For three years Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams were Brooklyn's golden couple. In light of the star's untimely death, Radar looks back at the pair's life together and the days after their split

This article originally ran in the Dec./Jan. issue of Radar Magazine. For a risk-free issue, click here

In the dappled September sunlight, shortly after news of the couple's breakup hit the press, a white Celebrity Moving truck sat idling just outside of Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams' 3,600-square-foot, putty-green Boerum Hill townhouse. Heath, it seemed, was skateboarding into the sunset, presumably undergoing some sort of late-twenties crisis as the pressures of stardom and fatherhood—along with several expertly layered scarves—bore down upon his well-toned trapezius muscles.

Along with their artfully named toddler, Matilda Rose, Heath and Michelle—still shy of 30—seemed to be living the dreamFor an avowed nesting-porn addict like myself with a weak spot for Heath and Michelle's singularly unassuming bohemian cool, the couple's split was unexpectedly devastating. And not just because, as the New York Times would later fret, Brooklyn's newfound status as Gotham's most smugly hip borough hung in the balance. It was something deeper. Heath and Michelle, still shy of 30, seemed to be living the dream. Along with their artfully named toddler, Matilda Rose, they represented hard evidence that sturdy, cable sweater–wearing, mortgage-paying romance was not only possible, but in the right hands, even glamorous.

For the sort of women who ooh and aahh over leather-strapped English baby shoes and tiny smocked dresses with Peter Pan collars, those who read Cookie in the bathtub and grow weak at the mention of the word renovation, it was hard not to take the split personally. Heathchelle had betrayed us all. "The relationship had been rocky recently," an anonymous source told Us Weekly. "They tried very hard to make it work but finally decided to separate." And then followed the inevitable platitude: "They just grew apart."

Grew apart? After nearly three years of quietly obsessing over their stalwart romance, their gene-blessed child, and yes, their four-story, $3.5 million piece of heaven, I felt conned. Weeks before the breakup, I'd turned 29—a year older than Heath and a staggering two older than Michelle. I was in a long-term relationship with a fellow who wore ratty John Varvatos jeans and sported designer-quality stubble to work at his Web firm in Chelsea. We were happy—disconcertingly so. But issues were looming. Even in our cooler-than-thou corner of Brooklyn, filled with trendy gin joints and skate shops, it was hard to ignore the wave of babies crashing on our doorstep.

Just down the street from our newly purchased condo, a cozy coffeehouse-slash-urban "playspace" had opened, serving organic PB&J and soy milk to hipster spawn. Nearby, a chic baby goods store sprung to life where a shady auto-body shop once stood. I'd drag the boyfriend in under the pretext of shopping for his infant niece, and wind up stroking the contours of the David Netto–designed cribs, noting how nice they'd look in our home. My hints didn't get much traction, but the simple fact that Heath and

Michelle lived in our midst (albeit with their drivers, stylists, and multimillion-dollar paychecks) seemed to prove that perhaps there was a compromise: Indie rock and infant yoga could coexist. Unmarried bliss, plus baby, plus stylish abode, was a real possibility for urbanites like us—or so I was determined to convince the boyfriend, with Heath and Michelle as a sterling example.

Sure, it was all a little cloying, but they presented a fantasy that seemed eminently attainable, and we all lapped it up. Even as their relationship was quietly fizzling out behind closed doors, the New York Observer crowned them King and Queen of the "New Victorians," a tribe of neotraditionalists far removed from the flash of Hollywood—couples who are happy to breed young and get to bed early. They were just the sorbet needed to cleanse our palates after months upon months of Paris, Britney, Nicole, and Lindsay, and to assure us that there were beautifully attired children somewhere in our futures.

