Nantucket Gala (A Nantucket Sunset #12)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

June 1985

Nantucket Island

I t was Francis’s idea to sail to Nantucket. “Better to take our time, darling. The gala can’t start without us.” Despite beautiful and sun-dappled days of sailing up the East Coast, hours spent eating raspberries and drinking champagne and talking about the future, minutes during which Sophia was sure that nothing existed except Francis and Sophia and the enormity of their love, Sophia and Francis reached Nantucket with four days to spare—enough time to relax and recoup and reunite with their dear friends, Bernard and Greta Copperfield. To Sophia’s surprise, Bernard, Greta, and their four children met them at the dock. They were a picture-perfect family: eleven-year-old Quentin, eight-year-old Alana, six-year-old Julia, and five-year-old Ella. Ella handed Sophia a bouquet of handpicked flowers and smiled generously. “Welcome to Nantucket!”

Sophia beamed and fell into Greta’s embrace. “They’re gorgeous, Greta,” she whispered into Greta’s ear. “All four of them! But how do you handle so many?”

Greta laughed. “They’re much easier to manage than the artists at the residency, if you can believe it.”

“No surprise there,” Sophia agreed, looping her arm through Greta’s and following the children down the dock. They would have dinner at The Copperfield House and spend the night before checking into their hotel tomorrow. This would allow the four friends to talk deep into the night—about the nature of filmmaking, about Greta’s and Bernard’s writing, and about what was next for the two couples and the people who surrounded them.

After meeting in Paris thirteen years ago, Greta and Bernard had moved to Nantucket to refurbish an old Victorian home, which they then opened as an artist residency. Filmmakers and painters and writers and musicians of all backgrounds and ways of life came from miles around to live and work at The Copperfield House. The last time Sophia was here—two years ago and six months before her wedding to Francis—she’d sat with three Italian musicians on the back porch and listened to them perform an album that shot up to number one in Sicily the following year.

It was a space where magic flourished. It was a place where people could rejuvenate their artistic practices and feel the density of their souls.

Sophia liked to think of it as a place outside of time. But Francis often called her “overly romantic.”

Back at The Copperfield House, Quentin led his sisters upstairs to keep them from getting underfoot and, eventually, to put them to bed. He was a serious eleven-year-old with career ambitions and a desire to help his parents with all things Copperfield House and raising his little sisters. It was clear that Alana, at eight, already sort of resented this.

Greta kissed her children before they scampered away, telling them to have sweet dreams. She’d already fed them dinner before Sophia and Francis’s arrival. Now, she wrapped another apron around her waist and smiled at Sophia. The men had disappeared. Sophia wasn’t sure where they’d gone.

“Shall we open a bottle of wine?”

All the kitchen windows were open, bringing in the sounds of swelling waves and hawking gulls. Sophia sat at the kitchen table and watched Greta cook the rest of their dinner, puttering happily from one counter to the next and telling Sophia she didn’t want her help.

“It’s for the best,” Sophia admitted. “I hardly ever cook anymore. It seems like we’ve been traveling almost nonstop for six months. A month here, a month there, and plenty of dinner meetings with potential investors and actors and cinematographers.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Greta said.

“It’s been a dream,” Sophia agreed. “But I can’t for the life of me remember how to roast a chicken.”

“All that will come back to you when you need it again,” Greta assured. “Don’t worry yourself.”

Across the orange-lit sand walked Francis and Bernard, their hands behind their backs and their hair wind swept. Sophia wondered what they spoke about. Did Francis tell Bernard just how magical their previous few weeks had been? Did he ever mention what was really going on with his newest film? Did he ever clue him in on their secrets?

“Look at them,” Greta said, following Sophia’s gaze. “It’s always like old times with the two of them, isn’t it?”

“I sometimes wonder if Bernard regrets it,” Sophia said. “Leaving Francis in Italy and going to Paris, I mean.”

Greta’s eyes glinted with thought. “I asked him, of course.”

Sophia was surprised. “You asked him if he regretted giving up on his film career?”

