“Have you heard anything? Official?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. Last week he owned up to hearing most of my conversation with Hunter.
“I did a bit of my own research.” I hold up a finger and lean in for suspense. “Tom Highward came from a wealthy family, and when I say wealthy, I mean Bill Gates wealthy but, like the 1940s version.”
“You didn’t know this?”
“Not at all. Tom Highward was this totally nebulous hero figure to all the grandkids. I don’t think my mom even knew he was rich. Which is surprising because I found plenty of articles on Newspapers.com about Tom’s life as a socialite and gossip columns about his joining the army, and even rumors of his marrying secretly and having a love child. But my grandmother was never mentioned until”—I point my finger into his shoulder as I add each detail—“she signed with MGM and was referenced as a war widow. But as far as I could tell, the Highward family had nothing to do with my mother before or after she was born. The younger sister who used to visit Tom’s grave passed away in ’96. I saw pictures of her, but I know for sure we’ve never met. She has a daughter who lives in Manhattan, though.”
“Wow—you found out a lot. Are you going to reach out to the cousin?”
“You read my mind.” I poke again, which must’ve been one poke too many because Patrick grabs my finger before it hits his shoulder again. “Sorry, I’m getting carried away.” I smooth the fabric and pat the area like he’s been hurt. “But to your question—yes. I’m not positive she’ll know anything, but as soon as I get my mother’s permission, I’m calling this cousin. She’s flying in tomorrow morning. My mom—not the cousin.”
“Ah, the fabled Gracelyn Branson.”
“Yes, yes. Academy Award–winning Gracelyn Branson.” I emphasize her preferred title.
“That will be . . .”
“Interesting,” I say, completing his sentence.
“I think I was going to say fascinating, but interesting works too.”
“You know what, you go ahead and laugh, but when she starts trying to use her womanly wiles on you, we’ll see who’s laughing,” I say, grabbing the door handle. I don’t open it because he’s leaning against the door and would fall if I did. In this position, however, my hand accidentally rests against his bicep. He doesn’t move at first, as though he recognizes something important in the moment we’re experiencing—like it’s a pocket of existence where his collar doesn’t matter, and my last name doesn’t either.
“Me. I’ll be laughing,” he clarifies, but the steadiness in his answer sounds like it has very little to do with laughter.
“We shall see,” I say, brushing past him as I turn the handle and walk out to the hallway. He stumbles but doesn’t fall.
“Hey, you almost killed me,” he accuses, catching up to me halfway down the hall.
“You promised Conrad we’d be ten minutes. I’m helping you be a man of your word.”
“Then we better go this way,” he says, guiding me through the mazelike corridors to the mess hall to find Stan and Dottie.
“Hey, you two,” Dottie calls from her seat at the cafeteria table. She’s sitting alone with a novel open in front of her as she eats. The air is fragrant with spices, and I wish I could eat here rather than force down the fried chicken and waffles waiting for me.
“Hi, Dottie. No Stan tonight?”
“He had a call on the walkie, but I have my book to keep me company,” she says, holding up her romance novel and taking off her reading glasses. “But I’d take you both over Francesco and Maria any day.”
“I can’t stay, but I didn’t want to miss saying goodbye.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. I was hoping we could have dinner, but I’m glad you stopped by. I have something for your show.” She takes out her oversized purse and retrieves a legal-sized manila envelope from inside. “I found some pictures in our archives you might be interested in. I don’t think anyone realized we had the real live Vivian Snow working here years ago.”
“Pictures of my grandma?”
“A few. Also, the chapel.”
“That’s great. Thank you!” I take the offered envelope.
“Will you be back on base anytime soon?” I don’t think I’ll be back. Hunter will be here soon, and after filming a few segments together, we’ll wrap for a few months until the wedding.
“I want to—I really do, but it depends on the filming schedule.” I dig in my bag and retrieve one of my business cards for Dottie.
“This is fancy,” she says, squinting and holding up her glasses to get a clearer look. “CEO? Well, look at you.”
She tucks the card into the back of her novel like a bookmark, and my cheeks feel warm. It’s not often someone finds me impressive. It’s impossible to see the North Star when it’s high noon.
“Call me, okay? Even if I can’t make it back before we wrap, I want to see you,” I say, and add, “And Stan.”
“Of course. I was just telling Father Patrick we need to have you both over for Sunday dinner, wasn’t I, Father?”
“She may have mentioned it,” he said, mouthing, “Like ten times.”
“I saw that!” Dottie said, batting at him with her bent, arthritic hands.
“I love the idea. Thank you, Dottie.” I check my watch. I’ve already stayed too long. “Well, I better get going. There’s a van full of hungry crewmates waiting for me.”
“Sounds good. Bye, dear.” She puts her glasses back on and opens her book as Father Patrick follows me to the exit.
“Want me to walk you out?” Father Patrick asks, and I shake my head.
“Nah, I got it. But I’ll see you on Thursday for filming.”
“See you then,” he says, and we part ways at the cafeteria door. He heads toward his car, and I jog across the parking lot to the large SUV in the corner. Marty, Ben, and Lisa are waiting for me inside.
“Sorry to make you guys wait,” I say, climbing into the empty spot in the back. “Wait. Conrad and Mac left already?” I ask, looking around.
“They just left. No worries. We barely finished packing up,” Marty says as he pulls out of the lot and follows the grid-like streets off the base. I apologize again and then stop because everyone in the car is in wind-down mode, looking at phones and returning texts. I’m about to take out my own device when I remember the envelope of pictures in my lap.
I slowly unwind the red string from the top flap. A cluster of black-and-white photographs pours out when I tip the envelope to the side. I arrange them in a neat stack, small ones up front, bigger ones in the back. The first few are blurry pictures of the Chapel in the Meadow during different phases of construction, each with a date on the back. The next few are of men working shirtless or in their PW uniforms with rolled-up sleeves, tools in hand, and big smiles.
When I reach the slightly larger prints, they change from action shots to group photos. The first shows a gathering of POWs in a field facing a man in religious vestments. Next to him stand a woman and a man performing in some way. I look closer, wishing I had a magnifying glass, but after a second of self-doubt, I know I’m right. It’s my nonna. I flip the card over.