I . . .” I feel like I’m having a conversation with a stranger. “I should let you go.”
He exhales into the receiver.
“Sorry, babe,” he says. I recognize this voice. “You caught me at a bad time. I’ll back you up on whatever you decide, but think on it—okay? There’s a reason sex tapes are good for careers—people like seeing their heroes naked. It’s possible your grandma wasn’t a saint. Maybe she did lie about your grandfather, but maybe there was a good reason for it. You’re doing that PR thing again and jumping to the worst conclusions. I bet it’s not as terrible as you think.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, irritated at his lack of concern. I’m out of new words, so I pull out some old ones. “Have a good meeting.”
“Talk tonight?” he asks, and I don’t know if I’m lying when I say yes.
“Love you,” he says.
“You too,” I respond out of reflex, and we both hang up.
I sit, stunned, and take a sip from the warm mug Father Patrick delivered during the call. The coffee warms me and stings in a familiar way at the back of my throat. I feel more lost than when I was wandering in the snow.
“Everything okay?” Father Patrick asks, back in his spot in front of me.
I shrug, confusing thoughts going through my mind. Is everything okay? No. Will it be okay? I don’t know yet.
“Can I sit here for a little longer?” I ask as the wind slams against the windows. I shiver at the idea of going outside.
“You can sit here as long as you need. I have confession at seven; otherwise, I’d offer you a ride.”
“It’s all right. I’ll get someone to pick me up in a bit,” I say, taking another sip.
“I’ll be in the sacristy if you need me,” he says as he walks away.
When he reaches the altar, I call out irreverently, “Can you turn off the lights again?”
He flicks them off without saying a word.
“Thank you.”
I sit in the dark, listening to the snowstorm as it surrounds my sanctuary, asking questions, searching for answers.
What if I can’t stop Mac? And what if my grandmother was a liar? What if she made up a nice story about my grandfather to cover up something even more embarrassing or scandalous or horrifying? What if I quit the documentary—will Mac go on without me? Will Hunter leave me? And what if he’s right—about the documentary, about my career, about me?
What if my whole life is about to change? Again.
CHAPTER 16
Vivian
Friday, June 4, 1943
Edinburgh USO
“Uh, Miss Snow. Can I have that dance now?” Winnie is waiting for me at the bottom of the stage stairs. His cheeks are red, and sweat drips from his hairline. I’ve seen him on the dance floor off and on throughout the night, and every time he caught my eye, I made sure to send a wink his way.
“Absolutely, soldier,” I say, needing a break from searching the room for Tom and Pearl. It was bad enough to see them flirting right in front of me, and when they took to the dance floor, it was worse. Now they’re nowhere to be found—their absence is devastating. My mind fills in every minute with excruciating detail.
Winnie is the perfect distraction. He swings me onto the floor with the fluidity of Fred Astaire. Excitement surges with each twirl. As the music swells, Winnie puts his hands on my waist and raises an eyebrow, and I know what he’s about to do. I give a tiny nod as he picks me up and tosses me from side to side and then pulls me through his legs, and I twist, close to airborne.
The other dancers make space, and a circle of spectators gathers to watch. His wide grin makes him look childlike, not like a scared little boy but like a boisterous kid running up and down a football field or cheering at a baseball game. The song ends, and the onlookers applaud as both of us breathe heavily. A new song starts up immediately. The tempo is slow and luxurious, and though I’m parched and exhausted, I follow Winnie’s lead and let his thin but strong arms keep me upright.
“Where’d you learn to dance like that?” I ask, still catching my breath.
“My mamma owns a dance studio in Clinton. When someone in the class was short a partner, she bribed me with Red Hots to get me to fill in.”
“I think I’m gonna need to send your mamma a thank-you note because—now don’t go back and tell your bunkmates this . . .” I push my pointer finger into his shoulder. “You’re the best dancer I’ve met in a long time.”
Winnie stumbles, and I catch him with a light touch.
“I don’t know what you’re getting on about—I’ve got two left feet right now,” he says with a slight stutter, the redness fading from all parts of his face but his cheeks.
“You’re not gonna fool me on this one, buddy.”
I’m laughing at his humility and youthful innocence, intoxicated by the bubbly buoyancy of his practiced footfalls, each like a sip of champagne. I’m still giggling as he flicks me out for a gentle, graceful spin. I close my eyes, enjoying the pace of the waltz, knowing I can give myself over to his lead.
But as I extend my right arm halfway through my turn, a strong hand roughly grasps my wrist. My eyes fly open. I’m pulled between the gentle touch of baby-faced Winnie on one end of my wingspan and the tough grip of a stone-faced Tom Highward on the other.
“May I cut in?” he asks me rather than Winnie. The glossy glower in his eyes makes it more of a demand than a politely worded request.
I have little say in the tug-of-war. I’m furious at Tom and sympathetic to Winnie, but the rulebook specifies that my preference means little—the negotiations remain between the two men. Like most of the choices in my life, I’m strung between the hold of men making decisions on my behalf.
Winnie looks at Tom and then back to me, shrugging and releasing my hand. I don’t blame him for not wanting to fight.
“Thanks for the dance,” he says as he’s swallowed up by the crowd of overheated, lonely soldiers and tired, lonely volunteers. He crashes into a couple. The soldier glares at Winnie, who apologizes to the dancing pair and to me as well.