“That’s a lie.” He slides across the seat and presses his thigh against mine. “I can tell you love me. You’re fighting it, but you do.”
“Do you blame me?” I ask, looking up into his face, tears gathering in my eyes. It’s easier to speak to him now, with the effect of the drinks at dinner and the flask and whatever’s in that bottle. “You’re leaving. You’ll love some other girl in the next town, but I’ll be stuck loving you forever if I let myself.”
“I knew it. I knew you love me,” he says triumphantly.
“That’s not what I said. I said . . .”
“I don’t care what you said. I care what I heard, and I heard that you love me.” He takes my left hand and kisses the finger where I’ll one day, if I’m lucky, wear a wedding ring. “And you’ll keep loving me even when I’m in other towns or other countries, or even if I’m gone from this world. That means so much to a soldier, a beautiful, talented girl like you loving a guy all the way to the eternities.”
“I can’t, Tom. I can’t love you. You’ll break my heart—I know you will.” Now I hear it, too, all mixed in with my denial. I do love him, even if I wish I didn’t. And my heart will break when he leaves.
“What if I don’t break your heart? What if I don’t run off and find some other girl because you’re my girl and why would I need anyone else?”
“You want me to wait for you?” Plenty of girls wait for their soldier to come home and start a life together. But it’s a gamble that keeps most girls from saying yes without an engagement ring or a wedding.
“If you stay here waiting for me, I’ll come home to find you married to some famous actor you met in Hollywood; I know I will.” He chuckles at the fantastic prospect, but I can hear real anxiety behind it. “The only way I want you to wait for me is as my wife.”
“Your wife?” I echo, the revelation making my head spin.
“Yes, doll. My wife. You wanna marry me?” he asks officially, holding up my left hand and tracing the empty spot he’d been kissing.
As soon as he says the words, I’m sober. Tom Highward wants to marry me. Me. A little Italian girl from rural Indiana whose mamma lost her mind and whose baby brother drowned, who could easily end up an old maid taking care of her daddy till her belly is round and hair gray, and who might lose her mind one day just like her mamma. Me. A small-time performer with nothing more than a stage name, a couple of hand-me-down dresses, and a useless business card from a talent scout.
I know I should ask him questions, find out if he’s as rich as he’s rumored to be, if his family will accept me, if he’s chosen me in an act of rebellion. But I don’t ask him a thing. Even if Tom is only half of what he appears to be—at least he loves me. And when we’re married, I can move out, make choices outside of my father’s control, have a partner to help shoulder my burdens.
I nod and smile sweetly and say, “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Tom pulls me in for a kiss, my first ever. His embrace is softer than in my dreams. And when his tongue brushes past my lips and into my mouth, I greet it willingly, taking him in, grasping at his neck and shoulders, and twisting my hands up into his hair. And as his kisses go from my mouth to my neck to my breasts, I lean back and allow him to know parts of me I’ve saved just for him. Because I do love him. And I want him to know me—all of me. I am his, now, and he is mine. Forever.
CHAPTER 27
Elise
Present Day
Elise’s Hotel Room
My phone buzzes on the bedside table. Then again. And again. I peek out from under the heavily starched hotel comforter and look at the glowing numbers on the clock.
5:30 p.m.
I headed upstairs for a nap after our morning trip to the vintage wedding boutique so I’d be awake enough to pick up Hunter from the private airport in Greenwood at eleven tonight. It’s an hour-and-a-half drive each way, and I know he could hire a car, but Hunter is my partner, my future husband; I want to be there waiting for him when he gets off that plane.
The trip to the boutique was exhausting.
I know my mom would say I’m being paranoid, but I swear the crew made every effort to keep us apart when we weren’t on camera. We drove in separate cars, both ways, and Mac placed a chair directly next to him where my mom sat for the majority of the shoot.
The women running the boutique were starstruck by my mother but extremely helpful. They pulled gown after gown out of storage and used fitting clips to show the potential in each one.
I had shown Cammi and Wanda a photo of my grandmother’s dress, but my mother dismissed each gown they brought out. “You cannot wear long sleeves in June, Elise,” she said repeatedly.
“We can make any alterations in-house. Including removing sleeves or adding embellishments,” Cammi explained.
“No, thank you. We have our own seamstress,” my mom, who can be as cold as she can be charming, snipped back.
“Vintage-inspired works too. Long transparent lace for the sleeves would give you the silhouette you’re looking for, but with a tight, trendy bodice. Train or no train? Satin was very much the fabric of the day, but lace works too. Or we can go with something more modern,” offered Wanda, the older of the two women, a pincushion on her wrist and pencil tucked into the expanse of her graying hair.
All the dresses were beautiful and had intricate details, buttons, embroidery, beading. But when I looked at my reflection wearing white, off-white, or even ivory, the bride staring back didn’t look like me.
“Veil or no veil?” Cammi asked, holding a floor-length veil the same ivory as the dress.
“Veil. Must have a veil,” my mom said from her seat on one of the green velvet couches in the fitting room. “But a simple one like the Pronovias veil that went with the Dean dress.”
My mother is not an evil woman; she’s not cruel, and usually I believe she’s not calculating. But saying Dean’s name in the fitting room of the bridal boutique was a step too far, and despite her intentions, I lost the slowly slipping grip I’ve kept on my grief during this whole process.
Warm, heavy tears dripped off my chin and onto the lace collar of the gown.
“The bride gets the final say in these things,” Cammi said to my mother, which I found brave as Gracelyn Branson’s superstar status usually mutes even the strongest personalities.
“I think the bride could use some privacy,” Wanda said solemnly, seeing my tears, like a nurse asking visitors to leave a patient’s room when visiting hours end.
It took some doing, but Wanda and Cammi cleared the room and helped me take off the dress, passing me tissue after tissue as I continued to cry the tears I’d bottled up for months, maybe years.
“I really do love Hunter,” I said to Cammi as I sat on the elevated platform where I’d been showing off my dresses.
“I’m sure you do. This is very normal, I promise,” she said, hanging the gown.
“Nothing about this is normal,” I said, gesturing to the tripods and can lights.
“I guess that’s not normal, but your tears are.” She handed me another tissue. “Weddings are stressful, and throw in an opinionated parent or two, and something little girls dream of their whole lives becomes a big ole nightmare.”