My two-piece crimson Adele Simpson dress and blue felt hat with a wide brim are newer additions to my wardrobe, along with the matching wool polo coat draped over my shoulders. Archie says it’s important to always look the part of a star even if you aren’t in front of the camera because you never know who’s looking. USO Camp Shows provides all our stage costumes, but for meet and greets and dances, we’re expected to supply our own wardrobe. Most girls use their whole paycheck to fund the glamorous look Archie encourages. But I’ve been sending my paycheck home.
Judy bursts into the lobby as I’m stuffing my gloves into my envelope purse. As she wraps me in an intense embrace, I take a brief glance at the hallway that first led me to my new life. I had no idea where things would lead back then—but I’m sure the six-months-ago me would be proud of my dress choice at least, even if she might not be as impressed with some of my other decisions.
“When I heard you and Tom ran off and got married and then you were chosen for the Camp Shows, I about lost my mind with envy. Now you’re back and all elegant and polished. And look at that ring!” She picks up my left hand. I’m not wearing the tin one Tom gave me here on base. I save that one for when I’m on the road or when I’m home with papà, playing the role of a good wife. He knows of my elopement. I told him as soon as the officers started coming around looking for Tom. Our marriage was legal and binding, so of course they’d question me first.
Tom’s been AWOL for four months, and there’s still an investigation as far as I know. I’ve had several conversations with the military police. They finally seem to believe I’m not helping him hide out somewhere to avoid being deployed.
His family’s paid to keep it out of the papers and ignored any evidence of his marriage to me, an unknown country bumpkin. They blame me, I’m sure, for his disappearance, which is only fair. Going AWOL two days after a secret wedding looks a lot like buyer’s remorse. So far, I’ve stayed away from the Highwards, and they’ve stayed away from me, and that’s been working fine. I don’t think I could face them, anyway. Not with how things ended between me and Tom. What I did.
Thankfully, I was able to convince papà that Tom is missing in action. With his limited English, I don’t have to worry too much about him hearing otherwise. It’s the story I tell everyone. And since I’m a married woman, even old-fashioned papà couldn’t keep me from auditioning with Archie Lombardo or saying yes when I was offered the touring position.
Judy clutches my hand to examine the ring. “Yeah, it was delivered right before I left for Chicago. It’s a bit much for a USO girl.”
“No. It’s beautiful.”
The stone sparkles in its white gold setting—three carats. I have no need for a three-carat diamond. The moment Ari and I opened that box, I was filled with guilt. If things hadn’t taken a turn, if Tom were around and we were happy, I’d make him take it back, get something a little simpler, and use the rest of the money for more important things like family and our future.
At first, I planned to sell it. I hoped that if I got rid of the ring, I’d get rid of the guilt. But that was right around the time the military police started showing up searching for Tom. So I needed the ring—to avoid suspicion. But I didn’t need the stone.
What Judy doesn’t know, and what no one will ever know, is that the stone in the ring is as fake as my status as an army wife. I sold the real diamond weeks ago. I paid off mamma’s debt at Mount Mercy and papà’s medical expenses, and I set up an account to pay for Aria’s college in case something happens and I get sent away. Everyone is taken care of.
Well, almost everyone.
“All right. It’s decided. I forgive you.” She stares at the ring and then at me like I’m the luckiest girl around. “How long are you here?”
“Just for the chapel dedication. I have to be back on the tour tomorrow.” I have twenty-four hours to make the trip from Chicago to Edinburgh and back. I’m already blurry eyed from the late-night drive and nauseated from my empty stomach, but as soon as I got Trombello’s latest postcard with his sketch of the finished chapel, I knew I needed to be here. “But I’ll return for a few months soon.”
“Oh yeah? You gonna take your old desk back?” she asks, looking at the tidy desk in the corner and the sweet little blonde girl sitting there tapping away.
“Ha. No—this is not a hostile takeover. I’ll be busy with . . . other things.” I keep my response vague and check my watch. “I should sign in and get over to the meadow. You coming?”
Judy passes me the sign-in log and shakes her head.
“Nah. Prisoners only, besides you and some guards and the priest doing the service.”
Priest.
The term brings up so many emotions. It used to be a word of safety and comfort, but it’s very different now for many reasons. I haven’t seen Father Theodore since the night he drove me home, bruised and bloodied, my voice scruffy from Tom’s hands around my throat. He debated taking me to the hospital, but I begged him not to. My family couldn’t afford one more medical expense, and the doctors would have had questions I couldn’t answer.
I never went to him and confessed what happened that night with Tom. And to this day I don’t know what happened after Gravano escorted me out of that middle school locker room. All I know is Tom never came back. And Trombello and the rest of the crew never mentioned the incident. I ran away to audition for Archie in Chicago as soon as my throat had healed enough for me to sing again.
“Well then. We’ll have to catch up when I sign out. I want to hear all about your guy and what’s been going on here since I left.” I give her arm a little squeeze as I head toward the door, both dreading and desiring my next challenge.
“Sure. Sounds great. And how about a cup of coffee, you know, when you come back round Christmas?” Judy asks, hand on her hip, pencil buried in the curls of her bob haircut. “Mary should be back by then. We can all complain about our husbands and exchange casserole recipes like all the good married girls do.”
Mary found her own soldier and married him only a month after she watched me walk down the aisle. She’s visiting his family in North Carolina for a few weeks, but we write often, and she promises to be home for Christmas. I hope her dreams of marital bliss have come to a happier ever after than mine.
“It’s a date,” I chirp cheerfully, pretending I’m the same as Judy and Mary, worrying about my housekeeping and meal planning.
As I take the transport to the chapel site, I do all I can to maintain a cheerful expression. I keep up the fa?ade, not to hide my feelings about seeing Judy or the familiar scenery, or the regrets that pop up at the most unexpected moments, but to hide how I feel about coming home again in December and the reason why.
Archie’s going to call it medical leave, say I have pneumonia. But pneumonia rarely leads to a baby, so that’ll only work for so long. There’s no scandal in a married woman having a child, but it does change how a casting director sees an actress, and so Archie suggests keeping it as quiet as possible. A child is far easier to explain than a husband who never comes home from a war he’s not fighting in, but I guess I have some time to figure out those details.