Page 18 of Unspoken Tides

Rodrick looked immediately deflated. He set down his fork and folded his hands. In the distance, there was the sound of a howling dog.

Hilary fought the urge to tell him to forget her question. She bit her tongue.

“I’m separated,” Rodrick said finally.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Rodrick sighed. “It was a long time coming. It’s for the best. Really.”

Hilary didn’t know what to say after that. She ate another forkful of pasta. As she chewed, a series of images filled her mind’s eye—all of them from twenty years ago, from the most horrific time of her life. No longer hungry, she pressed a linen napkin over her mouth and considered running off the porch, down the beach, and out of sight. Anything to get away from this man who knew too much.

But when she returned her gaze to his, she was flooded with warmth. What a mess this was.

“I’m so pleased you’re working on the film, Hilary,” Rodrick said.

“Me too.”

“And I’m so pleased we can spend some real time together again. I’ve thought of you so often over the years. You’ve kept yourself out of the public eye, of course. And off social media! So it’s never been easy to keep track of you.”

Hilary had done this on purpose.

“I would really like to get to know you again. If you let me,” Rodrick went on.

Hilary’s heartbeat filled her ears. How many times had she dreamed of Rodrick saying something like that? More times than she’d like to admit.

“You’ll be here all summer,” Hilary said quietly. “We have time.”

Rodrick’s face was illuminated. He reached across the table and took her hand. Hilary flinched but didn’t pull it back.

Had Rodrick held Connie’s hand like this? Over the table? Had he comforted her when he’d left her? Had he told her they could remain friends?

After a long and tense pause, Rodrick said, “We need to talk about her, you know.”

Hilary flinched and pulled back her hand. She couldn’t believe he’d already gone there. They’d just reunited two hours ago.

“That was quick,” she said flatly.

Rodrick raised his hands. His eyes glinted. “I know you don’t want to. I know it’s terrifying.”

“You’re right. I don’t want to.” Hilary’s cheeks were aflame.

“But Hilary, it’s important.”

Hilary stood on shaking legs and tossed her napkin to the table. Feeling regal, like Isabella Helin in one of her earlier films, Hilary said, “I thought it was clear that that part of our lives was over.”

When Rodrick didn’t have an answer, Hilary turned on her heel, strung her purse over her shoulder, and walked back through the house. She didn’t dare breathe until she’d started the engine and ducked back into the dark night.

“Such a drama queen,” people had said of Isabella Helin. “But she’s made her money off it, hasn’t she?”

Hilary had never considered herself a drama queen. But halfway back to her house, as tears streamed down her cheeks, she burst into a spontaneous scream. It rattled through her chest and vibrated down her legs. It was meant to feel cathartic, but it just exhausted her.

That night, she dreamed of her own loneliness and woke up upon a wet pillow. It was time for another day of work.

Chapter Seven

Perhaps because he knew better, Rodrick kept a wide berth of the film set that week. Hilary didn’t hear from him, and she’d begun to fossilize the evening mentally, shoving it into the dark recesses of her mind. She’d long ago subscribed to the idea that you could make yourself believe whatever you wanted to if you tried hard enough. It helped that she was endlessly busy, running from one end of the set to the next, her arms piled with costumes and pins between her lips. She was a professional. She hadn’t gotten this gig for any other reason besides that.

Friday afternoon, Hilary sat in the costume trailer to repair another pair of trousers. They were running lines on set, helping the less-knowledgeable actors hit their marks, which allowed for all the non-actors to catch up on odds and ends. There was always so much to do. Despite fourteen-hour days, Hilary was sometimes behind.

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