Page 44 of Unspoken Tides

“It’s six in the morning. Who else could it be?”

Hilary rolled over on the bed and rubbed her eyes. Makeup coated her fingers.

“How did it go?” Stella asked.

Hilary explained what she could: that Rodrick wouldn’t let her in; that she screamed to Ingrid’s window, but Ingrid wouldn’t see her. “I felt insane. And I knew that any minute, Rodrick would tell me I was crazier than my mother ever was.” She chewed her lip.

“You have to take legal action,” Stella urged her. “You’re her mother. You have to fight this.”

Hilary knew she was right.

Instead of returning to Nantucket to lick her wounds, Hilary met with a lawyer in Los Angeles right away. She explained the circumstances around her divorce, the reasons she hadn’t seen her daughter, and her decision that she wanted full custody, or at least half-time custody, whatever the court would allow her. “I want to take her out of that boarding school,” she explained, practically spitting across the desk. “I want her to have a normal childhood.”

The lawyer was a born-and-bred Angeleno. He clasped his hands over his mahogany desk and tried to form a look of pity. Hilary guessed he’d wanted to be an actor at one time but had failed and gone to law school. That was always the story in Los Angeles. Hers wasn’t fully different.

“Ingrid Salt is not just a child anymore,” he explained. “She’s a brand. A commodity. Your ex-husband is correct in saying that hundreds of people rely on her for jobs.”

“My daughter is not a commodity.”

“Excuse my words,” the lawyer said. “I don’t mean to belittle her, nor your relationship with her. I’m just saying that Ingrid is not an ordinary child caught in a marital dispute. This could get very messy. Are you prepared for that?”

“I’m not leaving Los Angeles until we get this worked out,” Hilary said.

Her backbone felt powerful. She could hear the Salt Sisters’ assurance echoing between her ears. “Even if you have to live in LA, we’ll visit you,” Stella had told her. “Your daughter comes first.”

Hilary rented a beautiful home on Mulholland Drive, a half mile away from the house. The interior was covered in Mexican tile and furnished with midcentury sofas and armoires. Had she not been out of her mind with grief and anger, she might have really appreciated this era. There was even a swimming pool in the backyard, in which she swam laps every morning. Her shoulders widened with her strength. Her mother wasn’t around to remind her that women didn’t have broad shoulders. She swam longer, harder.

The tabloids had picked up on the “struggle for Ingrid.” It was impossible to know who had tipped them off. Maybe it was the lawyer’s secretary. Perhaps it was Rodrick’s French actress girlfriend. Paparazzi began following Hilary around, taking photographs of her that they published with headings like: “Is Hilary as crazy as her mother?” and “Will Hilary get custody of Ingrid Salt?” and “Is Hilary broke and after Ingrid’s money?” Through late summer and into early fall, Hilary stayed the course. She outlined what she wanted, how often Ingrid was “required” to see her, and how it would work if Ingrid was on set and Rodrick was a producer for that film or television series. She was happy to keep a wide berth of Rodrick. More than that, she never wanted to see him again.

When Ingrid’s HBO series wrapped in early autumn, Hilary received a call from Ingrid’s agent, Janice. This was a rarity. Hilary was in the pool, swimming laps when she heard the jangling ringtone and leaped out of the water.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Ms. Salt. Ingrid is interested in a meeting this weekend.”

Hilary’s heart sputtered. “Of course! I’m free. Any time.”

“She suggests brunch at your place. Sunday at noon.”

Hilary was dripping wet, wearing a two-piece red bikini that she now remembered looked ridiculous on her. “I’ll be ready. Do you need my address?”

“We have it on file.”

Hilary spent the next few days in a wide-eyed frenzy. She cleaned the entire house herself, getting on her hands and knees to scrub the Mexican tiles, purchased flowers from the farmers’ market, practiced making all of Ingrid’s favorite breakfast foods, and demanded that her friends stop by to eat them. She’d forgotten that she had a few friends left in Los Angeles. When they came over, they treated her as though she were a feral animal. The tabloids had gotten to them. As she buzzed around happily, explaining that Ingrid was coming over on Sunday, one friend loosened up and said, “Oh, good. I knew you were nothing like her.”

“Who?”

“Your mother,” she said. “I knew you were a better mother than she was.”

Hilary’s mouth went dry. Still, she smiled and said, “Do you want milk in your coffee?”

This was the thing about fame, she knew. Everyone had ownership over your story. Everyone felt they understood.

Janice drove Ingrid to Hilary’s house Sunday at noon sharp. The pre-teen who stepped into the light of the morning wore a short jean skirt and a tank top with a bra under it. Hilary panged. Who had taken her bra shopping for the first time? Janice? The French actress? She forced a smile and hurried down the porch steps to take her daughter in her arms. But Ingrid was stiff and bony. Was she eating enough?

Hilary made up her mind to feed Ingrid as much breakfast as she could. Maybe she could win her back with food.

“How are you, honey?”

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