Chapter 9
Present Day
Hilary turned her cell phone back on Saturday morning at seven after two anxious hours of sleep. She found twenty-eight messages from the Salt Sisters, including photographs from last night’s taco and margarita night, as well as multiple questions regarding her health.
STELLA: Are you feeling all right?
ROBBY: Do you need me to make you soup?
STELLA: Should someone swing by tomorrow to check up on you?
Hilary skimmed the messages over coffee as her head pounded from lack of sleep.
And then, another message came in—from Rodrick.
RODRICK SALT: Hi, Hilary. I’m sorry about the other night. Would you be up for trying again?
Hilary all but shrieked and considered throwing her phone out the window. She refilled her mug with coffee and paced the kitchen, watching the seagulls sweep over the beach. It was a gloomy day. Clouds billowed over the horizon and spat rain across her windowpanes. She was grateful that she didn’t have work. Her legs were spiky from so much standing up, and her heart buzzed with confusion. Just as easy as anything, she’d kissed Max von Swenson—and now, she had to live with the consequences. he’d thought she’d left that reckless behavior behind in another era. Apparently not.
Hilary’s phone rang. It was Stella. She remembered how Stella had said, “I keep having nightmares that you’re trying to get away from us,” and she shivered with guilt.
“Hey.”
“Hey, stranger.” Stella sounded chipper but annoyed. “What happened last night?”
“I got held up on set,” Hilary lied.
“I figured it was something like that. I couldn’t tell the other girls, obviously. But they were really worried about you.”
Hilary groaned.
“It’s just not like you to miss so many Salt Sisters’ hangouts,” Stella said, her voice softening. “We’re the Salt Sisters because of you, you know.”
“I do. I know.” Hilary braced herself.
“A few of us were thinking about brunch tomorrow,” Stella said. “Are you available?”
Hilary was quiet, remembering Max’s lips upon hers as the stars sparkled overhead. That was the kind of thing the Salt Sisters would love to hear about. But it terrified her to speak it aloud.
“You don’t have an excuse,” Stella said. “It’s Sunday. You’re off work!”
Hilary tried to laugh. She couldn’t avoid them forever. They were her family. “Okay. Sure. I can make it.”
“Perfect. We’re going to try out Tucker’s downtown,” Stella said. “Bring your appetite.”
“I always do,” Hilary said, remembering how she’d scarfed down Max’s snacks last night, eating as passionately and as freely as any teenager. She remembered doing the same so long ago with Rodrick, feasting on takeout on their California king-size bed as films blazed on their screen overhead. In their minds, they’d been king and queen of Los Angeles. Untouchable. Happier than anyone else.
Life was always about chasing the highs of being young, she thought.
“I can’t wait,” Hilary lied.
The following morning, Hilary drove to Tucker’s Brunch Bar for breakfast with the girls. She’d paid extra-close attention to her outfit, wearing a pair of high-waisted jeans, a white blouse, golden earrings, and a side bag. She hoped the outfit would distract the Salt Sisters from her strange mood.
For a little while, it worked. Nora gushed about Hilary’s outfit, saying, “You always look like a model, Hil.”
“I don’t think they’re offering gigs for fifty-five-year-old models,” Hilary said.
“That’s all I want to see,” Robby said. “I don’t want to buy jeans worn by twenty-five-year-olds anymore.”
“Marketing departments need to wake up,” Katrina agreed. “I’d throw my money around if there were more models who looked like me.”
Hilary couldn’t stop herself before she said, “My mother always said that once you turned forty-five, the film industry locked you up and threw away the key.”
It was rare that Hilary brought up her mother. The other Salt Sisters exchanged worried glances, sensing the vitriol behind Hilary’s words.
“Well, I think things have changed a bit over the years,” Stella said. “Haven’t they?”
