Today, we have an excerpt from When We Were Enemies by Wall Street Journal best-selling author Emily Bleeker. A story about families, legacies, and the long impact of secrets, set in the present day and also during World War 2. Here’s the synopsis:
Two women, generations apart, in the spotlight. A powerful novel about family secrets, devastating choices, and hope for the future.
Camera-shy Elise Branson is different from the other women in her matriline. Her mother is an award-winning actress. Her late grandmother, Vivian Snow, is a beloved Hollywood icon. But when Elise’s upcoming wedding coincides with a documentary being made about Vivian, Elise can’t escape the camera’s gaze. And even in death, neither can her grandmother.
It’s 1943 when Vivian, a small-town Indiana girl, lends her home front support to the war effort. As a translator in the nearby Italian POW camp, she’s invaluable. As a celebrated singer for the USO, she lifts men’s spirits and falls in love with a soldier. But behind this all-American love story is a shocking secret — one vital to keep buried if Vivian is to achieve the fame and fortune, she covets.
For Elise and Vivian, what’s hidden — and what’s exposed — threatens to unravel their lives. The heart-wrenching choices they must make will change them both forever.
Read on for the excerpt: Chapter 5 of the novel…
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Chapter 5
Elise
Present Day
Edinburgh, Indiana
“There you are!” Mac calls out to me as he walks down the middle of Main Cross Street like he’s the king of the town. Mac looks just as flamboyant standing in front of me as he does on any news broadcast, tv show, awards ceremony, or after party. His silvery-grey hair rests a touch above his shoulders and a pair of dark rimmed reading glasses act like a makeshift headband, somehow looking stylish and cool rather than utilitarian. He wears dark and crisp jeans that look like Conrad purchased them right before leaving New York and his brown, woolen blazer is tailored to his exact measurements and accented with a fuzzy tan and light blue scarf tied in a messy but sophisticated knot around his neck.
I see why my mom is drawn to him. He has an air about him that makes it seem like he knows exactly what’s happening now and has a good grasp on what will happen next. But every time I see handsome, older Hollywood men I can’t help but think of the unfair beauty standards in my mother’s industry.
Though his teeth are capped and bleached, his face is lined and he still looks like a well- kept version of his sixty-something self instead of the stretched, filled, and polished version of most women in the industry. While I don’t agree with the double-standard, I try not to push the idea of aging naturally on any of my clients, and I never shame them for their pursuit of eternal youth, impossible as it may be.
“Hey, Mac.” I take his outstretched hand and meet his smile with one of my own.
“Great to meet you, finally, Elise. You’re as lovely as you look in your pictures, I must say.”
I’m immune to false flattery but I know how to take it as well as dole it out.
“You’re even better in real life, Mac. My mother filled me in on all your best qualities. Can’t wait to get to you know you better.” We continue to give compliments back and forth for a moment or two. I’ve witnessed this sort of feather fluffing my whole life and may have fallen victim to it if it wasn’t for my father who always kept me grounded. He left the realm of fame to live on his ranch in Montana after he and my mother divorced when I was a little girl. He’s busy with his ranch and refuses to learn how to use the internet or a cell phone, and when I finally connected with him last week, his advice came too late.
“Don’t do it , Punkin’,” he said in his adopted western drawl. “Nothing grows well under those stage lights, especially new relationships. I should know.”
That’s the most I can get out of my dad about his relationship with my mother—a quip or two, maybe a sage musing while staring at the horizon. Being raised by actors gets existential sometimes.
He’s the more stable parent but I didn’t spend nearly as much time as I would’ve liked with him on the ranch. During my teen years, when my mom was away at her Ashram cult in Brazil, I learned what it was like to be a country girl, or at least my father’s version. I think that’s
why I’m the only one of my siblings who didn’t end up going to Julliard and using my mother’s name to make it in Hollywood. I came to respect hard work and a touch of solitude.
