Hey, Hunter. I know the papers say I’m screwing the local priest, but don’t worry—that picture isn’t what it looks like.
What if he doesn’t believe me?
Well, whether he’ll believe me or not, I have to call him. I rush to the bathroom, nauseated. I fill a plastic cup with water from the tap and chug it, fill it again and chug until I can take a breath. Then I pace around the room, each buzz from my device amping up my anxiety until I can’t take it anymore. I dive onto the bed, pick up the phone, and call Hunter’s number.
Oh God, I might vomit.
I roll onto my back, my waterlogged stomach bloated and near bursting.
The call goes straight to voice mail. I hang up and call again with the same result. One more time. Nothing. I switch to text.
ELISE: Can’t wait to see you soon! Call me as soon as you get this. Crazy tabloid shit going on today. I’ll tell you everything when you call.
Send.
The blue message turns green; then a red warning appears next to it.
This message is undeliverable.
I send another test text, just to make sure. Same result.
He’s either turned off his phone, which is likely if his is blowing up as much as mine, or . . . he’s blocked me. No. That’s too childish. Hunter isn’t the kind of man to hear a rumor about his girlfriend and block her without a discussion. That’s teenage melodrama stuff. Not millionaire businessman stuff.
I go into the settings and put my phone on Do Not Disturb to silence all the notifications, and I approve only two contacts to break through the barrier—Marla and Hunter.
I can’t do anything more without talking to Hunter, so I shove the phone in my pocket, put my bra back on, and wrestle my feet into my gym shoes. No one’s in the hallway when I rush out of my room with only my wallet in my hand and my phone in my back pocket. I run to the stairwell, avoiding the elevator and anyone whom I might bump into there. I’m out of breath when I finally reach room 435. I knock three times on my mom and Mac’s door.
Now for step two of my crisis management plan—talking to Mom and Mac. Even though Mac’s documentary is mentioned in the gossip columns, it’s my mom I’m the most worried about. She’s so wrapped up in her relationship with Mac that I wonder when she’s finally going to realize what all this is leading up to—a question of who her real father is and whether she’s been lied to by her mother, the iconic Vivian Snow.
Though there’s a chance she already knows—the DNA test in her bag could be a sign that I’m the only one on the outside of this secret. No matter what the truth is and how embarrassing this hit piece is, at least I know my mom and Mac can’t ignore me or my questions anymore. I’m about to get answers, and that takes the edge off my nerves enough to keep me from vomiting.
I knock again.
This time I hear voices on the other side of the door and a scratching at the doorknob. I tidy the strands of hair sticking out from my ponytail and tickling my face. I go to readjust my tangled bra straps when the door swings open. I look up, expecting to see my mom or Mac or even Conrad. But instead, standing in front of me in a pair of Armani slacks and a white button-up shirt, his tie loosened, is the last person I expected to see—my fiancé.
CHAPTER 28
Vivian
Monday, June 14, 1943
Camp Atterbury
It’s been two long days and nights since Tom’s drunken confession of love and subsequent proposal. By the time I got home, papà himself was drunk, and the house was filled with cigar smoke. He must’ve known I’d scold him for it because as soon as I crossed the threshold, he excused himself and went to bed. I washed my face and brushed my teeth until my gums bled, floating in a post-romance haze. When I crawled into bed beside Aria, I kept my face turned away so she wouldn’t detect the alcohol on my breath.
The next two days went by in a blur of embarrassment and hope. I was unsure if I was in fact an engaged woman or if Tom had changed his mind after sobering up. Getting on the bus this morning felt like joining a funeral procession in which I didn’t know if the person in the casket was dead or alive.
But as soon as we turn onto Hospital Road, I can make him out, standing on the corner waiting for me. One of the girls across the aisle gives me a meaningful look. Apparently, Lilly and Sue have spread conjecture about me and Tom to every female at Camp Atterbury.
I’m too nervous to be overly annoyed. As I tromp down the bus steps, Tom offers his hand, helping me to the ground.
“I want you to wear this,” he says, taking me aside and pulling out a ring he’s made from what looks like tin. Metal of any kind is hard to find nowadays, so I suppose I’m lucky to have a ring at all.
“I ordered a big diamond from Tiffany’s. It won’t get here for a few weeks, but I wanted to see a ring on your finger right away.”
“Tiffany’s?” I’ve never dreamed of having anything from such a fancy store. Girls at college would cut out Tiffany & Co. ads from magazines and pass them around at lunchtime, seeming to me more persnickety about the ring than the man they’d spend their lives with.
“I hope you like it. I had my sister pick it out. She knows better than I do about that sort of thing.”
“That’s right; you mentioned her as your accomplice with the shoes.” I don’t know a whole lot about my future husband.
“Yeah, Moira. She’s a doll but a little spoiled; you know how it is.” I don’t “know how it is,” but I act like I do. “You’ll meet her in a few months, after Ranger training. Think what my family will do when I show up with you on my arm.”
“You’re not gonna tell them till then?” We’re nearing the gate where we part ways. I have so many questions, and it seems like there’s never enough time to ask them.
“They’d do something stupid like try to change my mind or send Franklin, my older brother, down here to stop things before our wedding.” My eyes widen. “Oh, don’t worry your little head. It’ll be all spiffy, once we’re official for a while. That’s why we gotta get this wedding done lickety-split, before my transfer. And Moira knows. She’s a gem, though. She won’t spill the beans. You didn’t tell your pa, did ya? It might be better to wait till after we’re married—when I’m far enough away he can’t shoot me.”
He laughs, and I fake a chuckle. I haven’t told papà yet mostly because I was worried I’d imagined the whole thing, but I hadn’t planned to keep it from him for long. Though I can see some benefit to eloping. No fights with papà. No issues with Tom’s family. And no need to wear my ring during auditions. But since Tom is a GI, I guess we wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret for long here at Camp Atterbury.
Eloping. My Lord, I’m about to elope.
“Can I tell my sister?”
“I don’t see why not. She seems like she’d be a far worse shot than your dad.” He winks, and all the jiggly warm feelings I had in the back seat of the car return, and I’m dizzy again, drunk on his charm.
He leans in to kiss me when a truck going through the gates catches my eye. It’s the one that transports the workers to the chapel construction site. My team stands in line thirty feet past the fence. They watch me. Only Trombello tries to be discreet, pretending to look at something on the ground. The other men point toward me. Even with his thick glasses, Gravano can see us and waves until Trombello pulls his arm down.