But if anyone can possibly understand the righteous nature of that deceit, it’s Aria. And no matter what Father Theodore says, sometimes lying is righteous.
CHAPTER 19
Elise
Present Day
Elise’s Hotel Room
“Wake up; wake up; wake up!” my mother chants as she lets herself into my suite, interrupting my morning Zoom meeting with Marla and a client.
“How’d you get in here?” I ask, muting my side of the call.
“I asked for a key at the front desk, told them we were sharing a room, and they were such angels.”
“But we’re not sharing a room.” There’s no way I could endure that.
“No, silly. But I wanted to wake up my girl with a surprise from her mamma.” She holds a tray with two cups of coffee. She places them on the sitting area table and then rushes over to where I’m working, popping her head in-screen to give me a kiss.
In any other profession, this would be a mortifying moment of parental narcissism, but Hollywood is so enamored with Gracelyn Branson that she can get away with almost anything.
“Not sleeping, Mom. Working,” I say, annoyed.
“Can they hear me?” my mom asks, waving at the patchwork of faces on my screen. “Unmute. I want to say hi.”
“All right,” I say, clicking the microphone icon.
“Oh, hey, cutie pie. You look delicious,” my mom coos at a twenty-something member of the Hollywood “it” crowd. He was in a film with Mom last year, maybe the year before, played her grandson. Since then, he’s leveled up to starring in a new HBO series.
“Did you know this is my baby girl?” she asks, squeezing my cheeks with her gloved hands. Of course, they all know, but I play along because everyone loves this story—Gracelyn Branson—mother extraordinaire.
“Yes. She’s great—” he says as his manager finishes the sentence with a quick “Just like her mother.”
“Oh, you’re too sweet,” my mom says. She lets go of my cheeks and starts shedding pieces of outerwear. “I’ll let you get back to work. I’ll be right over here, minding my own business.”
“Goodbye, Gracie!” the young actor says with a hint of flirtation, which grosses me out.
I know nothing’s going to get done with Mom in the room, so I close out my part of the presentation, pass the meeting over to Marla’s capable hands, and turn to my mother. She looks stunning—as usual. Her lips, skin, and eyes have healed, and I have to admit, this round of touch-ups looks very natural.
“There’s my big working girl. Look at you balancing everything. I bet when you start popping out babies, you’ll be a badass mamma too. Let me take a look; anything cooking in there?” She runs her hand over my abdomen. I step away from her probing.
“No, Mom. Told you, not trying for a baby right now.” She’s always nagging me about babies, saying I should pass on the Snow/Branson matriarchal line, even though she already has four grandkids she hardly sees. Hunter is baby hungry, too, but I froze my eggs after Dean died, so my biological clock isn’t forcing any rash decisions before I’m ready.
“This is the first and last time I’ll ever say this, but—thank the Lord. We’re already going to be hard-pressed to find you a gown with such short notice. But to find one that’ll hide a baby bump, now that would be a feat. I’d have to bring in Hazel, and you know how hard she is to book.” Hazel is Mom’s ancient seamstress. She was Nonna’s seamstress first and used to make all Mom’s dresses when she was a girl. I don’t know if it’s even legal to force that old woman to work anymore and not get charged with elder abuse. But Mom worships the ground she walks on.
“I’ll get one off the rack and pay for alterations like any regular person. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Of course, it’ll be fine,” she says, using finger quotes around “fine.” “But you have every right to be stunning, Lisey. Oh Lord, the Romona Keveza dress. That was breathtaking. Breathtaking,” she emphasizes. “Totally out of style now but something like that—but not so outdated. That’s what we need.”
What we need. Yeah. That’s my mom. Bringing up the wedding dress that I never wore because my fiancé up and died. What fresh hell have I signed up for?
The only positive so far is that no one is recording this conversation. I approach the stiffly upholstered love seat where my mother has landed and settle into the armchair beside her.
“Mac made us an appointment for a place in Indianapolis on Friday. It specializes in vintage pieces, so something—unique.” Talking dresses should soften her up for my harder-hitting questions.
“You know ‘vintage’ is just another word for ‘used,’ baby,” she says with a sour expression.
“It’s what I want. Thought it’d go with the theme. And since we don’t have Nonna’s gown, this is a good secondary option.”
“A good third option is Hazel. I’ll have Patty reach out to her people. Give them a heads-up,” she says, taking out her phone and texting her assistant, her long nails clacking against the screen. “I’m only saying—keep her in mind. I swear she has magical elves living in her sewing room.” She laughs, and I get one of those glimpses into what other people see in my mom—a vivacious, charming woman.
“I’ll keep her and her elves in mind,” I promise.
“What are these?” she asks, spreading out the photographs stacked on the table next to the coffee cups. She picks up the two headshots of my grandmother and holds them up, squinting like she needs her glasses. “Oh my God! That’s mamma!”
“Yeah, they’re from the archives at the military base. I’ve never seen them before.”
“This one”—she holds up the image with the fuzzy background—“was her first headshot. Used it to audition for good ole Uncle Archie back before I was born. Where did you get it again?”
“One of the volunteers at the base. They have a little museum, and I guess these were saved in storage. Here, you’d know this—isn’t this Nonna’s handwriting?” I flip over a few of the construction pictures, and Mom makes a low mmmm sound.
“Undeniably hers.”
My energy spikes.
“What about that guy? Do you recognize him?” I ask, handing her the picture of Antonio Trombello.
She reviews it quickly and then drops it. “Nope.” She picks up the headshot again and stares at it. “I can’t believe she ever looked this young. Such a beauty.”
With the topic broached and her nostalgia wheels lubricated, I clear my throat and move to the edge of my seat, ready to jump in to all the other questions I’ve been waiting to ask until we could meet face-to-face.
“Did you get any of my messages last week?”
“Huh?” She doesn’t look up.
“My messages, about Mac and Grandpa’s grave? I left you a lot of messages. Patty and Connie must’ve told you. I asked Jimmy to call you and Chris. I had Farrah call you—a lot. Does this ring a bell?”
“Phone calls that ring a bell, very clever wording, dear.” She dodges the question, pretending to be preoccupied with something on her phone and then in her purse.