I can’t say that I never took advantage of my family’s dynasty. I worked hard for my degrees, but when I started my PR firm, Toffee Co., I had an advantage as Vivian Snow’s granddaughter and Gracelyn Branson’s daughter. If I was a purist I’d have kept my father’s last name instead of using my mother’s.
“I’ve got us a five-thirty appointment at The Holy Trinity church, right around the corner. You’ll get a tour and then you’ll have your first sit down with the priest, a ‘get to know you’ kind of thing. I’d love to get your first reactions to the building.”
This is not a casual invite though Mac makes it sound that way. It’s on the shot list Conrad sent in his most recent email.
“Uh, I’m not really camera ready.” I gesture to my rumpled traveling clothes and makeup-less face. “I’m all for being myself on camera but this isn’t a good look.”
“No problem. I have Lisa here for hair and make-up. She can touch you up in the car. Do you have a top in a solid color, not black? Something more bridal like a pink or a purple? Oh. Or off-white, even. I don’t think that would push the envelope too much, would it Marty?”
Mac looks to the man standing behind him whose existence I had barely registered. He’s short with a dark cap and carrying a camera case.
“Actually, the interior is pretty light so I think a richer palette would give some contrast. No red or black.”
“Sound good?” Mac asks and I already hate my position in this project, more of a prop than a person.
“I have tops in all those colors, but I don’t know that I’m ready for anything in front of the camera today,” I say, again, but he’s not listening.
“You’ll be great.” He squeezes my upper arm in a slightly patronizing way, clearly unaware that I’ve spent years giving advice to clients about on-camera styling when needed.
Mac addresses me again, a low, dramatic tenor to his voice. “I’m beyond eager to start working together, Elise.”
“Same,” I say, matching his tone.
Nothing like jumping right in, I guess. And the only way to get myself into a pool of cold water is to dive in headfirst before I can think better of it.
After six minutes of sprint-dressing in the bathroom of the local diner, I exit the glass door satisfied with the deep plum-colored blouse I’d tossed on with a tailored dark brown leather jacket paired with a dark pair of trousers and heeled booties. No one can see my outfit under my puffy plum jacket, but Conrad gave it a thumbs up and I’m guessing that means Mac approves, too.
I climb into the back seat of the idling black Escalade to find a forty-something woman wearing all black with dyed red hair pinned up in a bun waiting for me.
“Hey there, hun. I’m Lisa. Just a quick little touch up for you, okay?”
Mac jumps in and we make the short drive to the church as Lisa applies my makeup and tidies my hair.
“The church is Holy Trinity Catholic Church and we’ll be meeting Father Ignatius. It’s just an intro prior to the PreCana class required for the wedding prep.”
“They’re alright starting without Hunter?”
“Yeah. It’s just the basics and we’ll get you together for the next one, even if he’s virtual.”
Lisa has me open my eyes and applies mascara with a disposable wand. My nerves are starting to simmer under the surface. I can hold meetings with high-powered, famous people. I can face PR disasters, twitter gaffs, and celebrity feuds, but stepping in front of the camera to talk about myself and my family is suffocating. I feel like I did when Dean was filming in Maui and there was pineapple in my daquiri, which I’m deathly allergic to. My throat closed up so fast I could feel the sides meeting in the middle, shutting off my airway.
Dean reacted immediately. Called for help. Gave me CPR. Acquired an epi pen from someone at one of the tables next to us. He saved my life. I wish Dean were here.
Lisa puts on a final coat of lip gloss, and I rub my lips together, smearing it evenly around my mouth, chastising myself. Not Dean. Hunter. I wish Hunter were here.
Lisa produces a handheld mirror as the car slows. I barely look but say thank you and when the car comes to a complete stop, Mac jumps out like he’s escaping a kidnapper.
“By the way,” Lisa adds once Mac is gone, “I’m a big Vivian Snow, fan. I need to know– was she really as sweet in real life as she seemed on camera?”
I’m usually uncomfortable when strangers ask about my famous family. But lately when I talk about my grandmother, it doesn’t feel like an intrusion. Most tell me about how Vivian Snow made a difference in their life and it’s like she’s resurrected for a moment.
