Chapter 7 Ada
Ada
Most never receive the miracles they await. Ada has: Ingrid is alive.
Then why, as she stands before the Biltmore Hotel in downtown Los Angeles, does an unbearable coil of tension seize her stomach?
A warm August evening breeze sweeps over her, carrying the steady rumble of street traffic. The last note Ada received from
Ingrid was a final farewell tucked into her pointe shoe, found the morning after Ingrid left Arnhem. She carried that scrap
of paper with her until she stood in a dark alley in New York City one night. If she were going to be Ada, she could not possess
a note addressed to Aleida from a woman who was surely dead. Tears pricked her eyes as she watched the fire consume her sister’s
handwriting, and their names along with it.
Drawing a breath, Ada pushes away the chill of that night and the heat of its flames, then passes through the lobby with its
vaulted ceiling and elegant staircase. She takes the elevator to the seventh floor, where she finds the proper room number.
After working on her script all day with a cantankerous Gordon—Ada did warn him not to drink so much last night—she told him she had dinner plans but made no mention of Ingrid.
It felt too delicate to mention the sibling he didn’t know she had, as if doing so would take her sister away again.
She can’t explain everything she’s kept from him—for his safety and her own.
When the knot in her stomach tightens, Ada combats it. She will not allow her past to interfere with the thrill of spending
this evening with her sister. The reminder settles her and silences the memories, so Ada raps her knuckles against the door.
In seconds, it swings open.
There she stands, proof that Ada’s memories from last night were not a champagne-induced hallucination. When Ingrid steps
aside, Ada crosses the carpeted floor and looks around. A bed, a nightstand, a dresser, a small desk, and simple curtains
open to a view of downtown. She removes her large dark sunglasses and headscarf—useful disguises when attempting to avoid
the public—then faces Ingrid, who brushes a stray auburn lock from her forehead.
Ada awaits permission to cling to the reality before her, and the assurance that, if she does, it will not slip through her
grasp.
“I just can’t believe you’re here.” Ada sits on the bed, almost feeling as if this room is their shared bedroom in Arnhem.
“How have you been? Are you still with Lars?” She sees no ring, though, and her mouth runs dry.
Ingrid notices her staring and waves a dismissive hand. “We’re fine, don’t worry. I left the ring at home for safekeeping.”
Leave it to Ingrid to be so concerned about her most valued possession as to take extreme measures not to lose it. Combined
regret and warmth rush over Ada. Her sister is married, and she was not with her to partake in such a wonderful occasion.
“Did you travel directly to America from Arnhem?”
“To Washington, DC. We stayed with Hattie for a time—you remember her, from boarding school.”
“And you’ve been well? Happy?”
Ingrid nods without meeting Ada’s gaze. She has not sat down beside Ada, as she might have in the past, nor is she conversing
the way they usually do. This woman is nothing like the one she encountered last night. Nothing like her sister. Ada swallows
hard, suddenly feeling unwelcome. Except Ingrid invited her here, so why is she so disengaged? Distance stretches between
them as if they remain oceans apart.
Still, as she watches Ingrid cross and uncross her arms and smooth her skirt, Ada senses unity in their uncertainty, in this
awful discomfort that has never been between them before and should not be there now.
This is her sister, her twin sister. Being together should feel as natural as it does to perform. Instead, Ada feels as if she stands alone in center
stage, and when a single spotlight falls on her, none of her meticulously memorized lines come to mind.
“Did you come all this way only to want nothing to do with me?” she asks, although her tone is more wounded than accusatory.
“No, no, of course not, I—” Ingrid’s voice falls. “Like I told you, I was afraid you never wrote back to me because you hadn’t
survived. But then I thought perhaps you chose not to write . . . because you resented me for leaving.”
Silence follows the confession. Had Ada resented her? Perhaps, alongside the hurt and pain and guilt of those years, there
is the smallest kernel of resentment. Not because she consciously decided to hold Ingrid’s decision against her—after all,
it was Ada who encouraged her to choose Lars. And yet, if not for Lars, Ingrid never would have left.
Now, hearing Ingrid’s fears expressed, she releases the tiny kernel. She clings to so much from that time. This, though, she
can put to rest.
“When I told you to go, I almost begged you to stay. Purely for selfish reasons. But, more than that, I wanted your safety
and happiness, and it is such a relief to know you found it. I never would have wanted you to endure what took place in Arnhem.”
