Page 3 of Unspoken Tides

From Stellan’s and Isabella’s expressions, Hilary guessed they were discussing Larry and his inefficient support of Isabella after her big win. There was probably nothing juicier for Isabella than gossiping angrily in your own language.

Something soft touched Hilary’s shoulder. She turned slowly to find Rodrick Salt a few rows of people away. He’d stretched his arm across Gwyneth Paltrow, three nerdy-looking lighting guys, and a woman wearing nearly nothing on top in order to touch Hilary’s shoulder. A shiver went down her spine.

“Rodrick!” she exclaimed. “You’re here!”

There were numerous Oscar parties. It had only occurred to her during the show that she should have asked Rodrick where he would end up. They’d gotten lucky.

As he drew closer, churning through the crowd, she saw that Rodrick was drinking a cocktail, and his smile was soft and glinting. Hilary had the strangest instinct to rise on her toes and press her lips against his.

“Hey! How was the show for you?” he asked.

“Long. But exciting, I guess.” Hilary glanced back toward her mother and Stellan Skarsgard, whose voices had shifted to whispers. “Larry’s super angry. He ran off somewhere.”

Rodrick flinched. “Forget about them. You have to have one of these cocktails. The bartender upstairs makes them.” He reached for her hand, then stopped himself just as the tips of his fingers grazed her knuckles. “I’m sorry.” His eyes glinted.

But Hilary went for it. She slid her fingers the rest of the way through his, linking them together like two pieces of a puzzle waiting for eons to fit. Rodrick’s smile was unabashed. He turned to guide her through the pulsing crowd, bobbing his head in time to the music until they cranked up the staircase and sidled up alongside an emptier bar. The bartender who made these “to die for” cocktails had enough gel in his hair that every strand seemed to stick up ominously, violently, like a medieval torture device. As he stirred the cocktail, he said, “Aren’t you Isabella Helin’s daughter?”

“No,” Rodrick said. “She’s a pop star. Jacinda? You haven’t heard of her?”

When the bartender shook his head, Rodrick announced, “This time next year, she’ll be everywhere. Mark my words.”

Hilary’s heart warmed.

“Tell me, Rodrick,” she said, trying to add some flirtation to her voice, “why are you here?”

Rodrick laughed. Maybe she sounded too formal, less flirty? But he answered anyway.

“I’m a producer,” he explained. “Well, sort of. I’m an assistant to a producer, with the aim to produce my own stuff in the next few years. I worked on The Godfather Part III.”

Hilary’s lips parted with surprise. “Wow.”

“You haven’t seen it yet, have you?” He chuckled. “It’s sort of a mess. Coppola hired his daughter when Winona Ryder dropped out, and it was a disaster. The girl can’t act.”

Hilary winced. She had heard that, of course. But it was true that she hadn’t gotten around to seeing the film, nor any of the other Godfather movies. When she confessed that to Rodrick, surprise echoed from his eyes.

“You have to see the first two,” he explained. “They’re absolutely incendiary American productions. The first film changed the game.”

If Hilary had a nickel for every time someone told her that a particular film had “changed the game,” she would be wealthy.

“Maybe we can watch it together sometime,” Rodrick said, sweeping his fingers through his hair to tousle it.

“I’d like that,” Hilary breathed.

But that wasn’t the end of Rodrick’s suggestions that night. As they roamed one Oscar party after the next, draining their cocktail glasses and getting chummy with celebrities, Rodrick grew seemingly more and more enamored with Hilary—so much so that he kissed her on the cheek (like a gentleman) when they got out of a cab en route to the final party. Hilary felt as though she floated off the ground.

“What was that for?” she asked.

Rodrick’s face was bright red. “I don’t know.” He paused. “Was it bad?”

Hilary shook her head. Though Hollywood contained thousands of creeps, it was clear Rodrick wasn’t one of them. Her stomach flipped over.

“I want you to be in my first film,” Rodrick said tenderly, tucking one of her rogue curls behind her ear. “I want you to be the star.”

Hilary’s heart pumped. Around her, celebrities and gowns and journalists were blurry, a chaotic collection of lights and colors. She gripped Rodrick’s hand as hard as she could and whispered, “I want that. Oh, I want it so badly.”

Rodrick’s eyes shone. It felt as though they were making a pact for the rest of their lifetime, as though, from here on out, they would return to this as the moment that altered the course of their lives forever.

And then, out of the chaos came the sound of Isabella Helin.

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