Naturally, I voted for her.

When she won, I was in New York with Connor and Harry. Max had gone to the awards that year alone. It was a fight between the two of us. He wanted me with him, but I wanted to spend the evening with my family, not in a control slip and six-inch heels.

Also, if I’m being entirely frank, I was fifty years old. There was an entire new generation of actresses to compete with. They were all gorgeous, with smooth skin and shiny hair. When you are known for being gorgeous, you cannot imagine suffering a fate worse than standing next to someone and falling short.

It did not matter how beautiful I used to be. The clock was ticking, and everyone could see it.

My roles were starting to dry up. The parts I was being offered were the mothers of the great roles being offered to women literally half my age. Life in Hollywood is a bell curve, and I had prolonged my time at the top for as long as possible. I’d lasted longer than most. But I had come around the corner now. And they were all but putting me out to pasture.

So no, I did not want to go to the Academy Awards. Instead of flying to L.A. and spending the day in a makeup chair and then sucking in and standing up straight in front of hundreds of cameras and millions of eyes, I spent the day with my daughter.

Luisa was on vacation, and we had not found someone we liked to step in for her, so Connor and I spent the day making a game out of cleaning the house. We made dinner together. Afterward, we popped some popcorn and sat down with Harry to watch as Celia won.

Celia was wearing a yellow silk dress with a ruffled edge. Her red hair, now shorter, was pulled back in a chignon. She was older, certainly, but never more breathtaking. When they called her name, she got up on the stage and accepted her award with the grace and sincerity that audiences had always known her for. And just as she was about to leave the microphone, she said, “And to anyone tempted to kiss the TV tonight, please don’t chip your tooth.”

“Mom, why are you crying?” Connor asked.

I put my hand to my face and realized that I had teared up.

Harry smiled at me and rubbed my back. “You should call her,” he said. “It’s never a bad idea to bury hatchets.”

Instead, I wrote a letter.

My Dearest Celia,

Congratulations! You absolutely deserve it. There is no doubt you are the most talented actress of our generation.

I wish for nothing more than your complete and total happiness. I did not kiss the TV this time, but I did cheer just as loudly as I did the other times.

All my love,

Edward

Evelyn

I sent it with the peace of sending off a message in a bottle. Which is to say that I expected no response. But a week later, there it was. A small, square, cream-colored envelope addressed to me.

My Dearest Evelyn,

Reading your letter felt like gasping for air after being trapped under water. I hope you will forgive me for being so blunt, but how did we make such a mess of it all? And what does it mean that we have not spoken in a decade but I still hear your voice in my head every day?

XO,

Celia

My Dearest Celia,

I own all of our missteps. I was selfish and shortsighted. I can only hope that you have found bliss somewhere else. You deserve so much happiness. And I am sorry I could not give that to you.

Love,

Evelyn

My Dearest Evelyn,

You are dealing in revisionist history. I was insecure and petty and naive. I blamed you for the things you did to keep our secrets. But the truth is, each time you stopped the outside world from coming into our life, I felt immense relief. And all my happiest moments were orchestrated by you. I never gave you enough credit for that. We were both to blame. But you were the only one to ever apologize. Please let me rectify that now: I’m sorry, Evelyn.

Love,

Celia

P.S. I watched Three A.M. some months ago. It is a bold, brave, important film. I would have been wrong to stand in the way of it. You have always been so much more talented than I ever gave you credit for.

My Dearest Celia,

Do you think lovers can ever be friends? I hate to think of the years we have left in this life wasted by continuing not to speak.

Love,

Evelyn

My Dearest Evelyn,

Is Max like Harry? Like Rex?

Love,

Celia

My Dearest Celia,

I am sorry to say that no, he’s not. He is different. But I am desperate to see you. Can we meet?

Love,

Evelyn

My Dearest Evelyn,

To be frank, that news breaks me. I do not know if I could bear seeing you given those circumstances.

Love,

Celia

My Dearest Celia,

I have called you many times in the past week, but you have not returned my calls. I’ll try again. Please, Celia. Please.

Love,

Evelyn

HELLO?” HER VOICE SOUNDED EXACTLY like it used to. Sweet but somehow firm.

“It’s me,” I said.

“Hi.” The way she warmed up in that moment made me hopeful that I might be able to put my life back together, the way it should have always been.

“I did love him,” I said. “Max. But I don’t anymore.”

The line was quiet.

Then she asked, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’d like to see you.”

“I can’t see you, Evelyn.”

“Yes, you can.”

“What do you want us to do?” she said. “Ruin each other all over again?”

“Do you still love me?” I asked.

She was silent.

“I still love you, Celia. I swear I do.”

“I . . . I don’t think we should talk about this. Not if . . .”

“Not if what?”

“Nothing has changed, Evelyn.”

“Everything has changed.”

“People still can’t know who we really are.”

“Elton John is out of the closet,” I said. “Has been for years.”

“Elton John doesn’t have a child and a career based on audiences believing he’s a straight man.”

“You’re saying we’ll lose our jobs?”

“I can’t believe I have to tell you this,” she said.

“Well, let me tell you something that has changed,” I told her. “I no longer care. I’m ready to give it all up.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m absolutely serious.”

“Evelyn, we haven’t even seen each other in years.”

“I know you were able to forget me,” I said. “I know you were with Joan. I’m sure you were with others.” I waited, hoping she would correct me, hoping she would tell me there had been no one else. But she didn’t. And so I continued. “But can you honestly say that you stopped loving me?”

“Of course not.”

“And I can’t say that, either. I have loved you every single day.”

“You married someone else.”

“I married him because he helped me forget you,” I said. “Not because I stopped loving you.”

I heard Celia breathe deeply.

“I’ll come to L.A.,” I said. “And you and I will have dinner. OK?”

“Dinner?” she said.

“Just dinner. We have things to talk about. I think we at least owe each other a nice, long talk. How about the week after next? Harry can watch Connor. I can stay for a few days.”

Celia was quiet again. I could tell she was thinking. I got the impression that this was a deciding moment for my future, our future.

“OK,” she said. “Dinner.”

* * *

THE MORNING I left for the airport, Max slept in late. He was supposed to be on set later in the afternoon for a night shoot, so I squeezed his hand good-bye and then grabbed my things from the closet.

I couldn’t decide if I wanted to take Celia’s letters with me or not. I had kept them all, with their envelopes, in a box at the back of my closet. Over the past few days, as I was gathering what I would take, I packed them and then unpacked them, trying to decide.

I had been rereading them every day since Celia and I started talking. I didn’t want to be apart from them. I liked to run my fingers over the words, feeling the way the pen had embossed the paper. I liked hearing her voice in my head. But I was flying to see her. So I decided I didn’t need them.