Hilary remembered the two lead actresses in the current film, Candace and Stacy. Just last week, she’d overheard Candace telling Stacy about her favorite Botox specialist back in Los Angeles, plus where to get the best rates for nose jobs. Things hadn’t changed that much, if at all. But she kept that to herself.
They sat down for breakfast, where Hilary pored over the menu quietly and listened to her best friends discuss what to order and what they could share. When her matcha latte came, she closed her eyes as she filled her mouth with warmth. It seemed that Max was never far from her mind’s eye. There he was on her eyelids, smiling at her in the moonlight.
“What are you smiling about?” Robby asked.
Hilary opened her eyes. She’d been caught. “I was just thinking about a book I was reading.”
“What book?” Katrina asked.
Hilary scrambled to remember what she’d read recently. “The new Ann Patchett. Tom Lake. It’s extraordinary.” She swallowed. “It’s about a family who lives on a cherry farm in northern Michigan. The mother tells her three daughters the story of how she became an actress and how that life fell apart for her.”
It was true that the entire time she’d read the book, she’d wondered what her mother’s life would have been like if she’d never become an actress. If she had raised Hilary in Sweden instead and settled for something beautiful and simple, like a cherry farm.
It had broken her heart.
“It sounds simple,” Hilary said. “It’s hard to sell a book that simple.”
“It’s Ann Patchett,” Stella said, coming to the rescue. “She’s always brilliant. No explanation necessary.”
Hilary gave Stella a secret smile, grateful she’d kept her secret about returning to the film industry. It was probably puzzling to Stella that Hilary kept bringing it up herself.
A few times over the course of their brunch, Hilary considered telling them everything—about the film, about her dinner with Rodrick, and finally, about Max. But the immensity of her emotions pressed so hard against her chest that she thought her ribs would explode. Instead, she asked questions about their weeks, laughed at their jokes, ate bites of their pancakes, and eventually escaped after it was over.
“We’re thinking of going hiking this afternoon,” Stella said as Hilary scrambled to her car. “Do you want to join us?”
Under her breath, Hilary explained, “I have a few things to take care of for work tomorrow.” She squeezed Stella’s elbow. “Thanks for keeping it under wraps.”
Stella flinched. “I still don’t understand why it has to be a big secret. They’d be nothing but over the moon for you.”
“I just don’t want to make a big deal about it.”
“Your caginess is becoming a big deal,” Stella offered. “Like it or not, these women love you. They know you. They see you.” She sighed. “Just don’t lock us out completely, okay? We started this group to pull each other through.”
Because she was good, honest, and kind, Stella let Hilary off the hook that afternoon. But Stella’s words rang through her head all evening, keeping her awake deep into the night. And when Rodrick texted her again after midnight, asking her if everything was all right, Hilary erupted from bed and had a half-panic attack.
It was possible she’d never properly dealt with the past. Perhaps that was why it had a death grip on her. Maybe that was why she couldn’t have a candid conversation with Rodrick. Perhaps that was why she felt so weak.
Always with the Salt Sisters, Hilary preached “facing your past and accepting the person you’d once been.”
She was a hypocrite. She could never tell them the truth.
Hilary arrived on set a half hour early Monday morning to prep for the big scene ahead. In the story, it was just before the daughter ran away from the rest of the family—just a few days before the big hurricane destroyed their home, and the attention to detail on the daughter’s costume was essential. Hilary didn’t want to miss it.
With pins between her lips and a roar in her ears, Hilary stitched together minuscule holes, pinned costumes to extras, barked orders to her employees, and ran ragged until she sent the actors to set. As they began the scene, Hilary stood off to the side, wringing her hands, watching as Stacy, the actress playing the daughter, limped through the scene. She forgot lines left and right; she stuttered; she looked at the other actors around her as though she were drowning, and they refused to help. It was an outright disaster. Hilary felt betrayed.
This was an essential truth to filmmaking. Everyone had a part to play. And when one person dropped the ball, the entire ship went down.
