Chapter 4
Hilary had never worked for a female director before. Even twenty years ago, during her final film before an immediate and swift retirement, Hollywood didn’t call on female directors. They weren’t respected; they weren’t given Academy Awards. Of them, Isabella Helin herself had said, “A woman behind the camera? No thanks.” But that had been a different time.
Hilary was initially flabbergasted to learn that a woman was directing the Nantucket film about the fisherman’s family. When she arrived on set the first day to meet the director in the flesh, she was even more surprised to learn that the woman director was twenty years younger than Hilary, Chinese American, incredibly opinionated, and very good at her job. Hilary was accustomed to male directors who “phoned it in,” especially when they felt they were doing the production a favor by putting their name down as director. But all women directors still had something to prove.
“I’m Marty Zhang,” she said, shaking Hilary’s hand.
“Hilary,” she said. “Pleasure to meet you.” She bit her tongue before she said something like, I’ve never worked with a woman director before! She didn’t want to seem older than she was.
“It’s a pleasure to work with you,” Hilary said. She stood at the back end of the trailer, which was filled with costumes for the main cast members. A few of the other costume workers were fixing things up and putting extras into costumes, all working diligently, knowing they were on the clock.
“I heard a rumor that you live here in Nantucket,” Marty said.
“I do. For the past twenty years now.”
“You’ll be of great help to us,” Marty said. “And, of course, I’m a big fan of your previous costuming work. Rodrick told me how hard you’ve been at it the past few weeks since you took on the job. We can’t thank you enough.”
Hilary glowed at the recognition. She wondered if Marty knew that Rodrick and Hilary had once been married. At the same time, she knew that because Marty was a woman, it didn’t matter to her at all. She wouldn’t look down on Hilary the way a man might have. She wouldn’t think, “Your ex-husband got you this gig because he felt sorry for you.”
Hilary had already met the main cast members during the week prior to the first day of filming. She was impressed with their professionalism and their ease with costuming and measuring. Candace, who played the mother, practiced her New England accent with Hilary whenever she saw her, knowing that Hilary lived out here and, therefore, understood the accent better than most. “You’ve got it,” Hilary had told her the last time she’d seen her.
“I just hope I don’t start talking like this all the time!” Candace had joked. “I’m not a method actor, but I don’t want to forget the accent between takes. Then again, I don’t want my daughter to think I’m a stranger!”
Hilary had read once that the only method actors in the world were men because women were required to play all sorts of roles for the people in their lives off-set. Children needed their mothers; husbands needed their wives. They wouldn’t stand for a character, not when dinner was supposed to be on the table.
Hilary remembered when her mother had been in the midst of filming. Hilary had never known what version of Isabella she would get back at home.
Hilary had mentally prepared herself as much as possible to see Rodrick today, the first day of filming. She’d done her makeup and woken up early to curl her hair. But as she flowed through the first takes of the day, she stopped scanning the crew for any sign of him. If he showed up, he showed up. If he didn’t make it, it didn’t matter. She had a job to do.
It was hard for Hilary to believe, but being back on set was like riding a bike. As soon as Marty said “Cut,” she hustled out to fix costumes and ensure everything looked the same as before the take. She called on the makeup artists to fix people’s faces. She spoke with authority very quickly and then whisked off set again as Marty said, “Places.”
Hilary felt useful. Beautiful. Electric.
Lunch on the first day was quesadillas with guacamole and tortilla chips. Hilary ate quickly and hurried off to tend to a costume, which needed repairing after Brett Vanders, the father character, had accidentally ripped it during one of the first scenes of the morning. But as Hilary breezed around the corner of the costume trailer, she ran headlong into a massive man. She cried out, fell back, and would have toppled over the pavement were it not for the man reaching out to grab her. The shock rang through her, and she laughed in spite of herself. Her eyes found his.
“I’m so sorry! Are you all right?” The man’s dark eyes were enormous. He was a little over six feet, broad-shouldered, and dressed all in black. Like everyone else on set, he wore a nametag that read Max von Swenson. What a name.
“Yes! Yes. Don’t worry.” Hilary waved her hand. “You caught me in the nick of time. I might have been a broken bag of bones. Thanks for that.”
Max blushed and tugged his hair. Hilary tried to guess his age. Maybe a little older than her? Out of habit, perhaps, she checked his finger for a wedding ring and found nothing.
“I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off,” Max said.
“Didn’t anyone tell you about on-set safety?”
Max laughed. “I must have missed that meeting.”
Max explained that he was a cinematographer, that it was his first gig out East, and that he was en route to set up the next shot because he and Marty had talked about it and decided on a different option.
“How is it to work with Marty?” Hilary asked.
Max gushed. “She’s one of the most professional directors I’ve ever worked with. She puts so many others to shame. You know what she told me? Her parents—who are both immigrants from China—named her after Martin Scorsese. Isn’t that funny? She was born to be a director.”
Hilary smiled and crossed her arms over her chest. She was very familiar with parental expectations and the horrors they could wrought.
“I hate to do this,” Max went on, his cheeks flashing pink, “but I have to say that Free at Dawn was one of my favorite films as a young man. I watched it obsessively, studying its cinematography and use of light and sound.”
Hilary’s mouth went dry. He was referring to her mother’s film from 1989, the one for which she’d won an Academy Award in 1990—the Oscars where she’d learned of Larry’s affair.
“It’s a great film,” Hilary said.
Max tugged his hair nervously. “You look so much like her in this light.”
Hilary laughed wryly. “I’m at least fifteen years older than my mother was when that was filmed. I’m sure I don’t look anything like her. A pale imitation, at the very least.”
But Max shook his head. “Trust me. I think I’ve seen that film more than any other person on this earth. It’s like seeing her before me now.” His eyes glinted. “I’m sorry if that’s too forward.”
Someone’s voice rang out, calling for Max. He stiffened and turned his head. “I have to run. This shot won’t set itself. I’ll see you around.” He flashed a final smile before speeding off in the direction of his call.
He left Hilary in stunned silence, her hand draped across her cheek. Why did she feel she could hear her mother’s voice in her head? How was it she could hear some of the lines from Free at Dawn echoing through the set?
Free at Dawn had been Isabella Helin’s final film before her very public divorce and breakdown. It was a time capsule of another era of Hilary’s and Isabella’s lives. For this reason, Hilary had only watched it once, at the premiere. It was too painful to return to.
As Hilary sewed the hole in Brett’s pants, her lips lined with needles and pins, her phone buzzed on the side table. She went rigid when she read the name. RODRICK SALT. Was he on set? Was he looking for her?
The pants finished, Hilary took a deep breath and opened the message.
RODRICK SALT: Unfortunately, I won’t make it to set today. I’ve only heard wonderful rumors thus far that it’s a well-oiled machine. Thanks for being a part of it.
RODRICK SALT: Would you like to join me for dinner this evening? I’d like to thank you personally for stepping in on such short notice. I imagine you’re exhausted, but I promise that I’ll make it worth your while.
Hilary’s ears pounded. She raised her thumbs and began to type, then delete, then type again. She felt like a fool. She fought a strange impulse to call one of the Salt Sisters and ask their advice—then wrote back that she’d love to.
She spent the second half of the day in a state of panic. This was her first evening with Rodrick in many, many years. Whatever she wore, it had to be perfect. It had to prove just how much he’d lost.