“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my idea. They already had it set up when I got here.” Hunter’s being honest, finally. But it’s too late for me to be moved by honesty. I’m wounded, maybe mortally so. What else has he hidden from me?
“What the hell? Why are you so invested in this?” As soon as I say the word, I know. Invested. Is Hunter the anonymous investor who’s been funding this whole project?
“I thought you’d like it. I thought it’d be fun or something. I didn’t know it’d end up like this.”
“Are you, like, Mac’s partner?”
He stares at me in silence and then mutters, “You weren’t supposed to find out . . .”
“What the hell . . .”
“It’s not his fault, baby,” my mom jumps in. “Don’t be mad at Hunter and Mac. They meant well . . .”
“Oh my God, Mom,” I gasp, feeling like a lamb cornered in a den of lions. “Don’t you see—your boyfriend leaked the story and called the paparazzi. He’s willfully ruining my reputation for what? A little free publicity?”
“I did no such thing,” Mac says defensively, his accent giving him an air of dignity I don’t think he deserves. “I knew more than I let on, and Hunter has been instrumental in getting this project off the ground, but I’ve done nothing I’m ashamed of. It can take some finagling to get a project like this out of development and into production. But I never leaked a story or pictures to anyone. I do have some journalistic integrity.”
“That’s doubtful,” I say, glaring.
“No, dear, it’s true,” my mom says, coming to her man’s defense, as always. She never sides with her children, her family, not even herself—always her man.
“Mom, stop standing up for this guy. He’s clearly lying.”
“He’s not lying, hun. I was the one who called ZTM and gave them the pictures. I’m the source.”
I drop the camera. My mother. Not Hunter or Mac but my very own mother. I can’t be in this room, this building, anymore. My surroundings spin, and I pivot on one foot, glad that I’m wearing gym shoes.
I run.
I run into the hall and down the stairs. I run through the side door and past the antiques mall and Cracker Barrel and follow the wide asphalt road that goes past industrial parks and smells of freshly tilled earth now that it’s planting season.
I should’ve known better. I’ve lived and worked long enough in entertainment to know that everything around me is a mirage. They’ll be close behind me, I’m sure, trying to reason with me or change my mind or pay me off. But for now, I’ll run to the only place I’ve known without a doubt is real—the church on the hill and the man inside it.
CHAPTER 32
Vivian
Saturday, June 19, 1943
Edinburgh Middle School Gymnasium
I exit the stage with a bow, and the men whistle and cheer in their native tongue. I’ve never performed in front of a crowd where English wasn’t the primary language, and during the performance, I found myself talking to the gathered prisoners in Italian.
The dance was officially organized by the Italian American Organization （IAO）， Father Theodore, and the parishioners at Holy Trinity, but Lieutenant Colonel Gammell asked me to act as a liaison between the groups and the camp. The leaders from each of the divisions were awarded passes along with a few hand-picked men seen as deserving of a special reward. Those in the chapel construction crew were a part of that limited list.
The dance is held in the middle school gym at the rear of the long rectangular building behind Holy Trinity, with Father Theodore presiding as the host and chaperone. The women attending are of a slightly different sort than those at the USO dances. These girls have been bussed in from other Catholic parishes in the area by the IAO. Their skirts are longer and hair darker, and many have accents that blend in with the men they dance with.
And the band isn’t my usual ensemble—this one is made up of POWs playing old, beat-up instruments that barely hold a tune. But we know enough of the same songs, and our performance is made more vibrant by the rarity of it.
At the bottom of the rickety stage stairs stands the whole committee, Trombello included. Gravano and Cresci clap and grin like I’m their daughter or niece finishing a school recital. Other than Trombello, the men softened toward me over the week, especially with the dance looming ahead. My priestly friend is still kind enough, but it seems to take great effort.
“You are a bella prima donna!” Gravano declares, helping me down the last step.
“Why did you keep this secret?” Cresci demands.
“It wasn’t a secret! I sang at the dedication of the altar.”
“Eh, different.”
“No, it’s not,” I laugh as the band starts up again. Gravano asks for a dance. I’ve already danced with all the men from our little crew at least once—every man but Trombello, who stands on the side of the room, declining every dance request from every girl who has the guts to ask.
But I’m tired. I’ve been married two days, and I spent the first night at the fancy Hotel Severin in Indianapolis with my new husband, talking, drinking, dreaming, and making love. I told papà I was visiting mamma at Mount Mercy Sanitarium, and he didn’t bat an eye. I almost feel more guilty about that lie than eloping.
On Friday morning, my husband and I woke after only an hour of slumber. Hung over and exhausted, we drove the hour back to Camp Atterbury. He dropped me off at my gate and then drove off in his borrowed car to make the most of the rest of his twenty-four-hour leave. I haven’t seen him since. He left a message with Aria that he’d gotten back onto base on time and he’d call again soon. As of dinnertime tonight, the only evidence I have that I’m married is the signed marriage license I passed off to Carly’s care after the wedding and the ring tucked into the waistband of my skirt alongside Archie Lombardo’s business card.
“I need to sit this one out, but I promise you my next dance.”
“Yes, bella. Yes.”
“And me!” adds Ferragni, his pale eyes glowing in the dim lights.
“And me!” Gondi echoes the same request.
They see something new in me, something different. Trombello steps forward and takes my hand, gesturing for his fellow prisoners to leave.
“Shoo, shoo. Let the girl rest.”
“Yes, Padre,” they say in near unison, like altar boys reprimanded by their Sunday school teacher.
“Come. Come with me,” he says, tugging gently and guiding me to the refreshment table. He passes me a cup of punch and leads me to a seat in a dim corner of the gymnasium.
“Thank you. You saved me.”
“You deserve a break,” he says, taking the chair next to me.
“I don’t know about that.” I stare at my punch, Trombello’s awkward kindness making me shy.
“You do. You’ve made many things possible for us, and we are indebted to you.”
“You’re acting like we’re done working together. You’re all stuck with me for a while longer,” I say, taking a drink of the overly sugary red liquid that’s stained the inside of the cup. Tom wants me to quit my job once he’s a Ranger, but he’ll be away at training for months, and I hope I’ll have found a way to change his mind by then. The only way I’ll consider quitting is if I get an agent.