After a perilous morning, Marty Zhang told everyone to get lunch. As Hilary joined the stream, she reminded all the actors to wear towels over their costumes to ensure they didn’t get stains on them. They would be re-starting the scene after a break, and they were already behind. Hilary wouldn’t have time to get stains out.
As Hilary waited in line for a bagel with lox and cream cheese, she heard a familiar voice just a few feet behind her. Her hair stood on end. Although she’d thought of him endlessly all weekend, she’d kept her head down all morning, frightened of what seeing Max would do to her. But Max had to eat, just like everyone else. And he’d positioned himself behind her.
Slowly, Hilary turned to peek at him. Her stomach thudded. He was in conversation with Marty, using his hands to articulate something, and his curls shook. He was ever passionate. A true artist.
His eyes found hers a split second later. A soft smile played across his lips. Marty noticed immediately and followed Max’s gaze to Hilary. Caught, Hilary waved at them both, then turned back around to get her bagel. She felt like a teenager.
Hilary fled to her trailer to eat. She sat at the edge with her feet on the pavement and chewed slowly, remembering the warmth in Max’s gaze. Just as she took a big bite, Max appeared between the trailers, carrying his bagel and a soda. He laughed when he saw her.
“Are you hiding yourself away?”
Hilary had too much cream cheese in her mouth to answer. She cursed herself and placed her hand over her mouth. After too long of a silence, she said, “I’m not pretty when I eat bagels.”
Max laughed. “Can I sit down?”
Hilary’s skin was aflame. What was he doing? “Sure.”
Max sat at the edge of the trailer with her and put his bagel on his lap. He looked serious. “I hope you aren’t avoiding me.”
Hilary was touched. She set her bagel down, too. “I’m not. Well, not really.” She pressed her napkin against her lower lip, praying she wasn’t covered with cream cheese. “To be honest, Friday was strange for me. I don’t normally do things like that.”
“Neither do I.”
Hilary smiled. “I don’t believe you. You’re a handsome bachelor in Los Angeles.”
“Believe me or not.” Max shrugged. “It was a rare but beautiful evening for me. And I’m so glad it happened.”
Hilary’s heart cracked. She fell into his big, dark eyes.
Max reached over and tucked a curl behind her ear, just as Rodrick once had liked to do. His fingers brushed across her cheek. She couldn’t help but close her eyes.
“Maybe we can do it again sometime.” Immediately after she’d said it, Hilary was mortified. Was she really going to have an on-set romance? Was she really going to open herself up to that? On-set romances were for actors in their twenties. They were for Isabella Helin and her chaotic world of affairs. They weren’t for fifty-five-year-old costume designers who’d quit the business twenty years ago.
“I’d like that,” Max said.
And then, impossibly, Max closed the distance between them and kissed her sweetly on the lips. Hilary floated off the edge of the trailer and into the sterling-blue sky above. She couldn’t take it. As their kiss broke, Max wrapped his hand behind her head so he could lace his fingers through her hair.
“I’ll cook for you next time,” he said. “I’m pretty good.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Max’s laughter rang in her ears all day long. Even as Stacy, the actress, stumbled through her lines, Marty cursed, and the set designer grew angry with a sound guy, Hilary floated. Having a crush was truly one of the best drugs in the world. It terrified her.
Just two days later, Hilary was back on Max’s boat as he cooked up a tremendous Greek-inspired meal of gyros, pita bread, tzatziki, black olives, and baked feta. The tantalizing smells of oregano, olive oil, and sea salt filled the air over the boat as they tilted to and fro in the surf. Max made sure her wine was filled, and he kept the conversation light and easy with questions about her costuming career and interest in books. She hadn’t taken him to be a big reader, but apparently, he’d read just about everything—from Dostoyevsky to Ann Patchett.
“I’ve read plenty of romance novels,” he confessed as he sat beside her with a big platter of gyros. “My ex-girlfriend used to tell me I was a sap. But I couldn’t get enough of those stories. I got wrapped up in them. I was never fully convinced they would get together by the end. There were always so many bumps in the road.”
