Chapter 22
Ingrid insisted on sleeping in her childhood bedroom in Nantucket. Nostalgia had forced Hilary to keep it exactly how it had been before their estrangement so that when Ingrid opened the door and entered, she was transported directly to the year 2002. Britney Spears posters adorned half of one wall; NSYNC bounced around another. A pink desktop computer sat on a desk in the corner, upon which Ingrid had once written “scripts” that she’d forced Isabella, Hilary, and Rodrick to act out on the veranda.
Hilary had hardly been in the room, either. She’d asked the maids to keep it clean but not to move anything. Only the bed needed making up.
“I can’t believe this,” Ingrid said as the sheets billowed over the mattress, which Hilary and Ingrid deftly tucked in. “It’s all exactly the same.” She swallowed. “Did anyone else ever live here over the years?”
Hilary knew she was digging around for information about an ex-boyfriend.
“My friend Rose lived here for a while. She was getting on her feet after a messy divorce,” Hilary explained.
“That’s right. You told me you’d made wonderful friends here,” Ingrid remembered as she bounced a pillow into a pillowcase.
Hilary wondered if Ingrid Salt ever made up her own bed. She assumed not.
“They’re all still here,” Hilary said. “My Salt Sisters.”
“They took our last name?”
“We coined the expression, ‘Sisterhood, with a dash of salt,’” Hilary explained with a laugh. “Pretty cheesy, huh?”
“Not at all. I love it.” Ingrid smiled. “Do you think I could meet them?”
Hilary hadn’t expected this. Everything about this day had felt like a roller coaster, ripping her from one end of her emotional range to the other. “I would like that very much.”
“Then let’s arrange something. Maybe this weekend?”
Hilary’s heart thudded. Did that mean Ingrid planned to stay around? She was terrified to ask.
“I don’t want to force myself into your space,” Ingrid added hesitantly.
“Are you kidding me? You can stay as long as you want!” Hilary threw up her arms.
“Wonderful. I’ve had about enough of Los Angeles this summer.”
“I’m sure you have another film coming up?” Hilary dug around for clues of when to expect her to go. She had to prepare.
“In a few weeks,” Ingrid said. “But it’s not till after A Nantucket Family wraps. Marty wants to show me the behind-the-camera ropes.”
Hilary smiled, then dared to ask, “You want to direct, don’t you?”
“It’s a pipe dream.”
“You’re Ingrid Salt,” Hilary reminded her. “Nothing is impossible for you. It never has been. You’ve always been so driven, even as a little girl.” She pointed at the desktop computer. “I’m sure if you started that up again, you’d find fifteen or so scripts all ready to go.”
Ingrid’s cheeks were blotchy from wine and embarrassment and, probably, an influx of memories. She sat on the edge of the made bed and distractedly braided a few strands of hair together. Hilary could have wept at how beautiful she looked. She was reminded of her mother and of herself.
“Just let me know what you need,” Hilary said. “I love you. So much.”
“I love you, too.”
Time sped up after that, the way it often does in late summer. Hilary tried to slow it down as best as she could. She strained through twelve- and fourteen-hour days of work. She got actors and actresses in and out of their costumes. She listened diligently to Marty Zhang’s instructions. And she watched from the sidelines as her beautiful daughter learned how to direct a motion picture.
In the evenings, Ingrid, Hilary, and Max retreated to the house in Siasconset for dinner, a glass of wine or two, and as much sleep as they could grab before the following day. Sometimes Marty Zhang came back to the house and told them funny stories about film school, her Chinese parents, and her ideas for future scripts.
“I insist that all three of you work on some of my future films,” Marty said. “Hilary, you’ve brought such heart and artistry to the costuming department. And Max, I think you’re a wizard as a cinematographer. And Ingrid, I know you’re not just a pretty face,” she teased.
Ingrid swatted her on the arm. “I’ll show you.” And it was true. Ingrid had decided to direct her first feature, which was slated to be filmed in fifteen months. Time moved so slowly in Hollywood. People probably wouldn’t even be able to watch it till another year after that.
“She’s truly one of the greats,” Max said of Marty as he washed the dishes that night. The kitchen still rang from Marty’s laughter. “It’s incredible to me that she lacks any kind of ego. She just flows through Hollywood, making what she wants, getting funding when she needs it.”
“She was always one of my favorite people back at school,” Ingrid explained as she dried a plate and put it back in the cabinet. “She never played dirty like the other girls. And she always congratulated me when I got a movie deal or a role she’d wanted. It felt so genuine.”
“Hollywood has changed so much,” Hilary said. “Seems like people aren’t actively trying to destroy each other anymore.”
Ingrid made a noise in her throat. “Except for Dad, of course.”
Hilary sighed. Just yesterday, Stella had shown her a magazine article that outlined Rodrick’s newest project. He was producing a romantic comedy in which one sister tried to sabotage the other to steal her man. It felt like the old ways of doing things—pitting women against each other when, really, all women wanted to do was help each other out. The magazine article had projected “terrible box office revenue” and said, “I think Rodrick Salt needs to ask himself what kinds of films the world needs, now that we’re not stuck in the nineties anymore.”
