Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters)

“Well.” Piper broke into her thoughts. “As someone who has only recently embarked on adulthood herself, I can tell you it’s scary but rewarding. There’s also lots of making my own meals and wearing jeans.” She pretended to cry, and Hannah laughed. “But I couldn’t have done it without you, Hannah. You made me consider possibilities I never dreamed of. That’s how I know you’re capable of anything. Don’t let a head injury and feeling scruffy stop you. My sister is dependable and creative and doesn’t take anyone’s shit. If this studio doesn’t give you the opportunity, another one will. Dammit.” Piper smiled prettily. “And I’m sorry for cursing, Opal. I’m just trying to get my point across.”

“I’m a fisherman’s mother, dear. Cursing is part of the vocabulary.”

Piper was being Hannah’s supporting actress for once, and that fact wasn’t lost on her. The role reversal, coupled with the warm pressure behind her eyes, probably accounted for Hannah doing something totally out of character. “Can you help me out with the scruffiness? Just for tonight.” She poked a finger through the thumb hole of her sweatshirt. “There’s a cast party at one of the houses we’re renting.”

Her sister slowly laid a hand on her arm, nails digging in lightly. “Are you asking me to dress you up?”

“Just for tonight. I need all the professional confidence.”

“Oh my God,” Piper breathed, teary-eyed. “I know just the dress.”

“Nothing flashy—”

“Zip. Zip it. Not another word. You’re going to trust me.”

Hannah swallowed a smile and did as she was told. There might have been a speck of vanity inside her that wanted to catch Sergei’s attention at the crew party tonight, and she wondered if a Piper-style dress might do it. But that definitely wasn’t her reason for dressing up. If she wanted to move to the next level in this industry, people had to start taking her seriously. Plain and simple? In Hollywood, image mattered, whether it should or not. Sparkle got attention and forced people to listen. To consider. No one would ever ask Piper or Brinley to hold their straw or stir their coffee counterclockwise, would they? I’m looking at you, Christian.

Nor would they expect Brinley to do all the heavy lifting at the studio without paying her properly. For a long time, Hannah had reasoned that it didn’t matter what her paycheck looked like. She lived with her parents in Bel-Air, for crying out loud. They had an Olympic-sized swimming pool in the backyard and a full-time staff. Since getting back in her stepfather’s good graces, money was available to her again, if she ever needed funds beyond her paycheck. But her meager earnings were becoming a matter of principle. They wouldn’t have managed this location shoot without her—and Latrice—pulling several all-nighters. The difference being, Latrice got paid what she was worth.

Dressing for success seemed almost too easy compared to the hard work she’d been doing lately, but giving it a try wouldn’t hurt.

“All this movie-soundtrack and Fleetwood Mac talk reminded me of something,” Opal said, pulling Hannah from her ruminations. “I have something to show you girls.”

Their grandmother got to her feet and power walked to the other side of the living room, taking a slim blue folder off the top of her bookcase. Knowing whatever was in that folder would pertain to her father, Hannah’s stomach started to drop. This was the part of catching up with her grandmother she always dreaded: when Piper and Opal would be moved to tears over some piece of Henry’s history, and she would feel like a statue, trying to relate.

“One of Henry’s old shipmates brought these into Blow the Man Down over the weekend. I was out with the girls.” Their grandmother said the last part with pride, winking at Piper. For a long time, Opal’s grief over the passing of her son had kept her inside the apartment. At least until Piper came along, gave her a sassy haircut and some new clothes, reintroducing her to the town she’d been missing. Hannah liked to think her playlists had helped motivate Opal to get social again, too. “These were written by your father,” she said, opening the folder.

Both sisters leaned in and squinted down at the small handwriting that took up several pages of stained and age-worn paper.

“Are they letters?” Piper asked.

“They’re songs,” Opal murmured, running a fingertip over a few sentences. “Sea shanties, to be exact. He used to sing them around the house in the early days. I didn’t even know he’d written them down.”

Hannah felt a tug of almost reluctant interest. She’d gotten her hopes up a few times that a photograph or a token of her father’s might bring on some tide of emotion, but it never happened, and it wouldn’t now. “Was he a good singer?”

“He had a deep voice. Powerful. Rich. A lot like his laugh, it could pass right through you.”