“Good,” I said. “Because it really doesn’t.”
“But I hope it might make you feel a little better,” he said, “to know that I know I was wrong, I know you deserved better, and I’m working every day to be a better man.”
“Well, it’s awfully late now,” I said. “You being a better man does nothing for me.”
“I won’t hurt anyone like I did then,” Don said. “To you, to Ruby.”
My heart of ice melted briefly, and I admitted that did make me feel better. “Still,” I said. “We all can’t go around treating people like dog shit and then expecting that a simple I’m sorry erases it.”
Don shook his head humbly. “Of course not,” he said. “No, I know that.”
“And if your movies hadn’t tanked and Ari Sullivan hadn’t dropped you like you got him to drop me, you’d probably still be living high on the hog, drunk as a skunk.”
Don nodded. “Probably. I’m sorry to say you are most likely right about that.”
I wanted more. Did I want him to grovel? To cry? I wasn’t sure. I just knew I wasn’t getting it.
“Let me just say this,” Don said. “I loved you from the moment I saw you. I loved you madly. And I ruined it because I turned into a man I’m not proud of. And because I ruined it the way I did, because I was awful at treating you the way you deserved to be treated, I am sorry. Sometimes I think about going back to our wedding day and wanting to do it all over again, wanting to fix my mistakes so that you never have to go through what I put you through. I know I can’t do that, but what I can do is look you in the eye and tell you from the very bottom of my heart that I know how incredible you are, I know how great we could have been together, I know that everything we both lost was my fault, I am dedicated to never behaving that poorly again, and I am truly, truly sorry.”
In all my years after Don, all my movies, all my marriages, I had never once wanted to go back in time in the hopes that Don and I could get it right. My life since Don had been a story of my own making, a mess and a joy of my own decisions, and a string of experiences that landed me with everything I ever wanted.
I was OK. I felt safe. I had a beautiful daughter, a devoted husband, and the love of a good woman. I had money and fame. I had a gorgeous house in a city I had reclaimed. What could Don Adler take from me?
If I had come to see if I could stand him, I found that I could. There was not a bone in my body that was afraid of him.
And then I realized: if that was true, what did I have to lose?
I did not say the words I forgive you to Don Adler. I simply took my wallet out of my purse and said, “Do you want to see a picture of Connor?”
He smiled and nodded, and when I showed him her photo, he laughed. “She looks just like you,” he said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I don’t think there’s any other way to take it. I think every woman in this country would like to look like Evelyn Hugo.”
I threw my head back and laughed. When our Reubens were half eaten and taken away by the waitress, I told him I’d do the movie.
“That’s great,” he said. “Really great to hear. I think you and I could really . . . I think we can really give them a show.”
“We are not friends, Don,” I said. “I want to be clear on that.”
Don nodded. “OK,” he said. “I understand.”
“But I think we can be friendly.”
Don smiled. “I’d be honored by friendly.”
JUST BEFORE SHOOTING WAS SET to commence, Harry turned forty-five. He said he didn’t want a big night out or any sort of formal plans. He just wanted a nice day with all of us.
So John, Celia, and I planned a picnic in the park. Luisa packed us lunch. Celia made sangria. John went down to the sporting-goods store and got us an extra-large umbrella to shade us from not only the sun but also passersby. On the way home, he got the bright idea to buy us wigs and sunglasses, too.
That afternoon, the three of us told Harry we had a surprise for him, and we led him into the park, Connor riding on his back. She loved to be strapped to him. She would laugh as he bounced her while he walked.
I took his hand and dragged him with us.
“Where are we going?” he said. “Someone at least give me a hint.”
“I’ll give you a small one,” Celia said as we were crossing Fifth Avenue.
“No,” John said, shaking his head. “No hints. He’s too good with hints. It takes all the fun out of it.”
“Connor, where is everyone taking Daddy?” Harry said. I watched as Connor laughed at the sound of her name.
When Celia walked through the entrance to the park, not even a block from our apartment, Harry spotted the blanket already set out with the umbrella and the picnic baskets, and he smiled.
“A picnic?” he said.
“Simple family picnic. Just the five of us,” I said.
Harry smiled. He closed his eyes for a moment. As if he’d reached heaven. “Absolutely perfect,” he said.
“I made the sangria,” Celia said. “Luisa made the food, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Harry said, laughing.
“And John got the umbrella.”
John bent down and grabbed the wigs. “And these.”
He handed me a curly black one and gave Celia a short blond one. Harry took a red one. And John put on the long brown one that made him look like a hippie.
We all laughed as we looked at one another, but I was surprised to see just how realistic they managed to be. And when I put on the coordinating pair of sunglasses, I felt a little freer.
“If you got the wigs and Celia made the sangria, what did Evelyn do?” Harry asked as he took Connor off his back and put her on the blanket. I grabbed her and helped her sit up.
“Good question,” John said, smiling. “You’d have to ask her.”
“Oh, I helped,” I said.
“Actually, yeah, Evelyn, what did you do?” Celia said.
I looked up to see the three of them all staring at me teasingly.
“I . . .” I gestured vaguely to the picnic basket. “You know . . .”
“No,” Harry said, laughing. “I don’t know.”
“Listen, I’ve been very busy,” I said.
“Uh-huh,” Celia said.
“Oh, all right.” I lifted Connor up as she started to frown. I knew it meant tears were coming any moment. “I didn’t do a damn thing.”
The three of them started laughing at me, and then Connor started laughing, too.
John opened the basket. Celia poured wine. Harry leaned over and kissed Connor’s forehead.
It was one of the last times we were all together, laughing, smiling, happy. A family.
Because after that, I ruined it.
DON AND I WERE IN the middle of shooting Three A.M. in New York. Luisa, Celia, and Harry were trading off watching Connor while I was at work. The days were longer than we anticipated, and the shoot ran long.
I played Patricia, a woman in love with a drug addict, Mark, played by Don. And every day, I could see that he was not the old Don I knew, showing up to set and saying some lines with charm. This was striking, superlative, raw acting. He was pulling from his life, and he was putting it on film.
On set, you really hope that it’s all coming together into something magical in the camera lens. But there’s never any way to know for sure.
Even when Harry and I were producing work ourselves, when we were watching the dailies so often that my eyes felt dry and I was losing track of reality versus film, we were never one hundred percent sure that all the parts were coming together perfectly until we saw the first cut.
But on the set of Three A.M., I just knew. I knew it was a movie that would change how people saw me, how people saw Don. I thought it might just be good enough to change lives, to get people clean. It might just be good enough to change the way movies were made.
So I sacrificed.
When Max wanted more days, I gave up time with Connor to be there. When Max wanted more nights, I gave up dinners and evenings with Celia. I must have called Celia almost every day from the set, apologizing for something. Apologizing that I couldn’t meet her at the restaurant in time. Apologizing that I needed her to stay home and watch Connor for me.
I could tell that part of her regretted pushing me to do the movie. I don’t think she liked me working with my ex-husband every day. I don’t think she liked me working with Max Girard every day. I don’t think she liked my long hours. And I got the impression that while she loved my baby girl, babysitting wasn’t exactly her idea of a good time.
But she kept it to herself and supported me. When I called to say I’d be late for the millionth time, she would say, “It’s OK, honey. Don’t worry. Just be great.” She was an excellent partner in that regard, putting me first, putting my work first.
And then, toward the end of shooting, after a long day of emotional scene work, I was in my dressing room getting ready to go home when Max knocked on my door.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”
He looked at me with consideration and then took a seat. I remained standing, committed to leaving. “I think, Evelyn, we have something to think about.”
“We do?”
“The love scene is next week.”