He hesitates. In that quiet moment, I understand his plans have shifted already. This is what it’ll be like as Hunter’s partner, how it’ll always be.
“I hope so, but the guys from Stockholm are talking about flying in next week, and if so, I gotta be here.”
He’s a romantic. He’s loving. He’s all in. But he’s also only actually here half the time.
“I get that.” Irritation bubbles up like it always does when I’m stuck in people-pleasing mode. I can be stern in my job, no problem. I can be kind but firm with my employees. But with people I love, it’s harder. I give in, probably too much.
“I mean, I’ll make it out there ASAP. I promise. You know how important this deal is.”
I do know, but I also know how many important things I put on hold for this trip, how I shifted my schedule to work virtually. I moved much of my case load to Marla, my associate and VP, who is likely cursing my name right now—and who has made it no secret that she thinks this whole documentary thing is a terrible idea.
“You mad?” he asks coyly, as though he can read my mind.
“Not mad, really. Just . . .”
“Disappointed?” he asks, teasing, as though I’m a mom giving her child a guilt trip.
“Ha, no. More like . . .” I search for a gentle way to say that it feels like I’m making all the sacrifices in our relationship and he’s making all the big decisions and that I feel overwhelmed and alone. But that’s a lot, especially for a quick little “checking in” phone call.
Instead, I say, “I don’t know. Nervous, I guess? You know how I feel about being on camera.”
“You shine on camera, Lisey,” he reassures me. “I’ve seen it before. It’s in your genes.”
It’s always awkward when people remind me of the famous legacy I was born into.
“I guess . . . I guess what I’m really trying to say is . . .”
As I’m about to blurt it all out, a loud thump lands on the car window, and I scream like I’m in the middle of a carjacking.
“You okay?” I hear Hunter’s voice distantly as I hold the phone away from my face to investigate the loud noise.
Outside the window stands Conrad, Mac’s high-strung assistant who’s been my main contact through the planning of this whole thing. I know him from the headshot he uses as a signature on his emails. He’s holding the clipboard he used to assault my window and wearing a Dolce & Gabbana blazer and Colorblock sunglasses, looking about seven thousand dollars fancier than any Indiana native I’ve seen so far. He spins his finger in circles to get me to roll down the window.
I press the phone against my face and whisper, “It’s Conrad. I gotta go.”
“Conrad?” Hunter still sounds anxious from my scream.
“Mac’s assistant,” I say through pressed lips.
“Ohhhh, Mr. Text You Incessantly at Three in the Morning about Flight Options. Fun for you.”
“Yeah, yeah, I wouldn’t get on too high a horse there, mister. When you get out here eventually, I’ll make sure he has your personal number.”
“Wow. You do love me; don’t you?”
Conrad attempts to get my attention again, a tap this time. I grab my computer bag and sling it over my shoulder.
“I think you’ll have to check in with me tonight. This is going to be . . .”
“Fun? Exciting? Romantic? Entertaining? Memorable? Educational?”
“Don’t you have a meeting to get to? Stop gaslighting me!” I say to Hunter, laughing as I slam the car door and pop the back hatch of the Explorer to retrieve my bags. Conrad watches, and I can predict the dialogue inside his head, “I’m an assistant, not a servant.”
I say a quick goodbye to Hunter and hang up. But as soon as I take a deep breath of the cool spring country air, my real feelings return.
I’m here—where my grandmother grew up, met my grandfather, got married, had my mom. Where the only evidence my family once lived within this town’s borders is the cluster of headstones in the local cemetery. I’m here to plan my own wedding, get interviewed on camera, be asked plenty of questions I’m sure I’m not prepared for. And at least for now—I’m doing it alone.
CHAPTER 4
Vivian
Monday, April 26, 1943
Camp Atterbury
“Is anyone going to answer me? What is the meaning of this?” the decorated officer bellows from the threshold, puddles gathering on the floor beneath him.
“I . . . I have the ringleader right here, sir,” Talbot says. “I was waiting here for you to return, and these prisoners were brought in. This one started a fight with these other two and then lunged at the taller one. I got to him just in time.” Talbot shoves his boot into Trombello’s back. He flinches either from pain or, if he understands English, at Talbot’s incorrect interpretation of the altercation.
Ringleader? Trombello was the peacemaker. He was the only one not involved in the conflict. Sure, he put himself between the two men, but it was to stop the confrontation from escalating, not the other way around. Someone must have seen that other than me.
“These three were fighting in the yard, sir,” one of the guards adds.
“And why are they here in the offices and not in a cell?”
The guard points at Trombello on the floor. “That one asked for an interpreter, and the fight was by the gates, so we thought . . .”
“That you’d bring them into the administrative offices? Get them out of here, and put that one in solitary. They can request the use of an interpreter there. McNeil’s a busy man. He can’t be bothered translating these trivial disputes.”
“Yes, sir.” Talbot salutes and nudges Trombello with his foot. “Get up.”
“All of you, out. Out! Have you all lost your minds?” The man I assume is Gammell pushes past the prisoners and guards and approaches Judy’s wall of glass. I can barely keep track of what’s happening as the guards usher the prisoners back outside.
I watch Trombello, in particular. He winces as Talbot forces him to his feet. He seems confused but passive despite the way Talbot treats him. Blood covers Trombello’s chin, and there’s a cut on his forehead from when he hit the ground.
“Mi dispiace,” I mouth in his direction. I’m sorry. He must understand me, though he cocks his head to the side as if he doesn’t.
The room empties, and Lieutenant Colonel John L. Gammell turns around as Judy points in my direction. I can’t hear what she says, but the officer seems just as angry with me as he seemed with the prisoners.
“You’re in the wrong building. You were supposed to sign in across the street. When Private Talbot gets back, he can take you.” He’s gruff and dismissive as he walks away.
Though I know he’s wrong, my instinct is to sit still and acquiesce like I always do with my father. But then I think of Trombello laid out, bleeding. I think of the kind way he tried to navigate the dispute between the other two prisoners. I’m grateful such men do exist—ones who don’t make me flinch.
“Wait!” I call out, but Gammell doesn’t give my tiny voice any heed.
“Judy, get Major General Hobbs on my private line,” he barks.