At this, Ingrid’s eyes darken with sudden worry, seeking the answers Ada cannot give. Not yet.
Ingrid seems to realize it, though, so she simply nods. This time, the silence is closer to the way it used to be.
At last Ingrid draws a breath. “Care for a drink, Miss Worthington-Fox?”
Lately, Ada has grown more accustomed to that name than the one bestowed upon her at birth. Still, hearing it come from Ingrid’s
mouth leaves an unexpected weight in Ada’s chest. A reminder that she is no longer the girl her sister once knew.
Ingrid pours two glasses of champagne from the bottle chilling in an ice bucket, then sits in the desk chair across from Ada.
“I’ve heard all the rumors. You’re an actress—one of Hollywood’s hottest, if speculations regarding an upcoming big break
are to be believed. You host excellent parties. And . . .” She leans toward Ada in that conspiratorial way from their youth.
“You are an absolute bitch on set.”
Such a label is to be expected when a young actress, new to Hollywood, refuses to sleep with the director in exchange for
a few extra lines. Men and their silly wounded pride. Pathetic, really. Mr. Sternberg carries no such reputation, however,
so working with him in Lady Bella Donna will be a far more pleasant experience.
Ada pretends to ponder the gossip. “Rising actress, party hostess, and absolute bitch . . . all lies, I’m afraid, save for
the last one.” She lifts her glass to Ingrid, who taps her own against it in a congratulatory toast.
The sound of clinking glasses dislodges the smirk from Ada’s lips. Such a coy reply is one she would give in an interview.
This is not an interview. After so many years in this industry, Ada is no stranger to hearing others tell her who and what
she is. Hearing Ingrid voice each statement—each one, in fact, true—suddenly leaves her feeling hollow. Why is Ingrid asking
her about gossip when they have so much more to discuss?
“The Star Society . . . is that right? Highly elaborate, invitation only, as grand as the rumors claim?”
“Grander.” The simple response is all Ada can think to say.
They should be discussing their lives, sharing stories and laughter, enjoying each other’s company. To be fair, rumors are
a part of Ada’s life, but the sister Ada remembers would care about getting reacquainted with the real woman, not dissecting
the persona she projects to the world.
Distant chatter comes from somewhere in the hall while Ada draws a breath, inhaling notes of bergamot, vetiver, and jasmine
from the perfume lacing her skin. “Your work?” she asks, attempting to redirect the conversation.
“In an office—services related to legal or personal matters, although mine is secretarial work, mostly. Nothing that would
interest you in the slightest.”
Ingrid takes a long sip of her drink, then shifts in her seat. Reluctant to share more. Normally Ada is the one steering conversations
or interviews away from personal matters and back on course, never descending beneath the surface, hence her reputation for
privacy. The tactic is not one she expected her sister to use, certainly not with her.
Ada should not allow the realization to pierce her core as fiercely as it does. Perhaps they are too different now for everything
to feel as it always has. Perhaps it will never feel that way again. Not when so much has happened. Still, sisters should
be willing to sort through any awkwardness or uncertainty, should be trying to break through the surface immediately rather
than remaining safely above, refusing to push deeper.
Maybe, after spending all this time fearing Ada’s resentment, Ingrid fears her rejection if she exposes who she has become over these last years.
The same way Ada fears her sister will reject her if Ada can ever bring herself to reveal everything that happened in Arnhem.
Such a heartache is one Ada can’t bear to risk.
Nor can she bear to lose this opportunity.
The war took so much. She will not let it take this too.
“I’m still me, Inge,” she says gently. “Beyond the new name, the career, the gossip, and the glittering lights of Hollywood,
I’m still me.”
The lines around Ingrid’s mouth soften. Maybe she needs time to sort through how she’s feeling, so Ada will not stay and overwhelm
her further. She excuses herself, but she only makes it a few steps down the hall before she hears the door open and feels
a light tap against her shoulder.
When she turns, Ingrid is looking at her the way Ada remembers—like the sister who knows her, not the stranger interested
in gossip. “I know you’re still you, and seeing you happy, with a career, a life . . . nothing makes me happier. And I’m still
me too.”
“Are you?” Ada lifts a teasing eyebrow. “Ingrid van Essen, interested in Hollywood gossip?”
Ingrid laughs, her cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry, I was trying to make you comfortable. Don’t you Hollywood types discuss those
sorts of things?”