Page 12 of Unspoken Tides
“I just hope I don’t start talking like this all the time!” Candace had joked. “I’m not a method actor, but I don’t want to forget the accent between takes. Then again, I don’t want my daughter to think I’m a stranger!”
Hilary had read once that the only method actors in the world were men because women were required to play all sorts of roles for the people in their lives off-set. Children needed their mothers; husbands needed their wives. They wouldn’t stand for a character, not when dinner was supposed to be on the table.
Hilary remembered when her mother had been in the midst of filming. Hilary had never known what version of Isabella she would get back at home.
Hilary had mentally prepared herself as much as possible to see Rodrick today, the first day of filming. She’d done her makeup and woken up early to curl her hair. But as she flowed through the first takes of the day, she stopped scanning the crew for any sign of him. If he showed up, he showed up. If he didn’t make it, it didn’t matter. She had a job to do.
It was hard for Hilary to believe, but being back on set was like riding a bike. As soon as Marty said “Cut,” she hustled out to fix costumes and ensure everything looked the same as before the take. She called on the makeup artists to fix people’s faces. She spoke with authority very quickly and then whisked off set again as Marty said, “Places.”
Hilary felt useful. Beautiful. Electric.
Lunch on the first day was quesadillas with guacamole and tortilla chips. Hilary ate quickly and hurried off to tend to a costume, which needed repairing after Brett Vanders, the father character, had accidentally ripped it during one of the first scenes of the morning. But as Hilary breezed around the corner of the costume trailer, she ran headlong into a massive man. She cried out, fell back, and would have toppled over the pavement were it not for the man reaching out to grab her. The shock rang through her, and she laughed in spite of herself. Her eyes found his.
“I’m so sorry! Are you all right?” The man’s dark eyes were enormous. He was a little over six feet, broad-shouldered, and dressed all in black. Like everyone else on set, he wore a nametag that read Max von Swenson. What a name.
“Yes! Yes. Don’t worry.” Hilary waved her hand. “You caught me in the nick of time. I might have been a broken bag of bones. Thanks for that.”
Max blushed and tugged his hair. Hilary tried to guess his age. Maybe a little older than her? Out of habit, perhaps, she checked his finger for a wedding ring and found nothing.
“I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off,” Max said.
“Didn’t anyone tell you about on-set safety?”
Max laughed. “I must have missed that meeting.”
Max explained that he was a cinematographer, that it was his first gig out East, and that he was en route to set up the next shot because he and Marty had talked about it and decided on a different option.
“How is it to work with Marty?” Hilary asked.
Max gushed. “She’s one of the most professional directors I’ve ever worked with. She puts so many others to shame. You know what she told me? Her parents—who are both immigrants from China—named her after Martin Scorsese. Isn’t that funny? She was born to be a director.”
Hilary smiled and crossed her arms over her chest. She was very familiar with parental expectations and the horrors they could wrought.
“I hate to do this,” Max went on, his cheeks flashing pink, “but I have to say that Free at Dawn was one of my favorite films as a young man. I watched it obsessively, studying its cinematography and use of light and sound.”
Hilary’s mouth went dry. He was referring to her mother’s film from 1989, the one for which she’d won an Academy Award in 1990—the Oscars where she’d learned of Larry’s affair.
“It’s a great film,” Hilary said.
Max tugged his hair nervously. “You look so much like her in this light.”
Hilary laughed wryly. “I’m at least fifteen years older than my mother was when that was filmed. I’m sure I don’t look anything like her. A pale imitation, at the very least.”
But Max shook his head. “Trust me. I think I’ve seen that film more than any other person on this earth. It’s like seeing her before me now.” His eyes glinted. “I’m sorry if that’s too forward.”
Someone’s voice rang out, calling for Max. He stiffened and turned his head. “I have to run. This shot won’t set itself. I’ll see you around.” He flashed a final smile before speeding off in the direction of his call.
He left Hilary in stunned silence, her hand draped across her cheek. Why did she feel she could hear her mother’s voice in her head? How was it she could hear some of the lines from Free at Dawn echoing through the set?
Free at Dawn had been Isabella Helin’s final film before her very public divorce and breakdown. It was a time capsule of another era of Hilary’s and Isabella’s lives. For this reason, Hilary had only watched it once, at the premiere. It was too painful to return to.
As Hilary sewed the hole in Brett’s pants, her lips lined with needles and pins, her phone buzzed on the side table. She went rigid when she read the name. RODRICK SALT. Was he on set? Was he looking for her?
The pants finished, Hilary took a deep breath and opened the message.
RODRICK SALT: Unfortunately, I won’t make it to set today. I’ve only heard wonderful rumors thus far that it’s a well-oiled machine. Thanks for being a part of it.
RODRICK SALT: Would you like to join me for dinner this evening? I’d like to thank you personally for stepping in on such short notice. I imagine you’re exhausted, but I promise that I’ll make it worth your while.