“Leaked?” Mac asks, finally speaking up. He pushes off the back of the chair he’s been leaning on and crosses his arms. “We’ve all signed NDAs. No possible way there’s a leak from my crew.”
“It has to be,” I insist. “Antonio Trombello—that name. It’s in the article. How’d they get that information?”
“Research?” he says, “Same kind we’re doing. It’s all public record.”
I bounce back and forth between looking at my mother’s and Mac’s expressions. My mother’s face is dewy and made up, but every visible crease drags downward in a sad, droopy kind of way. And Mac seems nowhere close to concerned or worried about the article.
“I’m sorry—what’s going on here? Doesn’t anyone care about this pile of bullshit? We might not be able to do anything to stop the story, but can’t we all agree to be on the same side?”
Mac nods at my mom, and my mom gives him a knowing look. She lets go of my arm and reaches around behind her for something. Staring off into space, Hunter sits stoically, his toe tapping against the wooden leg of the coffee table.
“There are a few things you should know, Lisey. Here.” She places the familiar album on my lap and unties the green bow on the side. “I know you recognize this.”
“Nonna’s scrapbook,” I say in agreement, still confused.
She opens the album to the middle where a paper bookmark sticks out. The yellowing pages hold the same drawings I remember from when I was a little girl: one, a hand-drawn Italian villa with climbing vines dripping off the awning of the house; another, a waterfall in the middle of a jungle in watercolor. There’s another drawing of an old woman sitting with a basket of kittens in her lap, cobblestones beneath her feet. I was right—it’s the same book my grandmother shared with me when I was younger. We’d play pretend with each picture, making up stories about where it was and who lived there.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what this has to do with anything.”
“It’ll all make sense soon, baby,” my mother says, sliding her finger under the cardstock of the image of a statue in a park.
“What are you doing? We aren’t supposed to take them out. Nonna said they’re fragile.” My instinct is to stop her from ruining something my grandmother cherished, but the card is out. There’s writing on the back and a canceled stamp up in the corner.
“They’re postcards?” I ask, confused why my globe-trotting grandma collected postcards from someone else’s travels. It seems more likely that she’d go to the locale herself.
“Read it,” my mom says, handing the card to me. It’s in a tidy hand, black ink, likely penned by a man. It’s in Italian.
“I can’t.” My mother used to claim Italian as a second language, but it turned out she only knew a few phrases.
“Not the whole thing. Just the name—at the bottom.” She points to the compact script that’s small but easy to read.
“Antonio Trombello?” I ask, not believing what I’m seeing. “Like the man in the photograph? The priest from the POW camp?”
“Yes, darling. As far as we can tell.” The postcard is dated 1954. But I remember her adding illustrated cards to the album even when I was a little girl.
“And so—what does this mean? In your opinion.” I flip through the pages, stunned at the number of postcards contained within. “What does it mean to us and Nonna?”
“He was a prisoner at the internment camp while your grandmother was there. They remained close until his passing in 1999,” she says, locating the picture I’d given her earlier that week. “I think this man is your grandfather.”
CHAPTER 30
Vivian
Thursday, June 17, 1943
Holy Trinity Catholic Church
The church is empty except for Aria, Carly, Mary, and Tom’s witness and best man, Talbot. It isn’t a wedding like the one I’d hoped for since I was a little girl with a big white dress and my mamma crying tears of joy as papà handed me off to my fiancé’s loving embrace. Papà doesn’t even know he’s giving his daughter away, and the only one crying is little Aria who’s sure I’m abandoning her forever. But Tom ships out next week, and he made it clear—he doesn’t want to leave unmarried. Marriage is the only way.
When I went to Father Theodore for confession and told him of what transpired between me and Tom in the back seat of his borrowed car, he agreed that a marriage needed to happen, that it was the only path to my redemption. He arranged for the ceremony to take place before Tom’s departure and agreed to keep the elopement confidential until my soldier returns.
I’m wearing Mary’s blue dangling sapphire earrings and Carly’s wedding gown, a lovely ivory color with long embroidered tulle sleeves and a train. It’s loose around my waist and tight around my bust, but with a few inconspicuous stitches and a veil that hides any evidence, I fit the role of bride well enough. I still can’t believe I’ll be Mrs. Tom Highward by the end of the night.
I’m honestly surprised Carly showed up with the dress, after she threw a small fit when I told her I was engaged to Tom.
“I never took you as one of those girls who’s pinned her future on ‘getting a man,’” she said, her hands on her hips, the only person I’d confided in about my audition next month.
“It’s not like that,” I insisted, wanting her approval. “I love Tom. He loves me. And it’s not like I’m giving up on performing. Tom said he doesn’t care if I keep singing with the band and go to the MCA audition.”
“He doesn’t care. How generous of him,” she said, her tone heavy with contempt, none of her dreamy memories of her long-deceased husband softening her reaction. “From what I’ve seen of that boy, he’s just another man who’ll tell you what you can and can’t do in your life.”
I wish Carly could remember what it was like to be in my shoes. She’s been a widow for six years, making choices as a single woman but with the rights of a married one. She could live the rest of her life without the threat of sacrificing all her other dreams and ambitions on the matrimonial altar. I guess when she saw I wasn’t going to be deterred by strong words of warning, she chose to be by my side anyway. I’m glad—I don’t know what I’d do if I lost Carly’s support.
Mary, on the other hand, squealed like a little girl, in love with the idea of our whirlwind romance and marriage. I’m not fool enough to believe in Mary’s imagined version of marriage. Sure, there will be sacrifices. But the more I envision my life as a married woman, the more I understand that marriage for a girl like me isn’t only about romance. It’s stability. It’s freedom. And it opens doors that a single girl living at home would never have, especially in the culture I’ve been raised in.
Besides, Tom supports my dreams. He said, “You just watch—I’ll come back from Europe, and my girl will be a movie star!”
His girl—that’s what he calls me now. It thrills me every time. I know he’s mercurial. But he apologized for his outburst in front of the compound and explained that he loves me so much that it causes this sort of explosive episode.