Page 17 of Unspoken Tides

As Hilary stepped out of the Porsche, the front door opened, and Rodrick stepped onto the front porch. There was no mistaking that he’d gotten older and somehow more handsome. Hilary’s anxiety spilled through her veins. With his hands in his jean’s pockets, he gazed down at her with soft adoration as though they’d been married all this time, and he’d just been waiting for her to come home.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Rodrick said as she approached.

“Is that a line from Casablanca?”

Rodrick laughed, and Hilary’s heart skipped a beat. She loved making him laugh.

When she reached him, they hugged, and he kissed her cheek the way the French do. He smelled the same, like sandalwood and the soap he always used, and there were deeper lines around his eyes and mouth. But there was no mistaking it. This was the only man she’d ever loved.

“Come in,” he said, ushering her inside. “It isn’t much, especially compared to your place. I know that.”

“It’s beautiful,” Hilary said. “It looks like it was recently redone?”

“Good eye,” Rodrick said as he guided her to the large kitchen in the back and opened the fridge. “I got your favorite bottles of wine. And I thought I’d make us a fresh pasta?”

Hilary felt shattered at how ordinary it all was. How easily this life fit back on her shoulders. Why had they thrown it all away? She could imagine picking up where she’d left off, doing Rodrick’s laundry, massaging his aching back, scrubbing the dishes. Performing the monotony of everyday life alongside him.

A jagged thought assaulted her. What about his wife? She saw no sign of her, not in the kitchen, nor the foyer, nor the back porch. Rodrick’s left hand sported no wedding ring, either. She filled her lungs with air.

It didn’t necessarily mean anything. People took off their wedding rings all the time.

Hilary sat on the veranda overlooking the sound and sipped her glass of wine. It was more expensive than she ordinarily went for these days, proof of Rodrick’s continued allegiance with the Hollywood elite. Or, he just wanted to impress her.

“How was the first day?” Rodrick asked.

Hilary spoke poetically about the day on set. She took extra care to say how pleased she was that someone like Marty Zhang was given a chance to direct. “The world has changed a great deal in twenty years.”

“It really has.”

Hilary smiled, feeling clumsy and inarticulate. She prayed she wouldn’t drop her glass of wine.

“At the same time,” Rodrick said, “it feels like I just saw you a few days ago rather than many years ago.” He paused. “Do you know what I mean?”

Hilary dropped her chin, unable to affirm aloud.

“Everything changed. But you and me, we’re the same,” he went on, “plus or minus a few laugh lines.”

Hilary laughed softly and pleaded with herself not to cry. It was too early for that.

After their first glass of wine, Rodrick led her into the kitchen to make pasta with fresh tomatoes, fresh pesto, and freshly ground parmesan. It was the perfect meal on such a beautiful evening, the temperature just dipping below seventy degrees, her chest warm from wine. She watched Rodrick’s knife flash over the tomatoes easily and remembered hundreds of thousands of nights just like this. He told a story about getting funding for this particular film, including a conversation with another producer who’d said, “A Nantucket period piece? Are you out of your mind?” Of this, Rodrick added, “But I’ve always had that story in my head. All those springs and summers we spent here stayed with me.”

Hilary felt the sorrow within the script. She wondered if it was Rodrick’s way of telling her just how sorry he was about how things had gone.

They ate on the veranda, wrapping pasta around and around their forks as the sun dropped into the ocean. When Hilary started shivering, Rodrick hurried inside to find an old sweatshirt of his—University of Michigan, where he’d gone for a few semesters before running off to LA to make it in the movie business. Hilary snuck her arms into the sleeves and pulled it over her head, disappearing for a few seconds before adjusting the sweatshirt over her torso. When she emerged, she found Rodrick smiling at her, halfway to a laugh.

“What?” she asked, blushing.

“Sorry,” Rodrick said. “I just remembered how cute you always looked in my sweatshirts.”

“Maybe when I was twenty-three. Not now.”

Rodrick shook his head. “You’re even cuter now.”

Hilary dropped her gaze to the pasta and stabbed a fork through a tomato. The silence grew taut over them.

It occurred to her that if Rodrick was still married, she needed to know about it. She couldn’t bear the idea of being Rodrick’s mistress. It was too pathetic. And it could ruin her newly rediscovered professional career.

And so, she blurted, “Are you still married to what’s-her-name? Connie?”

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