Chapter 21
Famous film actress Ingrid Salt sat on the passenger side of Hilary’s Porsche. She looked taken directly from an Oscar-nominated film—a woman who’d escaped to a rocky island in the middle of the Atlantic, a woman with secrets. Her hair was a violent streak around her head as Hilary drove, her hands gripping the steering wheel so hard that she thought her fingers might break. The radio played Shania Twain, and Ingrid sang under her breath, her smile electric, her teeth the whitest things Hilary had ever seen.
They’d hardly said more than fifteen words to each other so far. There had been scenes to shoot, costumes to change, and midday burritos to eat before scurrying back to the trailer again. Marty Zhang had limited time for filming because she was needed back in Los Angeles for another shoot, but the entire cast and crew were devoted to finishing and ensuring that Marty could continue with her career without issue. Throughout the difficult day of filming, Ingrid had watched from behind the camera, occasionally talking to Marty in low tones. Hilary wondered if Ingrid wanted to become a director someday. She seemed to have a remarkable eye.
What would Isabella Helin say if she learned her granddaughter wanted to work behind the camera rather than in front of it? “Women aren’t directors, Ingrid. Women are there to be seen.” But times had changed.
It had been Max who suggested that Hilary take Ingrid back home. He had a few things to talk to Marty about, and then, he would drive himself back to Hilary’s and head upstairs immediately to give the women time to talk. Hilary couldn’t believe the level of empathy he had for her. She was also grateful he hadn’t decided to run away to a hotel tonight. She wanted to stitch him into the patchwork of her messy life. And he accepted that. Because, apparently, he was in love with her. She didn’t even know she was worthy of love.
After the gate opened, Hilary drove through and cut the engine. Ingrid laughed gently and tried to fix her hair over her ears again. She looked at the house and sighed. “It looks just like I remember it.”
“Do you remember the last time you were here?”
Ingrid swallowed. “Yes. It must have been the summer of 2002. Grandma was here, too. She was obsessed with making Cajun food. Endless shrimp and so many spices. I was probably eight?”
Hilary remembered it well. Isabella Helin had been on the upswing after another breakup, and she’d fallen back in love with Hilary and Ingrid, settling with them for a summer of swimming, eating, laughing, and hiking. “I want to be a real grandmother again,” Isabella had announced, her voice stylized like an old Hollywood actress. In Hilary’s mind, the entire summer was drenched with light. It was just before Ingrid had gone to boarding school to work with acting professionals and “become someone.” She’d been a kid with scabbed knees and bright pink nail polish. She’d drawn pictures and gotten a sunburn. She’d eaten to her heart’s content.
They walked up to the door, which Hilary opened for Ingrid, gesturing awkwardly for her to enter first. She studied Ingrid with the scrutiny of a mother and decided Ingrid was eating enough. She was getting her nutrients. She wasn’t as sickly skinny as she’d been in the 2000s. Perhaps times had changed in that regard. Or perhaps Ingrid’s level of fame was such that she wasn’t required to be a twig anymore.
Whatever it was, Hilary was grateful.
In the foyer, Ingrid removed her shoes, squeezed her hands into fists, and said, “Here we are.”
Hilary’s voice wavered. “Here we are. I thought we could go to the veranda. I have a chilled bottle of orange wine.”
“Natural wine?”
“Yes. Do you like it?”
“I love it,” Ingrid said.
Hilary led Ingrid to the veranda, then disappeared to the kitchen. She felt quiet and inarticulate. How was she supposed to ask Ingrid all the things she wanted to? How could she bridge beyond nearly fifteen years of silence? She fetched two wineglasses from the cabinet and nearly dropped one due to nerves. Still shaking, she took some oatmeal cookies from the cabinet and brought them outside with her, where she found Ingrid leaning over the veranda railing and gazing at the ocean.
“It’s different from the Pacific. I always forget,” she said as she took her glass.
“It’s been so long since I went to California. Maybe I’ve forgotten the Pacific.”
Ingrid clinked her glass against Hilary’s. She met Hilary’s gaze and didn’t look away. “You don’t feel like a California girl anymore?”
“Not very much,” Hilary admitted. “I don’t know what I feel like anymore.”
“Me neither.”
“You haven’t stayed anywhere long enough,” Hilary said.
“I’ve gone all over the world,” Ingrid admitted, “but it’s only made me feel like I belong everywhere less.”
Hilary filled her mouth with natural wine. After a pause, she asked, “Where did you meet Marty?”
