Page 50 of Unspoken Tides
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.
Chapter Twenty-One
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.”