Page 53 of Unspoken Tides

“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.”