Chapter 7
Perhaps because he knew better, Rodrick kept a wide berth of the film set that week. Hilary didn’t hear from him, and she’d begun to fossilize the evening mentally, shoving it into the dark recesses of her mind. She’d long ago subscribed to the idea that you could make yourself believe whatever you wanted to if you tried hard enough. It helped that she was endlessly busy, running from one end of the set to the next, her arms piled with costumes and pins between her lips. She was a professional. She hadn’t gotten this gig for any other reason besides that.
Friday afternoon, Hilary sat in the costume trailer to repair another pair of trousers. They were running lines on set, helping the less-knowledgeable actors hit their marks, which allowed for all the non-actors to catch up on odds and ends. There was always so much to do. Despite fourteen-hour days, Hilary was sometimes behind.
Hilary hadn’t slept well since going to Rodrick’s, and she was bleary-eyed as she sewed. Once, she stabbed herself with the needle—a rarity for her that made her feel like a fool. A bead of blood sat at the tip of her finger, and she sucked on it as her eyes filled with tears. As she waited for it to dissipate, she received another message in the Salt Sisters group chat, asking if everyone was still up for hanging out at Nora’s tonight. Nora was making tacos, guacamole, and margaritas. Hilary was the only one who hadn’t confirmed yes or no.
Again, she heard Rodrick’s voice in her head. “We need to talk about her, you know.” She shivered.
Hilary picked up her phone and prepared a text message when her finger stopped bleeding. She planned to say she could go, to drown out her sorrows with tequila, and help her Sisters through whatever drama they’d gone through that week. But when she imagined herself at Nora’s table on the back porch, listening intently and giving advice, her throat filled, and she put her phone back down again. How could she give anyone advice when she felt on the brink of a breakdown? Worse than that, how could she hide her sorrow? Maybe some of them wouldn’t notice. But Stella would see through it. She would corner her and demand answers.
Suddenly, Hilary felt lonelier than she had in decades. Why couldn’t she turn to her friends? Something was clearly wrong with her, something beyond repair. The thought shattered her.
She remembered the months after Larry had left Isabella, how Hilary had tried desperately to nurse her mother back to health. She’d been dating Rodrick at the time, and Rodrick had asked once, “Your mother is one of the most famous women in the world. Why doesn’t she have any friends to get her through this?” It had never occurred to Hilary that her mother didn’t have any real friends. Hilary had assumed she was all her mother needed.
Perhaps that was another thing she should have brought up in therapy. But she hadn’t gone to therapy in years.
As Hilary pondered what to do and how to handle the endless breaking of her heart, she let out a strange and woeful sob, then another. The sounds echoed through the trailer. She tried to quiet herself, but they kept coming, almost like hiccups. She cursed herself for her weakness. She tried to return her attention to the trousers.
And then, a familiar voice came through the trailer. “Hilary? Are you all right?”
Hilary jumped around to find Max von Swenson peering through the clothing racks. He wore his typical black shirt and black jeans, and his hair was especially tousled after a frantic day on set. He looked at her with confusion and worry.
“I’m okay.” Hilary sniffed, then hated herself for it. She sounded so pathetic.
Max furrowed his brow. For a terrible moment, Hilary was frightened that Max would say she looked like her mother again, that he would refer to a specific scene in an Isabella Helin film from the 1970s and say, “There’s her face again!” Hilary couldn’t take it.
So she said, “Don’t tell me I look like her. Please.” It was a moment of vulnerability that surprised her.
Max’s eyes widened. After a long moment of silence, he said, “You look like a woman who needs a drink.”
Hilary burst into laughter, and she immediately swallowed. Still, she couldn’t take the smile off her face. “I really do,” she stammered. “More than you know.”
Hilary ignored the messages from the Salt Sisters and closed up the trailer for the day. After a brief meeting with Marty Zhang about Monday’s shoot, Max put on a pair of black sunglasses and led her off set. Immediately, the 1970s Nantucket scene gave way to 2024 Nantucket, where streets teemed with tourists, pretty girls in dresses, men drinking beer on patios, and children eating ice cream cones. It was alarming to go forward and back in time like this. Hilary hadn’t gotten used to it.
Then again, going forward and backward in time, mentally, had been something of a habit of hers as of late. It was giving her whiplash.
For a few minutes, Hilary and Max didn’t say a word. They strolled through the crowded Historic District. Hilary had no idea where they were headed, but she decided she didn’t care. Her heart had returned to a steady beat, and she was breathing again.
Sometimes, she considered asking Max a question or making small talk. But she was too exhausted.