Ingrid folded her hands. She looked like she had something important to say. “Mom? You know A Nantucket Family?”
“Yes?”
Ingrid stuttered. “Okay. This is really weird. But Dad didn’t write it.”
Hilary was taken aback. Even from the very beginning, Rodrick had said he was the writer. He’d claimed it as his own. She’d assumed he’d written it as a way to get back with her. Her head rang with questions.
“Who wrote it?” Hilary asked.
Ingrid smiled nervously. “I did.”
Hilary’s jaw dropped. “What?”
Max was frozen, suds all over his hands, looking at them both.
“Explain yourself!” Hilary ordered, her smile enormous.
“I wrote it a few years ago,” Ingrid said. “I was feeling so nostalgic for Grandma and for Nantucket—and for you—and it just spilled out of me. But I didn’t know what to do about it. I knew Marty wanted to direct a feature, and I knew Dad would produce anything I wrote as a way to get back in good standing with me. My agent made it clear to him that I wanted him to get the writing credit for now. People only think of me as an actress, and I didn’t want the story to be discredited because nobody thinks actresses can write.”
Hilary’s head pounded. She remembered her first experience of reading the script. She remembered the ache she’d felt. How she’d begged Rodrick to let her be a part of it.
“It makes sense now,” Max said, breaking the silence, “why Rodrick pulled the funding so readily. I thought it was bizarre that he was so willing to scrap his own story.”
Hilary threw her arms around Ingrid and held her quietly for a long time. “My genius girl,” she finally said. “Why would you ever let a man put his name on your art?”
Ingrid shook her head. “I never will again.”
That night, Hilary was unable to sleep. She padded downstairs to make herself a cup of tea but discovered Ingrid in the living room, cross-legged on the couch with a book open in her lap. In the soft light of the lamp, she looked about ten years younger than she was. Maybe they hadn’t lost so much time yet. Perhaps, if they kept going in reverse, they could get back to the beginning.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” Hilary asked.
“Always.”
Hilary made some tea and put together a tray of cookies, crackers, cheese, and fruit. When she re-emerged from the kitchen, Ingrid announced they were going to watch Free at Dawn, the film for which Isabella Helin had won an Oscar and lost her second husband, Larry. Hilary cuddled under the blanket beside her daughter, scarcely breathing as Isabella Helin stepped onto the screen for the first time. She was extraordinarily beautiful, regal in a way that seemed otherworldly. She looked at her husband, Larry, who played her love interest in the film, and said, “You think you got something to prove, don’t you?” with a perfect Southern accent.
“I can’t believe this little Swedish beauty came to America and became a superstar,” Ingrid said. “I genuinely cannot fathom what she went through.”
“I’ve never been able to wrap my mind around it.”
Ingrid eyed Hilary. “And she never told you who your father was?”
“Just some Swedish guy she left behind, I assume,” Hilary said. “But your grandmother had many secrets. It used to frustrate me to no end. I wanted to be closer to her than anyone, but she kept me and the rest of the world at a distance. I understand it now, though. It was self-defense. People just took and took and took from her. She had to keep something for herself.”
Ingrid nodded. She understood that far better than Hilary, Hilary assumed. On screen, Isabella Helin had mounted a horse and was riding toward the sunrise with her hair flying back behind her. Her eyes were filled with determination.
“I’m just surprised nobody came forward to say he was Isabella Helin’s first husband,” Ingrid said.
Hilary smiled. “I’ve thought about that. But I like to think he was happy enough with his life and his family that he didn’t want to chase her like that. He could watch her from afar and think, ‘I loved that woman once. But I never really understood her.’ Because nobody could.”
Hilary’s eyes filled with tears. It was remarkable that she’d never gotten over her mother’s death. So many years later, it felt like a stone near her heart.
But there was no getting over someone you loved so dearly. She’d never really tried.
Halfway through Free at Dawn, Ingrid fell asleep with her head on Hilary’s shoulder. Hilary didn’t dare flinch for fear of waking her. She’d always been so tired as a teenager. She needed her rest.
Max appeared in the soft light of the living room, rubbing his eyes, and smiled down at the picture of Hilary and Ingrid, watching Isabella’s film. “It’s cozy in here,” he whispered, sitting on Hilary’s other side and taking a bite of a cookie.
Hilary remembered what he’d told her early on. He’d nursed himself back to health with older films, many of them Isabella Helin films, including Free at Dawn. He understood the comfort that came from rewatching the same thing over and over again, from forming friendships with fictional characters. Sometimes, it was all you could rely on in this messed-up world.
In the film”s final scene, Max muttered along with Isabella’s iconic line, “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make you regret this day!” He smiled and squeezed Hilary’s hand. “She was brilliant,” he added in a whisper. He locked eyes with Hilary, who fully sobbed. “And she loved both of you. In her own way. So much.”
Hilary knew he was right. All she could do was forgive her for her pitfalls and adore her forever. All she could do was regret all their time apart.