Page 52 of Unspoken Tides

Chapter Twenty-Two

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.