Page 4 of Unspoken Tides

There was no mistaking it. Hilary knew that voice like the back of her hand. She twisted around to peer through the crowd at her mother and Larry, who hovered near a Grecian-inspired pillar. Isabella gripped Larry’s tie sinisterly, tugging at it so that his nose was forced directly in front of hers. She was screaming. With her other hand, she flailed the Oscar around, on the verge of hitting a few women to her left.

It took a minute for Hilary to understand what her mother was saying.

“You think you can make a fool of me? This is my night, Larry. My night! All these people are on my side!”

A chill came over Hilary’s stomach. Rodrick touched her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

The look in Larry’s eyes told Hilary everything she needed to know.

“I have to go,” Hilary muttered to Rodrick. “Before it gets worse.”

“I’ll call you,” Rodrick said.

But Hilary was already three rows of people ahead of him. Isabella continued to wail at Larry, asking him why he made a mockery of her; didn’t he know how much better she was? How much more famous? Hilary was at Isabella’s elbow, terrified to touch it. Once, her mother had accidentally smacked her during a similar incident. She’d been so riled up. So angry.

“Mom?” Hilary interrupted. “Let’s go.”

Flashing lights were everywhere, and journalists were hungry to capture the scene. They illuminated Isabella’s gorgeous eyes. She was a starlet! She was volatile! She had so much to say! But Hilary knew she wasn’t fully in her right mind. One final time, Hilary urged her to leave with her, to leave Larry behind.

Under her breath, Isabella muttered, “This isn’t over, Larry.”

And then, she allowed Hilary to guide her through the crowd, out toward the edges, where a cab buzzed at the curb. There wasn’t time to look for their limo. Hilary just hoped the driver had enough sense not to make a big deal about driving a sobbing Isabella Helin back home.

Once in the car, Isabella cried freely. Black makeup tracked down her cheeks, and her lipstick dropped out of line. She looked like a very beautiful and terrifying clown.

“Oh, I should have known,” she wept as her chest heaved. “I should have known he would do this to me. Larry was never truly faithful. He was always opportunistic. Always ready to jump ship the moment he saw a better one.” She sniffled. For a moment, Hilary thought she would use her dress to mop herself up. But that wasn’t the Isabella Helin way.

As Los Angeles whizzed by, surging lights and blasting sounds, a city at the edge of her mother’s adopted continent, Isabella cried and cried. Hilary tried to put the pieces together, to truly comprehend how and why Larry had messed up so badly this time. The Oscar statue in Isabella’s lap flipped around as the car moved, looking so silly, like a child’s toy.

In time, Hilary learned that Larry had cheated on Isabella with another woman in their film production. She’d discovered it during one of the Oscar parties. She’d learned that the entire production knew about it—and that they were making her out to be a fool.

Horribly, Isabella was using this as proof that she was “too old.” For love. For film. To be seen in public. Hilary begged her to remember that she was only forty-five and the most gorgeous woman in the world. But it was no use.

As they pulled into the driveway of the Los Angeles mansion, Isabella sniffled, raised her head, and said, “Mark my words. Men will ruin you. They’ll take everything. And the film industry will lick up the crumbs.”

Chapter One

May 2024 - Siasconset, Nantucket Island

From the kitchen, Hilary could hear all nine of her Salt Sisters out on the veranda. Their laughter swam out across the bluffs and echoed over the Nantucket Sound, and the clinking of their wineglasses and forks was like music. Hilary slid a knife through the final pieces of gruyère cheese, finished the cheese plate with a big bowl of sliced mango, and hurried back into the May evening to join them.

“Hilary! Settle something for us, will you?” This was Stella Turnbilt, Hilary’s longtime friend—the first-ever Salt Sister besides Hilary. “Which film won the Academy Award in 1993?”

“In 1993?” Hilary pretended to think, dotting her finger against her chin. “That was a weird year if I remember correctly.”

Of course, she remembered. She’d been there, hadn’t she? She’d lived it.

“She knows everything about Hollywood,” Stella whispered to Robby, pretending to be secretive. “It’s a funny game we play sometimes. Seeing how much trivia she carries around in that massive brain of hers.”

Hilary waited a few more seconds to brew up suspense, then said, “In 1993, Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven won Best Picture.”

“Unforgiven?” Robby asked, scrunching up her nose. “What is that?”

“Exactly,” Hilary said. “It was a weird year. But I’m not really a big fan of westerns. Maybe it had more staying power with some other people.”

“My husband loved westerns,” Robby said, speaking of her late husband. “I swear, whenever he had a few hours to himself, he always put on one Clint Eastwood film or another. I could never figure it out. Did he want to be a cowboy? Was that it?”

“What films do you put on when you have some time to kill?” Hilary asked.

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