“And?” I ask, part of me hoping this is a story of a miracle. I’m leaning halfway across the seat, completely engaged.
“She died. Her parents buried her later that week, and I flew home alone.”
“And became a priest?” I connect the dots, and he colors inside the lines.
“I had no interest in marrying anyone but Magdalene, and the only thing that brought me comfort was helping at my parish’s shelter and community pantry. My parish priest, Father Francis, saw how the church had become a balm for my grief, and he suggested I consider the priesthood.”
The thread he’s been messing with snaps, and a bit of the stitching comes undone. He tosses the string and then rubs a spot on his knee.
“And you think God did that?” I ask. It’s a real question, not accusatory or mocking.
“I do—or at least I want to.”
“Because it gives meaning to something too terrible to understand?” I ask, knowing how tempting it is to cover a wound with placations. But those types of bandages never held up for me, always dissolving at the slightest provocation.
“No. More selfish. More—prideful,” he says, taking us full circle to the start of the conversation. “It means I didn’t kill my fiancée. It was God’s will. And I can live with that.”
I understand now that the screen between a priest and his parishioner during confession isn’t only for the confessor. I hope he sees empathy, not judgment, when he looks at me. But he hasn’t looked at me for a while, and if he keeps rubbing the spot on his knee, he’ll damage it as badly as he did the steering wheel.
I cover his restless fingers, wrapping my own around them. He lifts his head and finally sees me. His priestly vestments now look like a hairshirt he’s wearing to punish himself for the accidental death of his beloved fiancée.
I want to tell him that he’s not responsible for Magdalene’s death and that no loving God would kill a twenty-year-old woman to bring a man to his calling. But I don’t because I know he’s not ready to hear that. So I remind him of what I know is true.
“You’re too hard on yourself,” I say like I did earlier, but slowly this time and with added emphasis.
I squeeze his fingers, and he turns them up so they rest against mine. He’s not watching my face anymore; he’s watching our hands, my small, slender fingers running up his palm. He shakes his head without speaking and then grasps my wrist gradually like he’s measuring it. It’s a simple gesture, easily platonic. But as innocent as it seems, it doesn’t feel like the touch of a friend. I run my middle finger over the smooth skin at the joint where I can feel his rapid pulse. He must feel my elevated pulse too.
“Agree to disagree,” he says, withdrawing from our closeness and then readjusting in his seat so his hands rest on the wheel again. My fingers tingle, and it feels like we’re running out of oxygen in the closed car. I think of a billion things I’d like to tell him but know I shouldn’t—like how I worry I’ll never love anyone like I loved Dean, or how sometimes I feel more connection with Patrick as my priest than I ever have with Hunter as my fiancé. So I say nothing other than a thank-you and a “see you again soon” as I slip out of the car, not waiting for a response.
I speed walk to the side door of the hotel and reach for my key card, eager to be alone in my room so I can think. But my pocket is empty. I pat my side for my computer bag and find it missing.
“You need this?” Patrick stands directly behind me, holding out my brown leather satchel.
“Oh gosh. Thank you,” I say, reaching out to take it, our fingers brushing again. He doesn’t let go of the bag immediately, keeping me close.
“I’m sorry I got a little intense back there. I don’t tell that story often, and it’s been a while,” he says, staring down at me, seeming apprehensive.
“No—thank you for trusting me,” I say sincerely. “I actually completely understand.”
“I knew you would as soon you told me about Dean.”
He shuffles closer, further closing the space between us. My mouth goes dry, and I wait for whatever he’s going to say next, no idea what it might be. He takes a deep breath like he has a speech prepared but then lets it out, shaking his head again. He releases the bag and gives a simple wave before looking both ways and crossing the parking lot to his car.
I don’t wait for him to leave. I rush inside and sprint up the stairs so fast it leaves me wheezing. Safe inside my hotel room, I toss my satchel onto the love seat and then fall onto the bed. My ears ring as I revisit the whole conversation.
I was wise to say no to his ride originally.
My phone buzzes. There’s no way it’s Patrick. Or is it?
Diving across the room, I retrieve the phone from my satchel and check my list of notifications. One is from my mom, inviting me to dinner with the crew in Greenwood. I have ten minutes to change. Three from work and one from Hunter and none from Patrick.
I read the one from Hunter, this time slower, and it drops a cold lump of dread into my midsection.
HUNTER: Hope you had a good day, baby. Can’t wait to kiss my girl in four days!
I drop my phone on the newly made bed.
Shit.
Things are about to get really complicated.
CHAPTER 24
Vivian
Thursday, June 10, 1943
Santini Home
In the darkness, my question is answered immediately.
“Viviana! Vieni qui. Adesso.” Viviana! Come here. Now.
Papà’s inflection is harsh as he orders me to join him, and I flinch as though I’ve been hit.
Most evenings, I return home to a warmly lit house, the welcoming scent of dinner cooking, the sound of chatter, or sometimes music on the radio. But today the front room is empty, and I hear no sound other than the squeaking of papà’s chair in the kitchen.
“Be right there, papà!” I call in Italian.
I shove the shoebox into the back of the closet and cover it with an umbrella and a stray scarf that I first run over my face and lips to remove any traces of makeup. With my hat hung and my purse in place, I check to make sure the business card is still hidden in my waistband. Then I smooth my hair and walk into the kitchen in my muddy shoes.
“No late shift tonight?” he asks with a sarcastic bite.
He knows. I don’t know what exactly he’s found out, but he’s uncovered at least one of my lies.
“Not tonight, papà.” I remove the green-and-white apron from its hook next to the icebox and tie it in a tidy bow around my waist. The chicken in the icebox should still be good, and we have tomatoes and basil from Aria’s garden.
I take out the chicken. One breast remains, and if I hammer it thin and add lots of bread crumbs, it can serve all three of us. A loaf of bread from Marco, the chef at the POW mess hall, is in the breadbox, borderline stale, but it will make a nice bruschetta.
I know a confrontation is coming, but food calms papà. It’s not just the food—it’s seeing me working in the kitchen like mamma and his own mother, perhaps reminding him of another simpler time. Plus, I’d rather have my back to him when he’s angry; then I don’t have to see his anger, and he can’t see my fear.