Suddenly, they came upon the Nantucket Harbor, where Max stretched out his arms and led her down a thick dock toward a moderate-sized yacht.
“This is home sweet home, for now,” he explained as he helped her aboard.
After twenty years full-time on Nantucket, Hilary had met her fair share of men who lived on boats. They were often grizzled and half drunk, sunburnt, and quoting Ernest Hemingway. Max von Swenson didn’t fit the bill.
“This is yours?” Hilary asked, watching as he entered the kitchenette to retrieve a bottle of white wine.
“I rented it,” Max said with a twinkle in his eye. “It was always a dream of mine to live on a boat. With our set right over there and the harbor here, I figured it was finally time to take the plunge, so to speak.”
As soon as Max handed Hilary a full glass, he started the motor and drove them out of the harbor. The boat shivered beneath them, and Hilary sat in a cushioned chair and watched the shoreline recede. Had she been half as devastated, she might have rang with alarm at agreeing to leave the island on a stranger’s boat. But right now, she needed to escape. She needed this glass of wine. She needed Max’s handsome smile.
On accident, she checked her phone to find fifty-seven missed messages from the Salt Sisters. She decided to text, “I can’t make it tonight. Have a great time, and I love you so much!” Then she turned off her phone. They would wonder what was up, of course. Maybe they would gossip about it. But right now, she didn’t care.
As Max buzzed the yacht around the edge of the island, Hilary decided to make up a story about who they were to one another. Maybe they were a rich married couple from France, escaping to the United States after Max’s failed political career. Perhaps they were two architects designing the next skyscraper in Manhattan. Or maybe they were both cheating on their spouses, caught in a web of lies that would eventually destroy them.
The reality—that Hilary was a washed-up nobody with a broken heart—was too hard to take.
“This is it,” Max announced when he found the perfect spot. He dropped anchor and joined Hilary on the cushioned chairs with a glass of wine. He put his ankle on his opposite knee, leaned back, and stretched one arm over the back of his chair. He looked ready to be photographed for GQ magazine.
“You exhausted?” he asked. “I’m exhausted.”
“You don’t look like it,” Hilary said.
Max smiled and sipped his wine. Hilary wondered if the only reason he’d asked her for a drink was because of who her mother was. Probably, she guessed. But the wine was crisp and good, and the breeze was cool across her face. Isabella Helin was her perpetual ghost. She’d long since accepted that.
“What do you think of the script?” Max asked.
Hilary eyed him uneasily. “I really love it.”
“Same. It’s been a while since I worked on something so gut-wrenching and depressing. I can’t imagine the film will make much at the box office, though. Maybe it’ll go the way of Manchester by the Sea. That had great staying power. Did you see it?”
“Of course.” Hilary had seen every Oscar-buzz film since she’d been conscious of films. “I cried all the way through.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to see it again,” Max admitted, rubbing his chest. After a pause, he said, “My mother died in a house fire when we were kids. Had I known what that film was about, I don’t know if I would have watched it.”
Hilary inhaled sharply. It was one of the most horrific things she’d heard. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Max’s eyes glowed with the soft orange light of the sunset.
“Have you ever written a script?” Hilary asked.
“A few at film school,” he said. “I don’t think any of them were very good.”
“Is anything good at film school?”
He laughed. “No. Student films are never good, as a rule. But ever since I graduated, I’ve been a cinematographer nonstop. It’s extremely competitive. I had to prove myself. Force them to take a risk on a nobody. I’m still a nobody, of course.”
“But you’re a nobody with a yacht,” Hilary said.
Max beamed and leaned forward so that his elbows were on his thighs. Again, Hilary ached, wondering if he was seeing her or her mother across from him. She could hear her mother’s voice in her head, saying, Keep the audience guessing. Never show them your cards.
“You’re good at this, you know,” Max said. “Very professional. And the costumes are extremely believable. I heard someone say you’ve been out of work for a few years.”
“Twenty.”
Max whistled. “That’s more than a few.”
“Time has a way of slipping.”
“You’re telling me,” Max said. “I’m fifty-six years old. Most of the people I work with are under thirty-five. It’s alarming. In my head, I’m the same age as all of them. To them, I’m ancient.”
“You’re just experienced,” Hilary corrected. “They respect that. Especially because you’re a man.”
“Ageism in Hollywood is much rougher on women, I’ll give you that,” Max said.
Hilary considered talking about her mother, who’d seen turning forty as a death sentence. But she kept it to herself.
“Do you think you’ll keep working after this?” Max asked.
