“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.”

“I’m aware.”

“This movie, it is almost done.”

“Yes.”

“And I think it is missing something.”

“Like what?”

“I think that the viewer needs to understand the raw magnetism of Patricia and Mark’s attraction.”

“I agree. That’s why I agreed to really show my breasts. You’re getting what no other filmmaker, including yourself, has ever gotten from me before. I’d think you’d be thrilled.”

“Yes, of course, I am, but I think we need to show that Patricia is a woman who takes what she wants, who delights in the sins of the flesh. She is, right now, such a martyr. She is a saint, helping Mark all through the film, standing by him.”

“Right, because of how much she loves him.”

“Yes, but we also need to see why she loves him. What does he give to her, what does she get from him?”

“What are you getting at?”

“I want us to shoot something almost no one does.”

“Which is?”

“I want to show you screwing because you love it.” His eyes were wide and excited. He was creatively enthralled. I always knew Max was a little lascivious, but this was different. This was a rebellious act. “Think about it. Sex scenes are about love. Or power.”

“Sure. And the purpose of the love scene next week is to show how much Patricia loves Mark. How much she believes in him. How strong their connection is.”

Max shakes his head. “I want it to show the audience that part of the reason Patricia loves Mark is because he makes her orgasm.”

I felt myself pulling back, trying to take it all in. It shouldn’t have felt so scandalous, and yet it absolutely was. Women have sex for intimacy. Men have sex for pleasure. That’s what culture tells us.

The idea that I’d be shown to enjoy my body, to desire the male form just as strongly as I was desired, to show a woman putting her own physical pleasure at the forefront . . . it felt daring.

What Max was talking about was a graphic portrayal of female desire. And my gut instinct was that I loved the idea. I mean, the thought of filming a graphic sex scene with Don was about as arousing to me as a bowl of bran flakes. But I wanted to push the envelope. I wanted to show a woman getting off. I liked the idea of showing a woman having sex because she wanted to be pleased instead of being desperate to please. So in a moment of excitement, I grabbed my coat, put out my hand, and said, “I’m in.”

Max laughed and hopped out of his chair, taking my hand and shaking it. “Fantastique, ma belle!”

What I should have done was tell him I had to think about it. What I should have done was tell Celia about it the moment I got home. What I should have done was give her a say.

I should have given her the opportunity to express any misgivings. I should have respected that while she had no place to tell me what I could and could not do with my body, I did have a responsibility to inquire about how my actions might affect her. I should have taken her out to dinner and told her what I wanted to do and explained why I wanted to do it. I should have made love to her that night, to show her that the only body I was truly interested in deriving pleasure from was hers.

These are simply things you do. These are kindnesses you extend to the person you love when you know that your job will entail the world seeing images of you having sex with another person.

I did none of that for Celia.

Instead, I avoided her.

I went home and checked on Connor. I went into the kitchen and ate a chicken salad Luisa had left in the fridge.

Celia came in and hugged me. “How was shooting?”

“Good,” I said. “Completely fine.”