Page 8 of Unspoken Tides

Hilary’s mouth went dry with surprise. “Oh. Wow.”

“You don’t sound very happy.”

Hilary forced herself to laugh. “I am. I really am.” She tugged her hair. “Wow. This is your first production in a few years, right?”

“Four. Yes. I figured it was time to get back in the saddle. A few weeks ago, a couple of staff members went to Nantucket for another scout and confirmed it’s the perfect place.”

“When do you start?”

“Filming starts in two weeks,” he said.

“Fast!”

“We’re under a time crunch, I’m afraid. We want to shop the film around at all the major festivals. Sundance. Berlinale.”

“Sure.”

“But the reason I’m reaching out is because we need you.”

Hilary’s stomach seized. She remained quiet.

“You were the best costume designer I’ve ever worked with,” Rodrick said. “You were robbed of that Oscar in ’98. And I still think you should have won it in 2002, too.”

“Come on. How was I supposed to compete with Moulin Rouge?” Hilary joked.

“It wasn’t entirely fair, was it?”

Hilary hated how comfortable she felt, falling into the past alongside Rodrick. She hated how easy it was for her to recall the glitz and glam of those long-ago nights. The feel of his hand on the small of her back. The glint in his eyes. Knowing that they would return home together, slumped over in the back of a limo as they raced through the dark streets of Los Angeles. Knowing that they would make coffee and toast in the morning and gossip about who had won and lost and what they’d seen.

“I don’t know, Rodrick.” She hated how much she loved saying his name, too. “I’ve been out of the business for years.”

“I’m telling you. You’re the only one who would get it. Let me send you the script, at least. You’ll love it.”

Hilary chewed her lower lip. She could feel how earnest Rodrick was. She remembered how difficult it had always been for her to say no to him.

And then, she heard herself say, “Okay. Sure.” She swallowed. “Send me the script.”

It couldn’t hurt to read it. Right?

Chapter Three

Rodrick had kept it a secret that he’d been the one to write the script. As soon as the document landed in Hilary’s inbox, she downloaded it to her e-reader, put on her reading glasses, and cozied up on the back porch under a scratchy blanket as the wind off the sound rippled through her hair. Although it was a script and not a novel or as “personal,” per se, she still heard Rodrick’s voice as she read through the first few scenes. Tears sprang to her eyes. As always, she thought he was brilliant. He should have had four times the career he’d had.

Not that Rodrick didn’t enjoy a marvelous career. He’d produced some wonderful films, many with Oscar buzz and wins. The first few, of course, he’d laughably cast Hilary as his female lead—until they’d both finally decided to pay attention to the reviews and take Hilary off all future bills. Wanting Hilary to be involved somehow—presumably because he’d been in love with her—he’d convinced her to pay more attention to her unique style and incredible attention to detail. After a brief conversation with a costume designer, she’d been hired for a low-tier position. Initial excitement about this next step in her career had collapsed soon afterward. During fourteen-hour days at work, she’d overheard multiple people discuss that she hadn’t earned the job and had been given preferential treatment. “She’s the producer’s wife and Isabella Helin’s daughter. I mean, she sucks as an actress, so they’re just looking for somewhere else to put her.”

It had kept Hilary awake at night. For a little while, she’d considered outright quitting. She dreamed up other opportunities and careers for herself. What could the daughter of one of the most famous women in the world do without feeling like a shadow?

Because Hilary had actual talent, the flippant talk from others in the costume department stopped soon afterward. People started paying attention to what she said and who she styled; nobody assumed she wasn’t worthy. Before long, she was in charge of the costuming division of Rodrick’s films. The career fit her like a glove.

And it was true that she often missed it. But it had been twenty years since she’d last worked on a film. Things had changed. The world was markedly different. Was she really up to the task?

Rodrick’s new script was about a very poor family living on Nantucket. The father was a fisherman, the mother was having an affair with his best friend, their daughter ran away halfway through the story, and the son attempted suicide. Around the time of the son’s attempted suicide, a horrendous storm swept the island and destroyed their home. They had to take refuge in the attic of an old Nantucket whaling museum—where they slowly rebuilt their love in the face of the horror of what they’d wrought. It was hinted at the end that the daughter would return and fully save them all—but it was never shown in the script. Not completely.

It was a terribly grim tale that spoke of the numerous hardships for people on Nantucket during that time. It reminded Hilary of her and Rodrick's conversations during their long summers on Nantucket. The difference in tax brackets was perpetually widening, and “true” islanders seemed surprised that so much money had sprung up on the island, seemingly out of nowhere. They felt as though their land, their history, had been taken away from them by celebrities, politicians, and other elites. Rodrick’s story attempted to heighten that through the lens of one family—one ordinary father, one brokenhearted mother, and the children who were growing up in an ever-changing world.

Although the story was devastating at times, the script also showed off Rodrick’s incredible sense of humor. This was no surprise to Hilary. In the face of their numerous hardships together as a couple, Rodrick had always managed to say something that split her side. She’d hated this about him sometimes. “We’re being serious right now!” she’d cry to him midway through a fight as tears ran down her cheeks. “We have to work this out!”

They hadn’t worked it out, of course. Not ultimately. But Hilary was still left with the feeling that Rodrick was one of the funniest men in the world.

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