Page 56 of When We Were Enemies
“It’d be rude if I didn’t ...”
“Can you do it in ten minutes or less?”
I start to push back, but Father Patrick chimes in with “Ten minutes. No problem.”
“Thank you, Father Patrick,” Conrad says in an overly chipper voice, such a contrast to the irritated tone he takes with me. Everyone likes Patrick. He’s smart and empathetic, and most of all, he’s easy to work with, which will take a person far in show business. Also, he’s not hard to look at either. If I were going to cast a heartthrob priest on a TV show about forbidden desires, he’d be perfect for the role.
I like all these things about Patrick—the kindness and the intelligence and yes, even his frustratingly distracting good looks. But what I like most is his friendship. He doesn’t care who my parents, grandparents, or fiancé are, and working by his side has created a casualness that lends itself to conversations on art and travel, even politics, and deeply intellectual discussions on religion. The only thing we don’t talk about is his mysterious past. Well, that and my relationship with Hunter. Which is odd because that’s the one conversation Father Patrick is supposed to have with me and, at some point, my fiancé.
“Yes, thank you, Father Patrick,” I echo after Conrad leaves, mimicking the assistant’s kiss-up tone.
“It sounds meaner when you say it that way,” Patrick says, laughing and dropping art supplies into the bin.
“Well, that’s because I’m notbeingnice,” I explain.
“Ahhh, yes. That makes sense, then.”
“Right?” I say with some sarcasm but then soften. “But in all seriousness—thank you.”
“No problem. I’d like to see Stan and Dottie again anyway. Plus, I do have an ulterior motive.”
“Ooooo, am I taking confession now?” What could Father Patrick have to confess to me?
He stores a clear bin in a closet, and I dump a dustpan of paper scraps into the recycling bin.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, flicking off the lights. I retrieve my belongings from behind the desk.
“Now I’m dying to know.” I join him by the door. We haven’t been alone since my snowy-evening visit to the church. The darkness and tranquility of the empty room remind me of the peaceful feeling I took with me when I left the church that night.
“It’s nothing outrageous aside from the fact that gossiping is a sin, and I’m positive this is gossip.”
“Ahhh, now I see.” I understand immediately what he’s leading up to.
“Have you heard anything? Official?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. Last week he owned up to hearing most of my conversation with Hunter.
“I did a bit of my own research.” I hold up a finger and lean in for suspense. “Tom Highward came from a wealthy family, and when I say wealthy, I mean Bill Gates wealthy but, like the 1940s version.”
“You didn’t know this?”
“Not at all. Tom Highward was this totally nebulous hero figure to all the grandkids. I don’t think my mom even knew he was rich. Which is surprising because I found plenty of articles on Newspapers.com about Tom’s life as a socialite and gossip columns about his joining thearmy, and even rumors of his marrying secretly and having a love child. But my grandmother was never mentioned until”—I point my finger into his shoulder as I add each detail—“she signed with MGM and was referenced as a war widow. But as far as I could tell, the Highward family had nothing to do with my mother before or after she was born. The younger sister who used to visit Tom’s grave passed away in ’96. I saw pictures of her, but I know for sure we’ve never met. She has a daughter who lives in Manhattan, though.”
“Wow—you found out a lot. Are you going to reach out to the cousin?”
“You read my mind.” I poke again, which must’ve been one poke too many because Patrick grabs my finger before it hits his shoulder again. “Sorry, I’m getting carried away.” I smooth the fabric and pat the area like he’s been hurt. “But to your question—yes. I’m not positive she’ll know anything, but as soon as I get my mother’s permission, I’m calling this cousin. She’s flying in tomorrow morning. My mom—not the cousin.”
“Ah, the fabled Gracelyn Branson.”
“Yes, yes. Academy Award–winning Gracelyn Branson.” I emphasize her preferred title.
“That will be ...”
“Interesting,” I say, completing his sentence.
“I think I was going to say fascinating, but interesting works too.”
“You know what, you go ahead and laugh, but when she starts trying to use her womanly wiles on you, we’ll see who’s laughing,” I say, grabbing the door handle. I don’t open it because he’s leaning against the door and would fall if I did. In this position, however, my hand accidentally rests against his bicep. He doesn’t move at first, as though he recognizes something important in the moment we’re experiencing—like it’s a pocket of existence where his collar doesn’t matter, and my last name doesn’t either.
“Me. I’ll be laughing,” he clarifies, but the steadiness in his answer sounds like it has very little to do with laughter.