It was rare to meet a man who liked romance. More than that, it was rare to meet a man who would admit he liked romance.
“My ex-husband always looked down on stuff like that,” Hilary said. “But he sat down with me during a few rom-coms over the years. He adored Nora Ephron, even if he never said it aloud.”
“Who could hate Nora?” Max asked.
Hilary laughed. She considered telling him that sometimes when she spoke to Max, she felt as though they were acting in a Nora Ephron production. But she thought better of it. It wasn’t smart to point to the beauty of a moment. It could kill it.
After dinner, there was no need for conversation, anyway. They kissed as the light dimmed around them, as the island quieted, as the summertime surged ahead. It was already late June, and the island was headed for peak tourist season. Before things got too out of hand, Max brought her back to shore and kissed her deeply before she walked down the boardwalk toward her car. She could feel his eyes upon her until she disappeared, but she didn’t look back. She didn’t want to ruin it.
A few days later, Hilary was up to her ears in costume alterations on set. She was in the shadows of her trailer, jumping from one costume to another, when she overheard a conversation with two of the second-tier actors, who were in the next trailer getting their makeup done.
“You haven’t noticed them?” the actress asked. “I swear, they’re always making eyes at each other during lunch.”
“Wait. Who is Max again?” the actor asked.
“He’s the cinematographer. I showed you one of his movies last weekend, remember?”
“Right. The tall guy?”
“The handsome older guy, yeah.”
“Wait.” This was Shonda, the makeup artist. “Are you talking about Max and Hilary?” She hissed Hilary’s name, presumably to keep it down. However, the trailer walls were thinner than their estimation.
“Yes!” the actress said.
Under her breath, the makeup artist said, “I saw them making out near the parking lot last night.”
“Oh my God!” the actress cried.
“Keep your voice down,” the actor told her. “We’re right next to the costume trailer.”
“She’s probably off with Max somewhere,” the actress said playfully.
“You know who her mother is, right?” the makeup artist asked.
“She looks just like her,” the actress said.
“What? Who are you talking about?” the actor asked.
“Come on! I told you this,” the actress said with a sigh. “She’s obviously Isabella Helin’s daughter.”
“Wait. Who is that again?”
“I swear, Charlie. I have no idea how you ended up being an actor. You don’t know anything about Hollywood lore,” the actress said.
“Suffice it to say, Isabella Helin had a reputation,” the makeup artist said in a stage whisper. “She always had an on-set affair.”
Hilary’s cheeks burned with shame. She had to bite her tongue to keep herself from correcting the makeup artist. The truth was that Isabella Helin had only had on-set affairs AFTER Larry cheated on her. Her reputation had been a direct result of a broken heart. A direct result of a horrible man’s lack of respect.
Instead, Hilary reared up and slammed the trailer door. Maybe this way, they’d think she’d just returned from somewhere else.
“Oh no,” the actress whispered.
“Keep it down,” the makeup artist said. “She’s back.”
Hilary sat on the floor of the trailer for the next few minutes and tried to get her bearings. For the fifteenth time that week, Rodrick wrote her, asking if they could meet. She responded as she always did, “I’m so busy with work. Maybe sometime this weekend?”
Hilary didn’t want Rodrick to think she wasn’t grateful for the chance at a fresh career in the film industry. But she also definitely did not want to see him.
Besides, it was true what everyone on set was saying. She was smitten with Max, and Max was smitten with her.
Despite the similarities of their faces, Hilary wasn’t Isabella Helin. She wasn’t on a euphoric high that would ultimately crash when Max broke up with her. (She would be sad, of course. But she wouldn’t destroy herself with drugs or alcohol as a result.)
She was living, she told herself. She was opening her heart to beauty. She was allowing herself to be surprised.
And there were no surprises left with Rodrick. Their story had been a disaster.