Unspoken Tides (The Salt Sisters Book 2)

Prologue

February 1990 - Los Angeles, California

Hilary’s mother said that when it came down to it, what you wore to the Oscars was a question of sophistication. “In hindsight, all my gowns from the seventies look ridiculous because I followed what everyone else was wearing,” she said breezily. “The classics, darling. That’s what we live and breathe. That’s what’s timeless. Aren’t you glad you have me to look out for you?” She slid a pearl earring into her lobe and smiled serenely. Her dress was a gorgeous night-black Dior that curved beautifully down her torso and thighs and showed all of her glowing shoulders.

Hilary was nineteen years old, the only daughter of the iconic Swedish actress Isabella Helin. Isabella was nominated for an Oscar for Best Actress that evening for a film called Free at Dawn, which she starred in alongside her husband, Larry Radler. Larry was her second husband and not Hilary’s father—something the tabloids loved to remind her of during particularly dull news cycles. “Hilary! Tell us something about your real dad! Do you think he hates your mother for leaving him?” But Hilary’s father had never been a part of Hilary’s life. She was pretty sure her mother had left him back in Sweden, but she’d never felt brave enough to ask. You didn’t just “ask” Isabella Helin things, even if she was your mother. You never knew what her mood was. You never knew what cruelty she would fling at you.

“I wanted you to be an American, darling,” Hilary’s mother had said before regarding her departure from Sweden. “I wanted you to have every opportunity in the world.”

Isabella Helin was forty-five years old and one of the most sought-after actresses in the industry. Her subtle Swedish accent gave her an allure other beautiful actresses lacked, and her five-foot-nine stature and gorgeous figure didn’t hurt, either. Hilary had spent her entire life in awe of her, aching to be like her. This was the first time Isabella had ever invited her to the Academy Awards, and Hilary hadn’t slept a wink in anticipation. Her mother often told her that beauty sleep wasn’t necessary until you were twenty-six.

Isabella had selected Hilary’s gown for the evening. Like hers, it was a navy blue classic that someone like Audrey Hepburn might have worn decades ago. Although Hilary wouldn’t have picked it for herself, she felt captivated by her reflection in the mirror, especially after her mother did her makeup. She kept asking herself, is this the day that everything changes for me? Is this the day I’ll finally be discovered?

Hilary longed to be an actress like her mother. She craved the fame, intrigue, and artistry of that life; she longed for the luxuries of traveling wherever the next film took her, of learning lines, of spending entire summers in Rome with attractive actors who’d fallen in love with her, too. Isabella had set her up with a few acting teachers over the years, all of whom had told Isabella that Hilary had a “true gift.” But still, Hilary hadn’t nabbed any film gigs.

“They’re not ready to get rid of me yet, darling,” Isabella had said when Hilary hadn’t gotten them.

Hilary had been confused by this. Sure, she looked somewhat like her mother, but she was a fresh version with a different set of skills and style. This was not the first time her mother had alluded to the fact that she didn’t want Hilary to “steal her spotlight.” But at nineteen, Hilary couldn’t fully comprehend what that meant. Weren’t there enough pieces of the pie for all of them?

Hilary and Isabella weren’t allowed to sit in the limousine on the way to the Academy Awards, as sitting would muss up their dresses. Instead, they leaned crookedly against the back seat, carefully extending their legs as far as possible to ensure the material wouldn’t wrinkle. Isabella’s driver made sure to stop slowly and easily so that they didn’t go flying. Hilary kept herself from bursting with laughter at the scene. It looked insane to her.

Did people know the “iconic” Isabella Helin lived like that?

Hilary was curious why Larry wasn’t riding with them to the awards ceremony, but she knew better than to ask. Isabella could fly off the handle at a moment’s notice. The fact that her husband hadn’t wanted to (or couldn’t) ride with them was assuredly not a topic she wanted to discuss.

“Have a brilliant time, ladies,” the driver said as he opened the door for them and helped them from the limo and onto the red carpet.

Immediately, what felt like a million blasts of light came over them. Hilary winced, then righted her smile, remembering what her mother had told her. “All eyes will be on you all night long. Make sure you give them what they want.”

What they wanted was beauty. Intrigue. Smiles.

