Of course, I forgave him. But it’s impossible to explain his apology to my Italian crewmen. When I showed up at the work site last Monday, they greeted me with a cold silence that was out of character.
“So much progress!” I said animatedly, overcorrecting in response to their chilly reception. The foundation is still bare, but the grounds are groomed. A gravel drive trails down from the hill where the chapel will stand, the road a little over a hundred yards away. The trees have been cleared, the grass cut, and the iron fence put in place. All that’s left is the actual construction. Which is why I knew the piece of paper I found on my desk that morning was of utmost importance. The long-awaited concrete had arrived.
“I have good news!” I said to Trombello loud enough for the nearby committee members to hear. Trombello didn’t look up from the plans, and Puccini continued distributing tools and shoveling gravel.
“Hey, did you hear me? I have good news.”
“We already saw,” Cresci said, handing Trombello a shovel and then walking away with a disappointed scowl.
“What the heck is wrong with everyone today?” I asked.
Trombello shook his head while staring at the pages in front of him longer than could possibly be necessary. Sighing heavily, he finally raised his eyes to me, with a look of care and a touch of frustration.
“We saw you with that man again. The one from the mess hall.”
“I saw you watching,” I said, choosing not to play dumb.
“He’s no good for you, mia figlia.”
My daughter, he said, as though he were my priest. Even though my arms still ache where Tom gripped me, I feel defensive. What right do these prisoners have to judge me and my life? I’ve always been friendly toward them, and though they’re my country’s declared enemies, I’ve never treated them as such.
“You don’t know him,” I said, picking up the paper with the good news, hoping to change the subject, but Trombello continued.
“I know this, and that’s enough.” He very lightly traced a finger over the red lines peeking out under my sleeve. I flinched away and yanked the fabric down, not liking his insinuations or how his touch gave me goose bumps.
“We got the concrete.” I tossed the paper in his direction. He read the page and put it aside with a rock on top to keep it from blowing away. No reaction. “We can pour the foundation now.”
“Yes,” he said with little emotion, lining up his writing utensils.
“And the dance? Saturday night? Will you all be there?”
“I don’t know.”
His noncommittal attitude felt like a rejection. I’d been through a rough moment with Tom in front of my place of employment, and now Trombello treated me indifferently—the one truly kind man I’ve met in a long time.
“What should we call you?” Trombello asked as I started to step away, ready to go back to the safety of my desk.
“Huh?”
He pointed to my tin ring. I was about to explain the whole thing, how Tom loved me and I loved him and how he was transferring for Ranger training. How we were going to get married even though his family wouldn’t like it, and he promised to take care of me and my family, and he supported my dreams. But Tom was right—no one would understand. It’s a secret—our secret. For now, at least.
“Snow,” I said, using my stage name, grief coming over me. I’d thought Trombello might be the one person I could be myself with. The one man who might see and accept me for who I really am—Vivian Santini. But I guess not. So, I’ll be Vivian Snow for Trombello and all the men at the USO and Archie Lombardo and even for my father, whether he knows it or not.
And even though by the end of this ceremony I’ll be Mrs. Tom Highward, I’m still Vivian Snow to my future husband. I wonder if I’ll ever be the real Vivian again.
“It’s time, Viv,” Aria says, stopping in the doorway and holding a bouquet of flowers from her garden. Her hair is neatly braided for once, and she’s dressed in her best dress, blue as the sky the day Tony drowned. Her mouth drops open. “You look like a movie star.”
“Don’t make me cry,” I say, looking up to keep tears from ruining my makeup.
“I’m already crying,” Ari says, rushing into my arms and resting her head against my chest.
“I wish mamma were here,” Ari says when she pulls away, drying her face.
“Me too, love. Me too.”
“You’re not gonna leave me too, are you, Viv?” I shake my head and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Never, darling. I promise.” And I won’t. Even if I go on tour or to Philadelphia with Tom or to Hollywood, I’ll always be back. I’ll leave Tom before I leave her.
The organ starts to play in the church. I can’t wait any longer.
“Get in there! Hurry. Hurry!” I urge her out with a little wave. She mouths, “Love you,” and I do the same. She rushes away, and I take a moment to sneak one last look in the mirror, checking my lipstick and veil. But even with the organ music vamping in the background and the little tap on the door, Carly coming to get me this time, I stare at my reflection.
I do look like a different version of myself. She’s calm and collected and pretty enough, I guess. I’ll get used to this girl. I think I’ll have to.
“Goodbye, Vivian Santini,” I say to the reflection in the mirror, and then walk out the door to my future.
CHAPTER 31
Elise
Present Day
Room 435
“You knew Grandpa wasn’t your father?” I ask my mom, my head swirling with all the new information.
“No, no. I was always told Tom Highward was my father. Always. He and your grandmother were legally married in 1943. But it turns out he didn’t die in the war. That was a lie Archie came up with to get around the morality clause when mamma signed her contract with MGM. I never considered, never once till now, that he wasn’t my daddy after all.”
“And you don’t think Mac knew this when he started his project?” I ask, pointing a finger in her boyfriend’s direction. “This was all a setup; can’t you see that?”
Mac holds up his hands like I’m pointing a gun at him.
“I did know some of it,” he says. “I knew Tom Highward didn’t die in battle. I knew he wasn’t buried in Rest Haven, and I even knew his family was wealthy and had shunned your mother and Vivian after he abandoned them. But only recently did I learn about the priest—the one in the albums, I mean,” he clarifies, and I cringe at even the slightest reference to Father Patrick.
“And that’s why you had that DNA test,” I say to my mom. Mac’s storyline is coming together. He started out to tell the story of Vivian Snow’s granddaughter getting married in the same small town where Vivian had her own wedding eighty years ago. But somewhere along the line, as he learned more salacious details about a potential love affair and the possible illegitimate offspring of a Hollywood sweetheart, he couldn’t resist.
My mother nods dramatically, tears glittering on her lower eyelids. “I’ll have the results in a few weeks. I’d like to have you there when I open them.”
“Of course.” I take my mom’s hand. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be at seventy-nine years old to possibly have the whole framing device for your life change. My father took a paternity test as soon as they were widely available. At the time, I was offended. But years later when I was starting to understand my mother, I was grateful for the undeniable knowledge that he is my dad. And that can’t be taken away from me in some shocking revelation of infidelity or deceit.