Page 19 of Unspoken Tides

Hilary hadn’t slept well since going to Rodrick’s, and she was bleary-eyed as she sewed. Once, she stabbed herself with the needle—a rarity for her that made her feel like a fool. A bead of blood sat at the tip of her finger, and she sucked on it as her eyes filled with tears. As she waited for it to dissipate, she received another message in the Salt Sisters group chat, asking if everyone was still up for hanging out at Nora’s tonight. Nora was making tacos, guacamole, and margaritas. Hilary was the only one who hadn’t confirmed yes or no.

Again, she heard Rodrick’s voice in her head. “We need to talk about her, you know.” She shivered.

Hilary picked up her phone and prepared a text message when her finger stopped bleeding. She planned to say she could go, to drown out her sorrows with tequila, and help her Sisters through whatever drama they’d gone through that week. But when she imagined herself at Nora’s table on the back porch, listening intently and giving advice, her throat filled, and she put her phone back down again. How could she give anyone advice when she felt on the brink of a breakdown? Worse than that, how could she hide her sorrow? Maybe some of them wouldn’t notice. But Stella would see through it. She would corner her and demand answers.

Suddenly, Hilary felt lonelier than she had in decades. Why couldn’t she turn to her friends? Something was clearly wrong with her, something beyond repair. The thought shattered her.

She remembered the months after Larry had left Isabella, how Hilary had tried desperately to nurse her mother back to health. She’d been dating Rodrick at the time, and Rodrick had asked once, “Your mother is one of the most famous women in the world. Why doesn’t she have any friends to get her through this?” It had never occurred to Hilary that her mother didn’t have any real friends. Hilary had assumed she was all her mother needed.

Perhaps that was another thing she should have brought up in therapy. But she hadn’t gone to therapy in years.

As Hilary pondered what to do and how to handle the endless breaking of her heart, she let out a strange and woeful sob, then another. The sounds echoed through the trailer. She tried to quiet herself, but they kept coming, almost like hiccups. She cursed herself for her weakness. She tried to return her attention to the trousers.

And then, a familiar voice came through the trailer. “Hilary? Are you all right?”

Hilary jumped around to find Max von Swenson peering through the clothing racks. He wore his typical black shirt and black jeans, and his hair was especially tousled after a frantic day on set. He looked at her with confusion and worry.

“I’m okay.” Hilary sniffed, then hated herself for it. She sounded so pathetic.

Max furrowed his brow. For a terrible moment, Hilary was frightened that Max would say she looked like her mother again, that he would refer to a specific scene in an Isabella Helin film from the 1970s and say, “There’s her face again!” Hilary couldn’t take it.

So she said, “Don’t tell me I look like her. Please.” It was a moment of vulnerability that surprised her.

Max’s eyes widened. After a long moment of silence, he said, “You look like a woman who needs a drink.”

Hilary burst into laughter, and she immediately swallowed. Still, she couldn’t take the smile off her face. “I really do,” she stammered. “More than you know.”

Hilary ignored the messages from the Salt Sisters and closed up the trailer for the day. After a brief meeting with Marty Zhang about Monday’s shoot, Max put on a pair of black sunglasses and led her off set. Immediately, the 1970s Nantucket scene gave way to 2024 Nantucket, where streets teemed with tourists, pretty girls in dresses, men drinking beer on patios, and children eating ice cream cones. It was alarming to go forward and back in time like this. Hilary hadn’t gotten used to it.

Then again, going forward and backward in time, mentally, had been something of a habit of hers as of late. It was giving her whiplash.

For a few minutes, Hilary and Max didn’t say a word. They strolled through the crowded Historic District. Hilary had no idea where they were headed, but she decided she didn’t care. Her heart had returned to a steady beat, and she was breathing again.

Sometimes, she considered asking Max a question or making small talk. But she was too exhausted.

Suddenly, they came upon the Nantucket Harbor, where Max stretched out his arms and led her down a thick dock toward a moderate-sized yacht.

“This is home sweet home, for now,” he explained as he helped her aboard.

After twenty years full-time on Nantucket, Hilary had met her fair share of men who lived on boats. They were often grizzled and half drunk, sunburnt, and quoting Ernest Hemingway. Max von Swenson didn’t fit the bill.

“This is yours?” Hilary asked, watching as he entered the kitchenette to retrieve a bottle of white wine.

“I rented it,” Max said with a twinkle in his eye. “It was always a dream of mine to live on a boat. With our set right over there and the harbor here, I figured it was finally time to take the plunge, so to speak.”

As soon as Max handed Hilary a full glass, he started the motor and drove them out of the harbor. The boat shivered beneath them, and Hilary sat in a cushioned chair and watched the shoreline recede. Had she been half as devastated, she might have rang with alarm at agreeing to leave the island on a stranger’s boat. But right now, she needed to escape. She needed this glass of wine. She needed Max’s handsome smile.

On accident, she checked her phone to find fifty-seven missed messages from the Salt Sisters. She decided to text, “I can’t make it tonight. Have a great time, and I love you so much!” Then she turned off her phone. They would wonder what was up, of course. Maybe they would gossip about it. But right now, she didn’t care.

As Max buzzed the yacht around the edge of the island, Hilary decided to make up a story about who they were to one another. Maybe they were a rich married couple from France, escaping to the United States after Max’s failed political career. Perhaps they were two architects designing the next skyscraper in Manhattan. Or maybe they were both cheating on their spouses, caught in a web of lies that would eventually destroy them.

The reality—that Hilary was a washed-up nobody with a broken heart—was too hard to take.

“This is it,” Max announced when he found the perfect spot. He dropped anchor and joined Hilary on the cushioned chairs with a glass of wine. He put his ankle on his opposite knee, leaned back, and stretched one arm over the back of his chair. He looked ready to be photographed for GQ magazine.

“You exhausted?” he asked. “I’m exhausted.”

“You don’t look like it,” Hilary said.

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