“That, and leaving Europe and coming to Nantucket,” Greta affirmed. “He laughed at me. All he ever wanted, he said, was to write books and have a family. It’s what I always wanted, too. So I suppose we don’t have any regrets. Not right now, anyway.”

Sophia’s eyes widened. To her, it seemed that everyone was chasing Francis’s prominent filmmaking career. Bernard himself had been Francis’s protégé and mentee prior to Bernard’s departure for Paris, where he’d studied and met Greta and, apparently, decided he no longer wanted to make films. That was before Francis and Sophia met on the set of one of Francis’s films and fell in love.

That was back when Francis was married to somebody else.

Back when Sophia was trying to make it as an actress—despite her very little talent.

When it was time, Greta and Sophia set the table outside and called the men for dinner. Bernard poured the wine and raised a glass to toast Sophia and Francis and the upcoming Nantucket Gala.

“It isn’t every day that we come together to celebrate a future production,” he said, his eyes on Francis’s. “It’s a testament to Francis’s incredible previous achievements. It’s a sign of just how much respect my ex-mentor has garnered.”

“You’re too kind, Bernard,” Francis said, raising his glass. “Now all that’s left to do is hope people get their pocketbooks out and play the game!”

The Nantucket Gala had been Bernard and Greta’s idea. When they’d learned that Francis was struggling to get funding for his next production—a film called The Brutal Horizon —they’d pitched the idea of an immaculate party, a sort of fundraising event that would generate money for Francis’s next film and get everyone even more excited about Francis himself, who Bernard called a generation-defining artistic force.

The dinner was delicious because Greta had cooked it: salmon and rosemary potatoes and lemon tart for dessert. Another bottle of wine was fetched, and they sat back to watch the sun dive deeper over the horizon. Not once did a Copperfield child pester their parents. Not once did an artist from the residency come downstairs to bother Francis for an autograph. Sophia wondered if Greta and Bernard had asked them to stay away.

Under the table, Francis touched Sophia’s knee lovingly. She flinched but kept a smile on her face. It had been a remarkable seven days at sea. She wanted to keep the magic simmering between them, but something about returning to dry land forced gravity upon you. It forced you to reckon with the truth.

Soon after dinner, Bernard invited Francis to his study for cigars. Greta and Sophia cleared the table and sat beneath blankets on the back porch to watch the stars pop across the black sky. Greta let her hair down—literally and metaphorically—and Sophia thought to herself that Greta was every bit as beautiful as Hollywood actresses. But it was clear Greta didn’t care about that in the slightest. She was an academic. A writer. A woman who pursued language rather than anti-aging techniques.

Never had Sophia mentioned to Greta that she liked to write, too.

It felt like her biggest and most guarded secret.

Initially, Sophia had been embarrassed and sure she had no talent. Now, things were different.

Sophia asked Greta how it was to write and raise children at the same time.

“At my best, it’s a beautiful balancing act,” Greta said. “At my worst, it’s like juggling a bunch of plates and letting them all crash to the ground.” She laughed and sipped her wine. “But they’re good and creative children. I never have to ask them to write or draw or read or make something because they always want to. That, in turn, pushes me to write and keep going in my own craft.”

“They’re yours and Bernard’s,” Sophia said. “They couldn’t belong to anyone else.”

Greta nodded, looking reflective.

From deep in the black night over the water came a flash of light. It was a boat—maybe a cruise liner or a freight. It spoke to the incredible density of the ocean. Sophia shivered, remembering her days out on it with Francis. Just the two of them. When would it be just the two of them again? After the film? That could be two years from now.

Sophia and Francis had already been married for a year and a half.

But Francis’s other two marriages hadn’t lasted more than four years. Sophia’s pulse quickened.

“How are you feeling about The Brutal Horizon ?” Greta asked. “You’ll be filming all over Europe, right? It sounds exhausting. But vivifying, I suppose.”

Sophia’s cheeks were warm. She bit her tongue hard to keep from spilling the beans about The Brutal Horizon .

“You know what Francis is like,” Sophia offered instead. “It’s sensational to watch him work. He always completely disappears into it.”