Like so many things that are truly meaningful in life, my fixation with Michelle began nine years ago with Dawson's Creek, back when Heath's only major credit was as a peripheral character on an Aussie soap. While any Dawson's viewer could be forgiven for wanting to punch Katie Holmes' lip-biting Joey Potter in the face, Michelle, who played a New York transplant with a slutty past, exuded that accessible, porcelain-faced "Okay, I'm kind of the town bike" fragility a girl could relate to. Sadly, she was punished for her teen slutitude with a fatal heart condition in season six.

Naturally, I was rooting for her when, against all odds, she resurfaced in sleeper hits like The Station Agent and The Baxter, sagely eschewing the straight-to-DVD slasher films that are the usual destiny of teen cable stars. When she landed a role in Brokeback Mountain, her cred Instead of partying at some club, Heath took Matilda to the playground. The Boerum Hill mothers couldn't stop talking about itspiked even further. Her fledgling romance with Ledger, a suitable big-screen hunk, sealed her initiation into the artsy A-list.

The couple, apparently "googly-eyed" on the movie's set, had moved into the same trailer while filming heartrending scenes as a husband and wife torn asunder by Heath's inability to quit Jake Gyllenhaal. Barely a year after the movie wrapped, their towheaded daughter was born, and the promotional campaign for the flick got underway. Jake was named godfather. Appearing on Oprah, Ledger stopped short of jumping up and down on the couch over his new romance, but he did tell the chat queen, earnestly, that each day: "I just fall deeper and deeper in love with both my girls." Backed by his 'n' hers Oscar noms, they were formidable. When they both lost, it hardly mattered: They had each other. And, of course, Matilda Rose.

Heathchelle then zeroed in on their enviable home in Brooklyn, igniting buzz at the shelter blogs as they set out to cultivate their outer-borough idyll in earnest, adeptly playing the roles of oh-so-ordinary, ultracool Brooklyn parents.

Reese and Ryan fell out over his trite indiscretions with Abbie Cornish, and Jen and Brad were no match for the unstoppable Angelina, but Heath and Michelle conveyed a seriousness of purpose that even the most jaded tabloid readers could believe in. "I always sort of imagined I would be a young mother," Michelle told Nylon last year. "Kids just bring such a natural order to your life. ... For the next 18 years, I'm devoted to somebody's welfare." Heath went even further, boasting that he wanted not one but six young 'uns. "We've just been living in Brooklyn and really committing our time to Matilda," he affirmed. "We wanted to distance ourselves, and we couldn't think of anything better to do than wake up to play with our child." With that, millions of women felt the palpable tick of their biological clocks, took up knitting baby booties, and then ran out to buy Brooklyn-appropriate librarian glasses. If we procreated in time, our offspring might just land a playdate with one of the Ledger brood. Then a chat by the sandbox ... a birthday party invite ... could a game of Scrabble over a plate of artisanal cheese and organic wine be far behind?

Real estate was key to the fantasy. The mid-19th-century house the couple chose—25 feet wide, straddling the leafy corner of Hoyt and Dean Streets—seemed better suited to a tenured professor and his playwright wife. Proximity to historic and tony Brooklyn Heights lent a touch of respectability, while the assortment of scrappy housing projects nearby suggested a hint of populism. The only California twist was an improbable three-car garage—a spot to park the Escalade away from the judgmental eyes of the environmentally conscientious local gentry.

Trapped in the shadow of Manhattan for years, Brooklyn was given a fresh dose of credibility by Heath and Michelle's move. With this latest endorsement, real estate values were sure to soar, making it all the wiser that my boyfriend and I had stretched for a two-bedroom. And the couple made for great hometown boosters. As Heath gushed to New York magazine, "We know everyone on our block. We've localized ourselves. I don't think there's another place on earth I'd rather be right now." When a big development project threatened to cast a shadow over their low-rise sanctuary, the couple joined an activist group and Michelle made a public plea to save their 'hood.
Suddenly, Heath was behaving much like any other twentysomething: canoodling with Helena Christensen, and allegedly procuring adoring girls for parties at his SoHo bachelor pad
Their community-mindedness made them a hit with the neighbors. Hoyt Street had been named one of the greenest blocks in Brooklyn, with its own Greening Coordinator, who saw to it that coffee grounds from the Victory Café were duly composted for use in local beds. Michelle mused to reporters about going Christmas caroling with the block association. Heath even invited a few Hoyt Street homeowners to the Brokeback premiere.