“Absolutely,” I say and Lisa swoons. She’s about to ask another question when the Escalade’s door opens and a sound engineer taps her out. He hands me a mic. I snake it through the back of my shirt and clip it to my collar. After a few sound checks, he gives me the thumbs up and dips out of the car, the same way he came in.
I hear a slate clap outside and Mac say action. The door swings open again but this time Marty stands outside with a camera on his shoulder and Mac right next to him.
I straighten my jacket and blouse, rub my lips together one more time and then work my way out of the elevated back seat, my feet landing on a cement curb. Ignoring the blank stare of Marty’s camera and the smaller, handheld camera focused on Mac, I catch my first real glimpse of Holy Trinity.
I’ve been here before but never as an adult and it looks almost as large as I remember. Built on a hill, the greenery sweeps up to the steepled tower and cement steps lead to the arched carved front doors.
“What do you think? First impressions?” Mac asks, his voice low and hypnotic like he doesn’t want to wake me from some sort of trance.
“It’s beautiful.” I barely get the words out before my throat tightens again, not only from nerves but from a rush of feelings I can’t turn off. As I take in the vision of the chapel through the barely budding trees, tears sting my eyes.
“Has it changed much since you were here last?”
I caress every sharp angle and delicate curve of the structure with my gaze. I’ve seen greater buildings. I’ve visited the Vatican. I’ve walked on the Great Wall of China. I’ve strolled through the halls of Versailles, stood in St. Petersburg square, and gasped at the brilliant beacon that is the Taj Mahal.
But what this site has that none of the others did is a piece of my history, my origin, it feels like it’s almost part of my DNA.
“It looks exactly the same as when I was a kid and…” I think back to the photo in the eight by ten frame my mother keeps by the side of her bed even to this day. “My mom has a picture of Nonna and grandpa on their wedding day outside this place. Seeing the chapel right now—it’s like they could walk out any second.”
“Really? It’s that well preserved?”
“I think so. You should ask my mom for her parents’ wedding picture. It’s a little fuzzy but you’ll get the idea.”
“What does it mean to you that you’ll be married here in a few short weeks?” he asks in his interviewer voice.
I envision myself dressed in white with Hunter beside me in his tuxedo, the stair rails dripping with flowers, and bells ringing in the background. Although I’ve been struggling to imagine our wedding day, in this moment, it seems so clear.
“I think it means…everything.” My comment hangs in the air, a meaningful, pregnant pause after my heartfelt sharing moment.
“Let’s cut there,” Mac says to the crew. All the cameras lift or droop, no longer focused on me or the chapel. Mac places an encouraging hand on my shoulder, squinting through his lenses. “Wow. Elise–that was great. Exactly what we need. Honest, vulnerable emotion. Perfect. Keep doing that and we’ll be out of here in no time.”
Every piece of encouragement from Mac rings hollow. I feel silly for falling under his hypnotic spell and spouting something so cheesy, so melodramatic. Now, that sentimental moment belongs to Mac and the documentary, impossible to take back. I need to be more cautious. Mac is either a skilled director or a master manipulator—either way there’s no doubt he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get ‘the shot.’ And it looks like it’s up to me to protect my family’s dignity—as well as my own.
This could be an interesting few weeks, I think, as I nod cooperatively at Mac’s stage directions while Lisa touches up the slightly smudged liner from my tears.
“Perfect,” she says stepping back and smiling at me although I’m sure she’s smiling at the ‘granddaughter of Vivian Snow’ more so than ‘Elise Branson.’ But in this case I’m not offended.
With the cameras rolling again, I walk up the long row of steps embedded in the hillside to the front of the chapel. I’d heard Mac talking about losing the daylight so there’s a sense of urgency in the air. And though I’m cold without my fluffy coat and I have to make a concerted effort to not look directly at the cameras, I realize my hands have finally stopped shaking.
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Emily Bleeker’s When We Were Enemies is published today by Lake Union Publishing in North America and in the UK.
Civilian Reader 