“I don’t know. If another gig comes to Nantucket, sure. But my life is here. I don’t like to leave for long.” Hilary remembered the Salt Sisters, gathered together without her, and her smile faded. “But look at you,” she said. “It’s just you, your boat, and the open sea. You can go wherever you please.”
Max’s dimples deepened. “There aren’t so many more places I need to go. I feel like I’ve seen and done it all. I just want peace. Creativity. Good wine. Laughter.”
Hilary couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Do you have a partner out in LA?”
Max’s eyes were shadowed. “I had a partner for many years. We never married or had any children, but we were very happy. But a few years back, we decided to end things. It was mutual but devastating. Dividing up our stuff like that. Giving up on our plans.”
The ache of his words went all the way through Hilary’s body. “It’s one of the hardest things I ever had to do.”
She was referring to her divorce, of course. Max seemed to get it. He nodded and reached to refill their glasses of wine.
“I got pretty depressed after that,” he said. “I took refuge in films. Many Isabella Helin movies, of course. And all the classics. Rear Window is a favorite. Casablanca.”
Hilary’s heart thudded. She’d gotten through her sorrows with film, too. And books. And long, aimless walks across Nantucket.
Suddenly, Hilary said, “You seem so different.”
Max’s eyes widened with surprise. Hilary was flustered. Why had she said that?
“What do you mean?” Max asked.
“I mean, you don’t seem so Hollywood to me. Not as jaded. More honest. I don’t know.” Hilary laughed at herself. “Maybe it’s because you called yourself a nobody. Nobody, and I mean nobody I’ve ever known in Hollywood, would call themselves that. Everyone is constantly posturing and trying to prove themselves.”
“That’s the reason I almost left the business after film school,” Max agreed. “It devastated me to learn I would have to play some kind of ‘game’ to get involved with better films.”
“Did you play the game?”
“Not really. I got lucky. A good producer saw a film I’d worked on and hooked me up with some nice people. I kept getting calls.”
“A Cinderella story.”
“These days, yes,” Max agreed.
The air between them sizzled with electricity. Night had fallen, and the only light came from the base of the boat and the stars and moon above them. This far from shore, the stars were incredibly dense, pouring over one another in their fall toward the earth. Hilary had a strange instinct to lay across the floor of the yacht and fall asleep beneath the sky.
Softly, Max said, “You were married to the writer of the script. The producer. Weren’t you?”
“A long time ago,” she said. “It feels like another lifetime.”
It felt so easy to speak to Max, as though a script had already been written for them. As though they were always meant to be out on this boat beneath the sprawling stars.
“He must have written the film for you,” Max offered.
Hilary shook her head. “No. Rodrick only does things for himself,” she answered before she’d fully thought it through. And then, a moment later, she realized how true it was.
Max allowed another moment to pass before he stood to grab some snacks—nuts, cheese, bread, olive oil—from the kitchenette. He set up a little snack tray in front of Hilary, then asked tentatively if he could sit next to her for easy access. As he took the space beside her, Hilary felt swaddled in his heat. Something was happening. She felt the edges of her life coming undone, like the seams of an actor’s trousers.
But nothing happened, not physically. Max was nothing but a gentleman. They ate and told stories from the past—nothing too devastating and nothing about Isabella Helin. Max’s eyes danced as he spoke, and he ate ravenously, as though he’d never lost his teenage appetite. Hilary ate much more than she would have normally in front of a new man. She wasn’t as nervous around him, though. She felt she could be her full self.
Nearly two hours later, Max pulled back into the harbor to drop Hilary off and prepare the boat for sleep. As Hilary hovered on the dock with the moonlight in her hair, she couldn’t stop herself from rising on her tiptoes and kissing Max with her eyes closed. It was her first kiss in eons, and it lifted her soul from her body. It floated over the harbor and into the night sky.
“Good night, Hilary,” Max said quietly after their kiss broke. “I enjoyed tonight very much.”
Hilary couldn’t breathe. “Me too. See you soon.”
It wasn’t until she was in the back of a cab that she remembered her mother. After her divorce from Larry, Isabella had hopped from man to man with a frantic agenda, as though she wanted to prove to herself that she was still wanted. She’d so needed attention. She’d so needed hundreds of eyes upon her.
Hilary shivered with fear. On Monday, she’d gone to Rodrick’s, buzzing with nostalgic love. And today, Friday, she’d kissed a stranger on a yacht. Was she out of control? Was she looking for attention, like her mother?
The questions kept her awake till dawn.