Hilary followed beside her mother as they waded down the red carpet and past gorgeous actors and actresses, some of whom Hilary had met before through her mother. One of them was around Hilary’s age, and she’d attended Hilary’s high school, which was mostly an artistic breeding ground for the children of famous people. Hilary flinched, preparing to wave at the former classmate, but the classmate turned her beautiful back to Hilary and continued to speak to the paparazzi instead.

Maybe Hilary wasn’t good enough for her anymore. Hilary felt smacked.

Toward the end of the red carpet, Larry appeared and covered Isabella with kisses and cried out lovingly, assuredly just for the paparazzi. “There she is! My beautiful wife. And co-star!” They stood hand in hand as the cameras flashed around them. Someone came to guide Hilary away from the couple.

“He’s not your real dad, right?” the paparazzi asked. When Hilary shook her head, the paparazzi shoved her farther away.

Hilary rolled her eyes and smeared her sweaty palms down her gown, then flinched. That was exactly the behavior her mother had warned her against. She had to protect the fabric, her image, everything. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. When she turned on her heel, she found that a few servers were coming through the crowd, carrying platters heavy with glasses of champagne and appetizers. Hilary leaped for a glass of champagne if only to quiet her nerves. Then she shoved three puff pastries filled with spinach in her mouth, thinking, The paparazzi can take as many pictures of me stuffing my face as they want. See if I care.

Luckily, Isabella and Larry were still burdened by paparazzi, most of whom assumed they would take home not one but two golden statues tonight. Isabella glowed so much that it looked like she was floating a few inches off the red carpet.

“Hungry?”

A voice came out of the chaos and planted itself in Hilary’s ear. She turned, still chewing a puff pastry, to find a man a few years older than her, wearing a handsome tuxedo that didn’t quite fit him correctly and carrying a glass of champagne. His crooked smile was teasing.

It took Hilary a moment to realize he was talking to her. “There are snacks. I assume we’re allowed to eat them?”

The man stepped closer. Hilary blinked a few times, trying to figure out if she’d met him before. She’d met so many people through her mother and her numerous films.

“By all means,” the man said. “Eat as many as you like. I think you might be the only woman in a gown chowing down, though.”

A blush crawled up Hilary’s neck and cheeks. “Did you purposely rhyme?”

It was the man’s time to turn tomato red. He sipped his champagne. Seeing him embarrassed like that filled Hilary’s heart with tenderness.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m nervous. It’s my first Academy Award.”

“Mine, too.” She tried on a smile. “I’m Hilary.”

“I know.”

Hilary laughed. She loved when people didn’t pretend not to know who she was. She was absolutely everywhere, alongside her mother. She was the topic of hundreds, if not thousands, of newspaper articles. On top of it, her face was nearly her mother’s face. There was no escape.

“I’m Rodrick,” he said. “Rodrick Salt.”

Hilary’s heart hummed. “Nice to meet you.”

Another server passed by, and they both reached out to nab a tiny salmon puff with an olive stabbed to the top with a toothpick. They smiled at one another over the top of the server’s tray. Hilary, who’d never had a real boyfriend before and felt ill-equipped to talk to handsome men (something her mother had presumably been born to do well), hunted around her mind for something good to say to him. Something that would intrigue him. But before she could, she heard her name from the red carpet.

“Hilary? We’re going to sit down.”

“I have to run.” Hilary swallowed her salmon puff. “Are you going to any of the parties?”

“Yeah. I am.” Rodrick smiled like a puppy dog. “See you, maybe.”

Hilary breezed back toward her mother and Larry. It was sometimes surreal to approach them like this when they looked their very best and brightest, their “most famous,” surrounded by others who were at least as famous—or wanted to be. It was hard for Hilary to remind herself that Larry and Isabella were the people she also lived with. They ate popcorn, went on walks, and talked about the weather so that they weren’t perpetually glossy, fashionable, and utterly famous.

An usher led Isabella, Larry, and Hilary to their seats. Because both Larry and Isabella were nominated, they were situated toward the front and side of the middle so that the cameras could find them easily for reaction shots. Hilary sat on the other side of Isabella, who smoothed down her dress as she sat. Immediately, a server arrived with another three champagne glasses, which Hilary reached for happily. At nineteen, it wasn’t exactly legal that she drank. But as Isabella’s daughter, she could do no wrong. Well, almost no wrong.