As photos of young Matilda in the company of her unmarried movie-star parents began clogging celebrity baby blogs, I grew obsessed: Heath pushes a Maclaren while wearing a snug woolly hat and grandpa cardigan! Michelle takes the baby to hear kid rocker Dan Zanes in Prospect Park! Heath holds Matilda on his shoulders while rocking several self-designed tattoos! Matilda, still shy of two, pairs baby Crocs with a cozy French fisherman's sweater!

On celebrity-babies.com, a site I had been lured to as if by biological force, whole posts were devoted to Matilda's Picaflor peasant dress (in Seafoam/Sage), her retro Gap fisherman's sandals, and her environmentally friendly Seventh Generation chlorine-free diapers. I could just imagine her parents stuffing the Smeg fridge with organic greens, growing tomato plants in their ample backyard, or baking their own bread—and thereby imagine my fellow and I doing the same. They were the ultimate, photogenic testament to the concrete possibility of pure domestic bliss in the shabby-chic mode. They even took the subway.

Danielle Friedland, who founded celebrity-babies.com four years ago and says she gets more than 2.3 million unique visitors per month, agrees that Heathchelle was a perfect storm of low-key anti-celebrity: "I think part of the fascination came from the fact that Heath took time off from his career to stay home with Matilda," she says, adding, "Michelle is one of my fave celeb moms because she seems so normal." And while Michelle was filming Charlie Kaufman's new film Synecdoche, New York (in Williamsburg—close enough to come home each night!), Heath kept up the Mr. Mom routine, with nary a beleaguered nanny in sight. "Instead of partying at some club, Heath took Matilda to the playground," Friedland says. "The Boerum Hill mothers couldn't stop talking about it, even though their whole shtick is to pretend they don't care. It's part of the fantasy." The fact that I—and 2.3 million others a month—fell for it doesn't surprise Friedland a bit. "Everybody loves babies," she says. "They don't show their crotches when they are getting out of cars. There's an innocence to babies that sort of transcends celebrity."

And then, one day, it was all finished. The absurdly named Celebrity Moving van pulled away from its shaded spot on Dean Street, and the next thing we knew, Heath was all over Page Six, behaving much like any other twentysomething leading man: canoodling with Helena Christensen, soaking up the limelight at Marc Jacobs, and allegedly procuring adoring girls at downtown bars for parties at his new SoHo bachelor pad. At home, I made a mental note to stop with the incessant procreation chitchat, lest my boyfriend pull a Heath and go supermodel-hunting himself. Seeing the strain in Michelle's face as she wore the mantle of "single mom" for the first time, I wanted to avert my eyes. The couple who had made such a spectacle out of not being a spectacle were history, as was my obsession with their particular alchemy.

I wasn't alone. "This news is too sad for me," a poster named Genevieve lamented on Babyrazzi's message board. "It's like my world shattered." "Some couples you expect to break up, but not them," wrote Lola over at celebrity-babies.com. "Don't let it be true!"

Oh, well. No sense living in the past—not with Jennifer Garner, Ben Affleck, and little Violet to crush on. I hear via celebrity-babies.com that they really do bake bread together, and that Jen has all but given up her day job to devote herself to motherhood full-time. "People can't get enough of her," Friedland tells me. "She goes to the farmers' market. She doesn't even have a diaper bag, she uses a backpack. Violet wears playclothes; Mom's in a fleece. They're utterly relatable. Of course," she adds, "they are still movie stars."



This article is from the Dec/Jan issue of Radar Magazine. For a risk-free issue, click here