Tom notices the change in my focus, and his demeanor goes from light and hopeful to stormy.
“They act like they know you,” he says, moving his body between me and the line of men. “It’s disgusting.”
“We work together,” I say, trying to explain.
“Work together? Together? Can you hear yourself?” he asks, tapping my temple. “What am I supposed to tell my company? That while we’re out fighting, my wife’s back home giving these dagos a hard-on, swaying her hips, and laughing at their stupid jokes?”
“Tom,” I say, reprimanding his crass language. But his intensity only rises.
“I heard these yucks are having a dance next week at some church. Dancing with local girls. Can you believe that?”
I startle at the mention of the POW dance. I’m helping to plan it. Archbishop Cicognani and Father Theodore proposed the event and offered up the school gymnasium behind the church. Gammell says it’s a reward for the men working on special projects.
“It’s not against the rules,” I say defensively, stepping back.
“It should be. How would you like it if I was captured and went out dancing with foreign women while you were here alone? Nazi women?”
I consider the possibility, and it doesn’t bother me as much as the idea of Tom dancing with Pearl again.
“I think I’d be glad they let you dance.” I throw up my hands, a touch of my father’s fiery nature flaring up. “That’s the whole point of this camp—to treat the prisoners how we’d like our men to be treated.”
He stamps his foot and snorts like a bull preparing to charge; then unexpectedly he grabs my upper arms, pinning them tightly to my sides.
“I don’t like it. This job, this whole mess with coddling these fascists. My wife won’t be a part of it, Viv. After we’re married, you gotta quit. I can’t stand it. I just can’t.” He shakes me hard enough to make one of my bobby pins fall onto the ground between my shoes—the new shoes that he gave me.
The whole line of prisoners is watching now.
“I can’t quit.” I wriggle against his viselike grip. “Papà needs me . . .”
“I can take care of you and your family. I’ll send you all my pay. I don’t need it. And I have . . . other ways.” It’s clear he doesn’t want me to know about his wealthy family, which is fine. I guess if I were well off like him, I’d want a woman to love me for me. But still—I’m not taking his money. I want to work.
I shake my head. “That won’t work. We aren’t telling papà we’re married, not till after your training. That’s what you said. He’d know something’s wrong. He’s not stupid.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call him smart,” he mumbles loud enough for me to hear.
“Beg your pardon?” I ask, offended and unwilling to ignore this particular insult. He scowls at me and then lets me go. I shake out my hands, which have been growing numb.
“Nothing,” he says calmly, straightening my sleeves so they cover more of my reddened upper arms. “You can keep this job until I’m officially a Ranger. Okay?”
I nod my head as he retrieves the bobby pin, putting it in the palm of my hand. This Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde–like shift makes me flinch away from his kind touch. Then he unceremoniously shoves the tin band onto my finger.
“Now, put this on so those dogs know who you belong to.”
I don’t resist. I can barely register the band of cool metal there, my fingers still in the process of regaining feeling.
“There we go,” he says, putting his hands on my hips and yanking me toward him into a kiss. I attempt to dodge his lips by turning my head to the side, but he won’t let me. This time his touch doesn’t elicit steam and excitement. I’m cold inside, frozen solid. I don’t know how he can’t feel it, the icy block I’ve become.
He steps away with one more peck on my cheek and promises to find another time to see me today so we can make more solid plans. I agree and smile the perfect, frozen smile of the ice creature I’ve become.
I rush through the gate, late for the first time in my tenure at Atterbury. And as I hurry up the stairs into the office, the truck pulls away. It’s loaded with men in blue denim huddled together. One upturned face watches my ascent. Trombello. He acknowledges me with a nod, and I nod back; then I turn away and enter the office, shame my only companion as I cross the threshold.
CHAPTER 29
Elise
Present Day
Room 435
He knows. I can see it in his body language as soon as he lays eyes on me, like he’s fighting against his natural instincts to reach out and take me in his arms. His eyes are red, and he has a five o’clock shadow, which I rarely see since he shaves twice during the day to keep his jaw smooth.
“Hey! I thought you didn’t get in till later.” Act normal, I tell myself. Which shouldn’t be hard since I haven’t done anything wrong. I am normal.
“I got in an hour ago.”
“An hour ago?” The timing doesn’t make sense. If he didn’t know about the article, he would’ve told me he was coming in early. If he did know about it, how did he find out before me or any of my staff?
“Let’s get out of the hall.” He holds the door open and presses his body against the wall so I can get past him. He smells of Creed, and I want to hug him but can tell he wouldn’t welcome it.
My mom’s sitting on the couch in the living room area, and Mac stands behind one of the armchairs. Neither of them greets me at first. Then my mom extends her hand, inviting me to sit beside her.
“Oh, baby. Come here.”
I collapse next to my mother, grateful to have a sympathetic figure nearby. She engulfs me in a warm embrace, petting my hair like when I was a little girl. I refuse to cry. Perhaps I’m out of tears from my cry earlier today at the boutique, but I also worry that tears might read as guilt, and I’m not guilty, I remind myself again.
“Paparazzi are the lowest form of humans; am I right?” She kisses my temple and then holds my face in her hands.
“This is such a mess,” I say to my mom but also to Hunter, who’s taken the chair to the left of me, close enough to make eye contact but not close enough to reach out if he even wanted to.
“We know. We know. This is all too common during films. Isolation from loved ones. Close friendships form. It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”
“Wait, what?” I stiffen and pull out of her embrace, turning to Hunter. “No. There’s no truth to any of this story. I hardly know Father Patrick. He’s a priest, for God’s sake.”
Hunter’s brow is furrowed, and his lips are set in a straight line. He’s hurt—massively hurt. I don’t know how to convince him I’m telling the truth.
“Sure, baby. Sure. That’s the right way to handle it with the press. We know.”
“No, that’s the truth.” I feel like I’m being gaslit. Having feelings for someone, feelings, by the way, that we both walked away from instead of embracing, isn’t the same as cheating. “I want to know who leaked this, because there’s some information in that article that’s far too specific to come from a paparazzo with a camera and a misleading angle.”