“Who were you talking to back there?” Isabella asked through the side of her mouth, careful to maintain a smile as still more people took their photograph.

“Who?”

“The young man,” Isabella went on. “With the badly cut tuxedo.”

Hilary’s heart pumped. “I don’t know. Some guy.”

Isabella turned her eyes toward Hilary to size her up as though she didn’t believe Rodrick was just “some guy.” That was another thing about Isabella. She was brilliant at reading people and could always perceive a lie. That was probably one of the reasons she was such a brilliant actress.

The awards ceremony began not long after that. The MC for the evening was the comedian and actor Billy Crystal, whom Isabella adored. He’d been at their home several times over the years, playing the piano and serenading Isabella whenever she asked. Once, during Hilary’s tenth birthday party, Billy Crystal performed “Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel (the other Billy, he called him) in front of all of Hilary’s friends, and Hilary didn’t know whether to be pleased or embarrassed.

Throughout most of the award ceremony, Hilary tuned in and out. She watched as beautiful actresses approached the stage, their gowns like fire swishing around their legs. She watched as dashing men made speeches and waved their golden statues in the air. She watched as hundreds and hundreds of people celebrated the sixty-second Academy Awards, an awards show for film, a medium as formidable and gorgeous as any other art form. And then, after the third glass of champagne she’d drunk, tears welled in her eyes as she imagined herself on stage one day, perhaps accepting an award for Best Actress. She would thank her mother first. Of course. People would be expecting that. But after that—she would thank Rodrick. Her husband. She grinned inwardly as her stomach bubbled.

Just like that, it was time for the Best Actress award. Knowing the camera was upon her, Isabella sat up straight as a pin and held Larry’s and Hilary’s hands. Her nails were so tight on Hilary’s skin that she thought she would draw blood.

One after another, the Best Actress winner from last year read off the list of actresses up for this year’s award. Hilary knew that her mother detested almost all of those women, especially Jane Flett. Jane Flett had stolen a gig Isabella had previously thought was in the bag for her. That had been ten years ago—during a particularly harrowing bout of acne for Hilary. When Isabella had crashed with sorrow over the role going to Jane Flett instead of her, she’d looked at Hilary and said, “I can’t believe it. And now, look at your face! Won’t God give me a break?”

“And the winner is,” the actress on stage announced, “Isabella Helin!”

Hilary swept to her feet after that. She pounded her feet on the floor, smacked her palms together, and called out for her mother, the iconic actress, the dream of a woman who’d “escaped” Sweden and come to the promised land of Hollywood, California, to seek her fortune and fame. All the world loved her. All the world said her name. And right now, as she glowed up on the stage with a little golden statue in her hand, she smiled upon all of them. Hilary imagined that she hadn’t eyes for anyone else but Hilary. That, up there, all she knew was her love for her daughter.

But Hilary knew that was far from the truth.

The fact that Isabella Helin won the Oscar for Best Actress—and her husband, Larry, did not win his Oscar for Best Actor—was the talk of the party. Larry laughed it off as sweat dripped from his brow. His hands looked especially empty without the golden statue, especially with Isabella beside him, besotted with hers.

Hilary buzzed from the champagne. She hovered to the right of her mother, three journalists, and Larry, scouting the inner party for signs of food, more alcohol, and anyone she might know. It was nearly midnight, but she knew these sorts of parties went for hours, deep into the morning. She wanted to soak it up.

Just as soon as the journalists faded back through the crowd to assault someone else, Isabella’s smile melted just a touch. “Can you keep it together, Larry? Please?”

Larry’s face stiffened. “I don’t know why you have to rub it in so much.” He then strode away from Isabella, raising his hand in greeting to Martin Scorsese, with whom he’d worked on a project a few years ago. That year, he’d won Best Supporting Actor—and Isabella hadn’t been up for anything. Their house had been in a civil war.

It had never occurred to Hilary that that level of competition was strange. She was accustomed to that in the world of Hollywood. You had to fight for what you wanted, how you wanted to be perceived—even if it meant belittling the people in your life. The people you were meant to love.

