Chapter 1
May 2024 - Siasconset, Nantucket Island
From the kitchen, Hilary could hear all nine of her Salt Sisters out on the veranda. Their laughter swam out across the bluffs and echoed over the Nantucket Sound, and the clinking of their wineglasses and forks was like music. Hilary slid a knife through the final pieces of gruyère cheese, finished the cheese plate with a big bowl of sliced mango, and hurried back into the May evening to join them.
“Hilary! Settle something for us, will you?” This was Stella Turnbilt, Hilary’s longtime friend—the first-ever Salt Sister besides Hilary. “Which film won the Academy Award in 1993?”
“In 1993?” Hilary pretended to think, dotting her finger against her chin. “That was a weird year if I remember correctly.”
Of course, she remembered. She’d been there, hadn’t she? She’d lived it.
“She knows everything about Hollywood,” Stella whispered to Robby, pretending to be secretive. “It’s a funny game we play sometimes. Seeing how much trivia she carries around in that massive brain of hers.”
Hilary waited a few more seconds to brew up suspense, then said, “In 1993, Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven won Best Picture.”
“Unforgiven?” Robby asked, scrunching up her nose. “What is that?”
“Exactly,” Hilary said. “It was a weird year. But I’m not really a big fan of westerns. Maybe it had more staying power with some other people.”
“My husband loved westerns,” Robby said, speaking of her late husband. “I swear, whenever he had a few hours to himself, he always put on one Clint Eastwood film or another. I could never figure it out. Did he want to be a cowboy? Was that it?”
“What films do you put on when you have some time to kill?” Hilary asked.
Robby blushed. “Romantic comedies, I guess. Anything by Nora Ephron.”
“She’s the queen,” Hilary said.
She considered telling Robby about when Nora Ephron had come to Los Angeles to beg Isabella to be in one of her films. At the time, Isabella had been married to Larry, and Larry had wanted to do another film—something in the action sphere that required a beautiful female lead. Isabella had gone with Larry’s film, and the young actress who’d taken on Nora’s role had had a marvelous career. Isabella and Larry’s action film had died at the box office—a rarity in Isabella Helin’s world.
Hilary removed a grape from the vine and chewed it delicately as she listened to the Salt Sisters’ discussion, which shifted from Hollywood films to books they’d read to difficulties they’d had that week—even doing the most mundane tasks. Tina confessed that she’d called off work and lain in bed for eight hours, staring at the ceiling and wondering if she would ever get back up again.
“Grief can come out of nowhere like that,” Stella said. “You think you’re fine one day, and you’re flat on your back the next.”
Tina sighed. “I felt like such a failure, though. I’ve made so much progress the past few years.”
“One bad day doesn’t negate all those years of work,” Stella assured her, glancing at Hilary curiously.
Normally, Hilary stepped in during these conversations with her own wisdom, her own stories, her own assurance and strength. Why was she quiet tonight? Something strange hung on her heart, dragging her down. She sipped her glass of natural orange wine and reached for the bottle to refill it. Out beyond the veranda, a sailboat drifted lazily through the dying waves of the Nantucket Sound. Hilary could imagine the soft breeze on the face of the sailor. She closed her eyes, wishing she was the one out on that boat hearing the sound of the surf and the birds.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Stella said later when she found Hilary alone in the kitchen, scrubbing a dish. “Is something wrong?”
Hilary forced a smile, feeling like her mother—ever the faker. “I’m fine. Just a little sleepy. I changed my allergy medicine. That might be why.” Hilary had done no such thing. How had the lie come so easily?
“Thanks for hosting even though you don’t feel like yourself,” Stella said.
“You know me,” Hilary said. “I always want to support my Salt Sisters!” Even as she said it, exhaustion draped over her shoulders and begged her to take herself to bed. She felt as though she had nothing to offer anyone. As though she wanted to be alone in the chaos of her mind.
She was reminded of what they said on airplanes. You were supposed to put your oxygen mask on first before helping anyone else. But the past few years had been an onslaught of helping her Salt Sisters—whom she adored. Forming the group was one of the single greatest achievements in her life.
Stella spread one of her hands across the granite counter. “It’s hard to believe we’ve been going strong for almost twenty years now, isn’t it?”
“I was just thinking about that,” Hilary said.
“I wish we could tell our thirty-something selves what we know now.”
Hilary’s face twitched. “What would you say?”
“Just how enriching it is to have so many good-hearted women in your corner,” Stella said. “Just how supportive it feels to know that people like you are just a phone call away.”
Stella refilled a big pitcher with water and returned to the veranda, reminding Hilary to join them soon. “Don’t be a stranger.”
But Hilary’s heart beat wildly, making her arms and legs shake. She felt on the verge of panic. It occurred to her, now, that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d reached out to one of her Salt Sisters for help. She’d received phone calls nearly every day and night that week alone. She’d gone out of her way to help them prep for dates (emotionally and physically), met them before doctors’ appointments, and talked them off metaphorical ledges at two or three in the morning.
It wasn’t that they wouldn’t accept Hilary’s phone call if it came. Many of them would probably welcome it.
But Hilary felt like the leader of the Salt Sisters— she was the founder, after all. As a result, she wanted to be stronger and as solid as a rock. She didn’t want to show her vulnerabilities. It reminded her terribly of Isabella Helin. Despite having worked many, many years to be nothing like her, it seemed that much of Isabella’s personality had slipped through the cracks. Genetics were difficult to escape.
Hilary dried her hands, listening as another burst of laughter swelled from the veranda. She was just in a funk, she told herself. Probably, it was hormonal. Probably, she hadn’t gotten enough sleep, or she’d eaten something a bit off, or she’d drunk one too many glasses of wine. She would drink water the rest of the night and go to bed as soon as the last Salt Sister went home. She would take care of herself.
And then, her phone lit up with a message from a ghost.
RODRICK SALT: Hey, Hilary. How are you?
RODRICK SALT: I’ve been thinking about you. I’d love to arrange a call.
Hilary stood motionless for a full minute. The phone’s screen went black again, but the image of Rodrick’s name was seared into her mind. Her breathing was ragged. She rushed to the sink, filled a glass with water, and drank it in three gulps.
Rodrick. She hadn’t heard from Rodrick in how many years, now?
Why had he chosen today of all days to pop out from the ether and ask her how she was? To tell her he’d been thinking about her? It made her stomach slosh.
Incredibly, when she pictured Rodrick’s face, he didn’t look as he had during those final years. He looked like the bright-eyed young man with the ill-fitting suit whom she’d met at the 62nd Academy Awards. He looked like the twentysomething Rodrick who’d taken her hand to show her the cocktails that were “to die for.” Neither of them could have envisioned the mess they would make together—the one that lingered on the outer edge of that evening. That was the nature of time.
Oh, but hadn’t they stood at these very granite countertops in Nantucket and sliced vegetables, exchanged stories, and drank wine? Hadn’t Rodrick even helped her choose the paint color on the kitchen walls? She’d had it redone, of course, since it had faded over the years. But he’d been the one to agree on the initial color.
He was inextricably tied up in everything she was, in the very walls of the house in Siasconset. But she wasn’t sure she would ever have the strength to write him back, let alone call. As another burst of laughter came from the veranda outside, she shivered despite the heat. She knew better than to trust whatever happened next. When Stella returned to the kitchen to ask her what had been taking so long, Hilary reached for a lie again. “I’ll be out in a second. Just finishing up.”
Maybe she was a better actress than she thought.