“It sounds lonely.”

“It can be,” Sophia said. “But I make it my business to be as involved in the filmmaking as I can. I love the art of storytelling. You know I worked as an actress for a little while? And I love speaking with the actors and helping them find their motivations.”

Greta tilted her head. “It sounds like you're a part-time director.”

Sophia bit her tongue again. You just couldn’t resist, could you? she cursed herself.

“Not at all,” Sophia said, her laughter sparkling. “I just don’t want Francis to run off and forget about me. I like to be there.”

“How could he ever forget about you?”

Sophia drank more wine and pulled her eyes away from Greta’s.

“This is the second film of your marriage, correct?” Greta asked.

Sophia nodded. “We were married two months before A Sacred Fig began filming.”

“That film was really something,” Greta said. “As was the one before it. A Cataclysm . It was clear with that one that Francis was a singular talent.”

“But the films before that were wonderful, as well,” Sophia offered, standing up for her husband. “He was already Francis Bianchi. He was already famous in the late sixties and early seventies. He was already famous when Bernard tracked him down and asked to be his mentee.”

Greta clucked. “I never cared for his films prior to A Cataclysm . But you won’t tell him that, will you? It’s just one girl’s opinion.” Greta winked.

Sophia’s heart swelled, and her lips quivered into a smile.

“Oh, I’ve really made a mess of things, haven’t I?” Greta laughed.

From the open window at the top of The Copperfield House came the sounds of Francis and Bernard’s conversation, their deep and booming voices as they tore through a philosophical discussion. Sophia could smell their cigars.

“Forgive me for asking,” Greta said. “But how much older is Francis?”

“He was born in ’45,” Sophia answered automatically. “And I just turned twenty-seven this year.”

“That’s right. I’m sorry we couldn’t make it to Francis’s fortieth birthday party,” Greta said. “I saw some photos in a magazine at the grocery store. What a marvelous collection of stars. Bernard and I would have looked drab by comparison.”

“We would have loved to have you,” Sophia offered, remembering that glossy, champagne-soaked night in Los Angeles, the night two hundred and fifty millionaires sang “Happy Birthday” to Francis, the love of her life. She considered telling Greta that there hadn’t been a soul at that party she’d genuinely liked, that she liked Greta more than most people on the planet.

“Thirteen years is really nothing,” Sophia said about their age difference, then wondered if her inability to drop the subject meant it bothered her more than she could admit to herself. Francis’s first wife was his age—forty—and his second wife was six years younger than him. She’d been thirty at the time of their divorce.

Did that mean Francis would break things off with Sophia in three years?

“Thirteen years is nothing,” Greta agreed, waving her hand. “Love has no timeline. And like I said, Francis’s artistic merit has skyrocketed since he met you. You must ignite something inside him.”

Sophia blushed again.

“Have you ever considered making art of your own?” Greta asked.

Sophia thought about the typewriter she’d insisted on packing in the sailboat. She thought about the writing room she’d built for herself back in their Beverly Hills mansion. She thought about the intoxication of digging herself so deep into a story that she no longer remembered what the real world was like.

But she said, “Francis’s career is all-powerful. It’s like the sun. Now that he’s ramping up for another new film, I have to support him. I can’t think about myself.”

Greta cocked her head. She looked at Sophia as though she’d just spewed poison.

“It’s hard to believe the studios won’t shell out enough for The Brutal Horizon ,” Sophia observed, trying to distract Greta from her own thoughts.

“It’s like Bernard said at dinner. The Brutal Horizon takes risks the studios don’t know what to do with. But it’s better to fund your own artistic projects so you never have to ask for permission to make what you want.”

Sophia smiled and sipped her wine. It was exactly what she’d said to Francis, alone in the bedroom they’d shared in Paris last year, twisted up in the sheets. Don’t ask for permission. Apologize later.

Of course, she often wondered how much he’d taken that to heart.

Don’t hurt me, Francis . Her heart ached as she listened to him erupting with laughter upstairs.

You’d be nothing without me, Francis.

But nobody knows that except for us.