“Don’t just stand there, love,” Isabella breathed down Hilary’s neck. “Let’s actually enter the party, shall we?”

Hilary followed Isabella through the teeming sea of fashionable actors, production designers, costume designers, directors, producers, and makeup artists. Isabella’s facial features were as recognizable as a slice of apple pie or the Eiffel Tower, and the crowd stirred around her, making space. They found their way to Stellen Skarsgard, another Swedish actor, and Isabella clutched his elbow as though he were a lifeboat and burst into Swedish, a language Hilary only half understood. Although Isabella had never bothered to teach her, she often spoke Swedish here and there to her, expecting her to understand. Hilary had made a few sorry efforts to study the language—but her tongue felt inefficient and lazy. On top of that, she had no one to practice with. Her mother didn’t have the patience. She wouldn’t even run lines with Hilary before auditions.

From Stellan’s and Isabella’s expressions, Hilary guessed they were discussing Larry and his inefficient support of Isabella after her big win. There was probably nothing juicier for Isabella than gossiping angrily in your own language.

Something soft touched Hilary’s shoulder. She turned slowly to find Rodrick Salt a few rows of people away. He’d stretched his arm across Gwyneth Paltrow, three nerdy-looking lighting guys, and a woman wearing nearly nothing on top in order to touch Hilary’s shoulder. A shiver went down her spine.

“Rodrick!” she exclaimed. “You’re here!”

There were numerous Oscar parties. It had only occurred to her during the show that she should have asked Rodrick where he would end up. They’d gotten lucky.

As he drew closer, churning through the crowd, she saw that Rodrick was drinking a cocktail, and his smile was soft and glinting. Hilary had the strangest instinct to rise on her toes and press her lips against his.

“Hey! How was the show for you?” he asked.

“Long. But exciting, I guess.” Hilary glanced back toward her mother and Stellan Skarsgard, whose voices had shifted to whispers. “Larry’s super angry. He ran off somewhere.”

Rodrick flinched. “Forget about them. You have to have one of these cocktails. The bartender upstairs makes them.” He reached for her hand, then stopped himself just as the tips of his fingers grazed her knuckles. “I’m sorry.” His eyes glinted.

But Hilary went for it. She slid her fingers the rest of the way through his, linking them together like two pieces of a puzzle waiting for eons to fit. Rodrick’s smile was unabashed. He turned to guide her through the pulsing crowd, bobbing his head in time to the music until they cranked up the staircase and sidled up alongside an emptier bar. The bartender who made these “to die for” cocktails had enough gel in his hair that every strand seemed to stick up ominously, violently, like a medieval torture device. As he stirred the cocktail, he said, “Aren’t you Isabella Helin’s daughter?”

“No,” Rodrick said. “She’s a pop star. Jacinda? You haven’t heard of her?”

When the bartender shook his head, Rodrick announced, “This time next year, she’ll be everywhere. Mark my words.”

Hilary’s heart warmed.

“Tell me, Rodrick,” she said, trying to add some flirtation to her voice, “why are you here?”

Rodrick laughed. Maybe she sounded too formal, less flirty? But he answered anyway.

“I’m a producer,” he explained. “Well, sort of. I’m an assistant to a producer, with the aim to produce my own stuff in the next few years. I worked on The Godfather Part III.”

Hilary’s lips parted with surprise. “Wow.”

“You haven’t seen it yet, have you?” He chuckled. “It’s sort of a mess. Coppola hired his daughter when Winona Ryder dropped out, and it was a disaster. The girl can’t act.”

Hilary winced. She had heard that, of course. But it was true that she hadn’t gotten around to seeing the film, nor any of the other Godfather movies. When she confessed that to Rodrick, surprise echoed from his eyes.

“You have to see the first two,” he explained. “They’re absolutely incendiary American productions. The first film changed the game.”

If Hilary had a nickel for every time someone told her that a particular film had “changed the game,” she would be wealthy.

“Maybe we can watch it together sometime,” Rodrick said, sweeping his fingers through his hair to tousle it.

“I’d like that,” Hilary breathed.

