Page 40 of When We Were Enemies
Then as we start to move past the waiting prisoners to the front of the line, Trombello acknowledges Tom with a quick, “Ufficiale.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tom asks, lunging forward. I grab his tensed bicep and pull backward with no effect.
“Officer. He just called you an officer, that’s all.”
Trombello doesn’t respond to Tom’s aggressive move. He remains firmly in place, and I can imagine him as a soldier. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his pulse pounding at his jugular at double speed.
“Tutto bene, Padre?”Are you all right, Father?Ferragni asks in a low mumble.
“Padre? You think I don’t know what that means?” Tom says, his body a brick wall, heaving like it’s undergoing an earthquake.
“Father. It just means father,” I explain, pulling back on Tom so hard that I’m certain I’ll leave a mark on his arm.
“I’m not stupid, Viv. I know what it means. But doyouknow what it means? That’s what I’m wondering ’cause I’ve been hearing somethings about this guy. I think this one could use a reminder.” He points a finger into Trombello’s firm, broad chest.
“It’s a joke,” I say, thinking back to when I heard Talbot first use the phrase right after Trombello’s proposal to Gammell. “Because he’s in charge of the chapel committee. Right, Signor Trombello?” I ask, hating the trill in my voice I get when I’m nervous or frightened.
“You wanna tell her or should I, Padre?” Tom asks, his aggression swelling and exploding with a fingertip shove into Trombello’s chest. “Or should I say—Father Antonio?”
“Father Antonio?” I ask, cocking my head, my eyes connecting directly with Trombello’s.
He nods with a seeming internal peace I wish I had. And at once I understand a lot of things.
“You’re a priest,” I gasp.
Trombello bobs his head again, his eyes locked with mine.
“Lo sono.”I am.
“I didn’t know priests could join the army,” I say, feeling stupid for not understanding his role in his community sooner.
“Padre, tocca a noi,” Ferragni says, beckoning the priest to move away from the conflict with a tug on his sleeve.
The committee members have gathered around, and I can see why—Trombello’s not only their friend and compound leader; he’s also their religious guide.
“We should get inside,” Tom says, backing away from the clogged line and the crowd forming around us. He yanks at his uniform, straightening and smoothing the fabric until all that remains wrinkled is his forehead.
He offers his arm and I take it, waving goodbye to the committee members.
“Buon appetito, Padre,” I say to Trombello as we head up the steps toward the dining hall, trying out his official title and wondering at how curious it feels in my mouth.
“Buon appetito, figlia mia,” Trombello says to my back, his words meaningEnjoy your meal, my child. It’s a paternalistic greeting I’ve heard from the priest at Holy Trinity every Sunday since I was christened. It makes me feel more like a confused child than I have in a long, long, long time.
CHAPTER 13
Elise
Present Day
Rest Haven Cemetery
I haven’t been to a cemetery since visiting Dean’s headstone at Westwood Village Memorial Park when I was in LA. It’s hard to avoid the memories as we walk through the grounds of Edinburgh’s Rest Haven Cemetery, where my grandmother and grandfather are buried. It’s nothing like sunny Westwood with its grand mausoleums and graves of celebrities with benches and meticulously maintained gardens surrounding them. But here, seeing the headstones—two dates carved into them and only a dash between to represent the life that person once lived—reminds me of how short it all is, how fragile.
My sadness will translate well on camera since it’s perfectly okay to fight back tears about my grandparents. No one needs to know that some of those tears are for my long-dead fiancé.
The map I hold has a highlighted line that should lead us to my grandparents’ headstones. The cemetery sexton, a short, balding man wearing a white collared shirt under a khaki windbreaker, leads the way through the tidy but dreary paths. The temperature has dropped after afew days of warmth, and everyone makes jokes about Mother Nature’s mood swings. Conrad even approved a winter coat for the shoot today, but not the purple one I came with. He purchased a more flattering jacket from the local outlet mall last night and styled it with a bright green scarf that Lisa says goes perfectly with my eyes and skin tone. Right now, I’m glad the cashmere adds an additional layer of warmth.
“Almost there,” the sexton, Mr.Christianson, says as we enter a part of the cemetery where the headstones have a worn look, their carved markings dulled from years of standing as sentinels above the long departed six feet under the ground.