“In boarding school,” Ingrid said with a smile. “She wanted to be an actress back then, too. But when she didn’t get the roles she wanted, she switched fields. She’s Asian American, and there just aren’t enough scripts about Asian American women. I’m helping her write one right now, though. I think she’s going to direct it next summer. And I’m producing.”
Hilary had put it together that Ingrid was the source of the funds to finish out A Nantucket Family.
“How long have you been interested in producing?”
“Since forever,” Ingrid said. “Since I was in my early twenties and butting heads with Dad about what projects to do next. He had so much control.” She shook her head. “I wanted to have that control. I wanted to say how I was represented and what kind of roles I took. I was so done playing the ‘girly blond who wanted the guy.’” She used air quotes. “I had watched Grandma fall from grace, you know? She had pretty meaty roles, but they were always hyper-fixated on her beauty and her body. I wanted to move into a career that allowed me to look different. That allowed me to be healthier.”
“And your father didn’t understand that?” Hilary asked. It boggled her mind that Rodrick wouldn’t want Ingrid to be healthy.
“I couldn’t explain it to him. All he cared about was the money.”
Hilary grimaced and swirled her wine. “When your father contacted me about working on A Nantucket Family, I didn’t know what to think. I was really lonely, I think. Starved for romance. And I jumped at the chance to return to something I’d previously loved.”
Ingrid stuttered. “Did anything happen between you two?”
“No! No,” Hilary said, shaking her head, then thanking her lucky stars she’d had the good sense to leave that night. “I loved your father for much longer than I should have. But I don’t love him anymore. And I don’t think he has power over me anymore.”
“That’s why he pulled the funding. He knows he lost that power,” Ingrid said. “That, on top of his recent divorce, was too much for him. He has more money than God these days. Everything is a game to him.”
“It sounds so lonely,” Hilary said.
She felt a pang of regret. Although she was frustrated with Rodrick and didn’t love him anymore, she didn’t want him to be lonely. Loneliness could kill you.
“You haven’t spoken to him at all since your early twenties?”
Ingrid raised her shoulders. “I saw him around. You know as well as anyone that the Hollywood ‘elite,’ or whatever, run in small circles. He asked me to star in a film he produced a couple of years ago, and I took the meeting but eventually turned him down. I think when I left, he was crying.”
Hilary swallowed. She knew what that was like. She’d watched Ingrid walk away like that too many times.
“Honey,” Hilary said tentatively, “if he ever apologizes, do you think you’ll be able to forgive him?”
Ingrid’s eyes glinted with the light of the dying sun. After a heavy silence, she said, “I haven’t even apologized to you yet. We hold on to grudges in this family, don’t we?”
“It’s not our best quality.”
Ingrid took a steadying breath. “Mom, I’m so sorry for how I treated you back then. Sometimes I think about what I said to you, about what happened between us, and it keeps me up at night. I know you just wanted to be near me. I know you just wanted to help. But I was so driven. I was listening to Dad, and he said horrible things about you. About how you’d destroyed Grandma’s career. I was terrified that you were jealous of my career, that you wanted to stop it before it really got started.”
Hilary was surprised at that. How had she destroyed Isabella’s career? Why would she have wanted to destroy Ingrid’s? That was some creative thinking on Rodrick’s part. But men were always apt to throw women under the bus for whatever reason came to them first.
But Hilary had wanted to protect Ingrid from the pitfalls of fame. Perhaps she really had wanted to stop it in its tracks. Who could remember anymore?
“Oh, honey. You know I forgive you. You know I’ll forgive anything. I’m sorry, too.” Hilary touched Ingrid’s shoulder, then fell into her, hugging her tightly as tears streamed down her cheeks. This was her daughter. Her greatest love. She still smelled like herself, somewhere beneath the Santal 33 perfume and the expensive shampoo. She was still the girl with scabbed knees and a blue tongue from Superman ice cream. She wasn’t a movie star. Not really.
When their hug broke, Hilary and Ingrid’s faces were blotchy, and they laughed, trying to clean themselves up. Ingrid’s smile was enormous, showing all of her teeth. It wasn’t a smile she would ever allow a paparazzi camera to see.
“So,” Ingrid began, clearing her throat. “I want to know everything about Max von Swenson. What is going on?”
Hilary laughed. Joy spilled to every part of her body. “Where should I start?”
“Start from the beginning,” Ingrid urged her. “I don’t have anywhere else to be.”