Chapter 20
It was a miracle to be back in the trailer again—her lips lined with pins and boxes of costumes and accessories surrounding her mirrors lining the walls. Lucky for Hilary, the Boston warehouse where she’d rented all the costumes for A Nantucket Family hadn’t yet gone to the trouble of separating them and renting them out to other productions, which meant that all she had to do was drive back, pick them up again, and return to Nantucket. Now, she slipped the trousers, dresses, overalls, and blouses onto their hangers and hung them on their racks, going through her iPad to make sure she had all the correct accessories for the coming scenes. She’d made thorough notes, thankfully.
In the makeup trailer next door, the makeup artists and actresses discussed the whiplash of being back.
“I’m so thrilled,” Stacy was saying. “I thought I was going to have to book a commercial for cereal.”
“Commercial work pays well,” Candace Grune said. “You shouldn’t scoff at it.”
“I’m an artist, Candace,” Stacy said.
Hilary laughed inwardly. Stacy and Candace were playing a fictional mother-daughter duo. But it seemed they’d taken on a mother-daughter dynamic in real life—the daughter telling the mother what was what. Just as Ingrid once had.
Candace snorted, then rebounded. “I just can’t understand what happened. Rodrick pulled the funding, right? Where is all this money coming from? Did he have a change of heart?”
“The way I heard it, Rodrick has nothing to do with the film anymore. They bought the rights to the script from him and want to completely scrub his name from the production. Of course, they’ll have to say, ‘written by’ in the credits,” the makeup artist said. “But that’s about it.”
Hilary put her hands on her hips and sighed. She’d been on her feet for five hours at that point, and she’d spent all that time craning to hear a familiar voice. She thought she might go crazy if she didn’t soon.
And then, a shadow draped over the inside of the trailer. She turned to find Max beaming at her, his hair a monstrous mass of curls. She yelped and ran for him, throwing her arms around him so that he could swing her in a big circle. She almost kicked a tech worker. She apologized profusely, still giggling. She wanted to cover Max with kisses.
“Get a room, you two,” the makeup artist called from her trailer.
Hilary placed her hands on Max’s cheeks. It had only been a few weeks since she’d seen him, but it felt like a lifetime. He seemed more Californian than he had, as though he’d drank one too many green juices.
“You’re back,” she said.
“So are you.”
“I never left,” Hilary said.
When Marty called to announce the film was back on, Hilary hadn’t waited more than a minute to call Max to see if he was coming back. He answered, “I already gave notice at my new gig. I’ll be there.” And then, he’d said, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
This time, Max didn’t bother renting a yacht or any other place to stay. It was understood that he would be staying with Hilary. He had his suitcases in his rental car, and they’d take them home tonight after another fourteen-hour shift. Marty could be heard over the crowd, telling everyone, “We can’t waste a single second. It’s going to be tight, but we’ll make it work.”
“Any idea who swooped in with the funding?” Max asked Hilary.
Hilary shook her head. “No idea. And Marty isn’t telling.”
“I love a mystery,” he joked, reaching into his backpack to draw out a big bag of croissants, which he’d purchased from an adorable bakery in Boston that morning. “Care for a snack?” Hilary had never been more ravenous in her life.
Max and Hilary sat at the edge of the costume trailer with their legs hanging down, ripping croissants with their fingers and gazing into one another’s eyes. Already since that phone call, Hilary had peppered him with I love yous. It always felt at the edge of her tongue. Around them, the set continued its setup, with more and more familiar voices calling to one another, creating an elaborate texture. Hilary realized she couldn’t take another twenty years off from the film industry. She adored it too much. The life and vitality behind the camera were her lifeblood.
“Have you seen Marty yet?” Hilary asked Max. A piece of croissant practically melted in her mouth.
“No,” he said. “And she’s staying mum about the funding.”
Hilary’s lips curled into a smile. She took another bite.
“I saw the article, by the way,” Max said.
Hilary eyed him curiously. Throughout their early days of dating, Max hadn’t mentioned Ingrid’s name once although he’d known Ingrid was her daughter.
“Have you ever worked on a film with her?” Hilary asked now.
Max bowed his head. He looked defeated. “I wasn’t sure if I should tell you.”
“Which one?”
“Dark November Rain,” he said.
Hilary remembered that one. Ingrid had mastered an English accent for her London-based character, a moody woman in her twenties who’d longed to murder her husband. It was one of Ingrid’s most unlikeable characters, and she’d played it masterfully. A femme fatale of the highest order.
“You were in London for the filming?” Hilary asked.
“Yes. It was my first time in London. That must have been, oh, six years ago?”
“Ingrid was twenty-five at the time. Yes.”
“Rumor around set was that she wasn’t speaking to her father anymore. I believe she’d just switched agents, too. But my goodness, she was kind to all of us on set. She was patient. Always said thank you. You don’t usually meet former child stars like that.”
Hilary laughed tenderly. She considered telling Max what a moody teenager Ingrid had been, then thought better of it. Who wasn’t a moody teenager? Who wasn’t ravaged by hormones and fears at that age? She didn’t want to betray her.
If she and Max were going to make this work, he had to understand that Hilary would love Ingrid from afar for the rest of her life. She would always carry it.
“Ingrid Salt.” The name flowed through the wind across set. “Did you see? Ingrid Salt? Is it really her?”
At first, Hilary thought she was imagining things. Ingrid was never far from her mind; she was practically her ghost. It stood to reason she would start hearing her name on the wind, as well. But Max’s face grew slack as the name scattered. He looked at Ingrid with a mix of fear and curiosity.
Hilary stood on shaking legs. To her left, crew members, actors, and makeup artists scattered to make way for Marty Zhang, a beautiful woman in her early thirties. The woman’s long tresses bounced gently down her shoulders. She wore a loose blouse and a pair of high-waisted dark green men’s trousers, which looked incredibly stylish on her and not masculine at all. Ingrid Salt was the sort of woman fascinated with fashion—just like her mother and grandmother.
Ingrid and Marty talked happily, like two girlfriends out for an ordinary stroll. It was clear they’d known one another for a long time. Hilary was grateful that Ingrid had discovered the magic and singular support of female friendship. It wasn’t something you could teach.
As Ingrid came closer, Hilary remained frozen in place. Max stood and touched her lower back for support. Maybe he thought she was going to collapse. And maybe she still would. As the seconds ticked past, tears sprang to her eyes, and she struggled to breathe. Never had she allowed herself to imagine this day would come. Yet there she was—her darling daughter. Just ten feet away.
Marty cut her sentence short when she spotted Hilary and Max. Her eyes brightened, and she nodded, gesturing for Ingrid to see who it was. “Here she is. At the costuming trailer, like always.”
Hilary’s hands were in fists. She tried not to blink for fear that she would wake up from this dream.
Ingrid turned to look at her. All the color drained from her beautiful face. They stood and looked at one another, and the air thrummed.
And then, Ingrid said that word, “Mom?”
The world stopped spinning.