But that wasn’t the end of Rodrick’s suggestions that night. As they roamed one Oscar party after the next, draining their cocktail glasses and getting chummy with celebrities, Rodrick grew seemingly more and more enamored with Hilary—so much so that he kissed her on the cheek (like a gentleman) when they got out of a cab en route to the final party. Hilary felt as though she floated off the ground.

“What was that for?” she asked.

Rodrick’s face was bright red. “I don’t know.” He paused. “Was it bad?”

Hilary shook her head. Though Hollywood contained thousands of creeps, it was clear Rodrick wasn’t one of them. Her stomach flipped over.

“I want you to be in my first film,” Rodrick said tenderly, tucking one of her rogue curls behind her ear. “I want you to be the star.”

Hilary’s heart pumped. Around her, celebrities and gowns and journalists were blurry, a chaotic collection of lights and colors. She gripped Rodrick’s hand as hard as she could and whispered, “I want that. Oh, I want it so badly.”

Rodrick’s eyes shone. It felt as though they were making a pact for the rest of their lifetime, as though, from here on out, they would return to this as the moment that altered the course of their lives forever.

And then, out of the chaos came the sound of Isabella Helin.

There was no mistaking it. Hilary knew that voice like the back of her hand. She twisted around to peer through the crowd at her mother and Larry, who hovered near a Grecian-inspired pillar. Isabella gripped Larry’s tie sinisterly, tugging at it so that his nose was forced directly in front of hers. She was screaming. With her other hand, she flailed the Oscar around, on the verge of hitting a few women to her left.

It took a minute for Hilary to understand what her mother was saying.

“You think you can make a fool of me? This is my night, Larry. My night! All these people are on my side!”

A chill came over Hilary’s stomach. Rodrick touched her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

The look in Larry’s eyes told Hilary everything she needed to know.

“I have to go,” Hilary muttered to Rodrick. “Before it gets worse.”

“I’ll call you,” Rodrick said.

But Hilary was already three rows of people ahead of him. Isabella continued to wail at Larry, asking him why he made a mockery of her; didn’t he know how much better she was? How much more famous? Hilary was at Isabella’s elbow, terrified to touch it. Once, her mother had accidentally smacked her during a similar incident. She’d been so riled up. So angry.

“Mom?” Hilary interrupted. “Let’s go.”

Flashing lights were everywhere, and journalists were hungry to capture the scene. They illuminated Isabella’s gorgeous eyes. She was a starlet! She was volatile! She had so much to say! But Hilary knew she wasn’t fully in her right mind. One final time, Hilary urged her to leave with her, to leave Larry behind.

Under her breath, Isabella muttered, “This isn’t over, Larry.”

And then, she allowed Hilary to guide her through the crowd, out toward the edges, where a cab buzzed at the curb. There wasn’t time to look for their limo. Hilary just hoped the driver had enough sense not to make a big deal about driving a sobbing Isabella Helin back home.

Once in the car, Isabella cried freely. Black makeup tracked down her cheeks, and her lipstick dropped out of line. She looked like a very beautiful and terrifying clown.

“Oh, I should have known,” she wept as her chest heaved. “I should have known he would do this to me. Larry was never truly faithful. He was always opportunistic. Always ready to jump ship the moment he saw a better one.” She sniffled. For a moment, Hilary thought she would use her dress to mop herself up. But that wasn’t the Isabella Helin way.

As Los Angeles whizzed by, surging lights and blasting sounds, a city at the edge of her mother’s adopted continent, Isabella cried and cried. Hilary tried to put the pieces together, to truly comprehend how and why Larry had messed up so badly this time. The Oscar statue in Isabella’s lap flipped around as the car moved, looking so silly, like a child’s toy.

In time, Hilary learned that Larry had cheated on Isabella with another woman in their film production. She’d discovered it during one of the Oscar parties. She’d learned that the entire production knew about it—and that they were making her out to be a fool.

Horribly, Isabella was using this as proof that she was “too old.” For love. For film. To be seen in public. Hilary begged her to remember that she was only forty-five and the most gorgeous woman in the world. But it was no use.

As they pulled into the driveway of the Los Angeles mansion, Isabella sniffled, raised her head, and said, “Mark my words. Men will ruin you. They’ll take everything. And the film industry will lick up the crumbs.”