Nantucket Gala (A Nantucket Sunset #12)

Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

February 2025

Nantucket Island

B arry dropped Henry off a little after ten to a brightly lit Copperfield House. Before he could clip away, Bernard leaped from the front door and waved for Barry to enter. Barry cut the engine and said, “Your grandfather never let me go without a cigar and a whiskey. That’s always been his style.”

Henry tried to laugh. But in his mind, he kept playing over his conversation with Barry. It wasn’t long before he’d have to admit to Sophia that he’d told her secrets. How would he get her on his side? He didn’t even know what she thought about the allegations against Francis! She’d never divorced him. Did that mean that she didn’t believe he’d committed a crime?

Did Sophia think Francis was having an affair with Natalie?

His thoughts ran in circles.

Bernard already had his pipe between his lips. He threw his arms around Barry and Henry and bellowed, “I trust it was a wonderful meeting?”

“Better than I imagined,” Barry said, clapping Bernard on the shoulder.

“He’s a Copperfield, isn’t he?” Bernard said, winking at Henry.

“I hope you’ll join us on this journey, Bernard,” Barry said, tracing the path up the stairs to Bernard’s study. “We’ll need help on rewrites. We’ll need your eye on set!”

Bernard cackled. “You’ve been trying to get me into the film industry for years, Barry. But I did my time in prison. I don’t want to latch myself to anything I don’t care about. Every minute I live is for my art, my family, and myself.”

“Never forget yourself!” Barry cried.

Henry sensed that he was supposed to follow them upstairs and into Bernard’s study, but he hung back, listening to the thud of his heart. After a moment, he heard the sound of the sink in the kitchen, and he hurried in to find his grandmother. Greta had her sleeves rolled all the way to her elbows, and her eyes were red. But when she heard Henry come in, she cut the water, dried her hands, and hugged him.

“Tell me everything!”

Henry felt shaky. Greta put the kettle on and sat across from him. From all corners of The Copperfield House came the sounds of his family, as well as members of the artist residency, up late at night, searching their conversations for understanding. Henry put his forehead on the table.

“I have to go back to LA.”

Greta’s voice was strained. “Why? I thought Barry was going to do all the legwork for you! I thought this meant you could stay in Nantucket.”

Henry sighed and shook his head. “I told him I had Sophia’s approval to write the script.”

“Oh.”

Henry raised his chin to look at his grandmother. He expected her to scowl with disappointment, but her smile was cagey, as though she were about to burst into giggles. He didn’t understand it.

“It’s just as I always said,” Greta offered. “You have to do what you want to creatively. And you can ask for forgiveness later.”

Henry palmed the back of his neck. “Barry seems eager to get started. But what he read is only a draft. I want to change it here and there. I want to understand the Natalie character a little more.” His head throbbed with an incoming headache. “When I go back to LA, I might ask Sophia more about her. Maybe she had a hand in hiring her for The Brutal Horizon. Maybe she saw the beginnings of Francis and Natalie’s affair.”

Greta furrowed her brow. “Remember, you aren’t trying to make a documentary. You can deviate from the story whenever you please.”

But Henry was beginning to think that wasn’t so. Sophia was a real person. She’d spent decades of her life in that big house in Beverly Hills all by herself. Alone with her maids and her memories , he thought.

“Why do you think Sophia never wanted to write this story herself?” Henry asked finally.

Greta took a sip of tea and cast her eyes to the dark window. From where they sat in silence, they could hear the waves crash along the beach.

It reminded Henry of what it must feel like to live in a lighthouse.

“I’ve wondered that myself,” Greta offered.

“Right? She was such a talented writer. Why didn’t she try to make it on her own after Francis left for Europe? Or why didn’t she go with him to Europe in the first place? Why did she hibernate? Why did she give up?”

“It sounds like you have a lot of questions to answer,” Greta pointed out.

“But you must remember what it was like for her after Francis left.” Henry dug deeper. He felt his grandmother was hiding something but wasn’t sure why.

Greta leaned back in her chair. She didn’t look at Henry when she said, “Sophia was devastated when Francis left, obviously. She didn’t want him to go.”

“But why did he go?” Henry demanded. “Did he escape the legal system?”

It occurred to him that he wasn’t entirely sure how all that worked. Maybe France had agreed to hide him because he was such an artist. To Henry, that sounded vaguely French.

“No,” Greta said, laughing gently. “But there was a smear campaign against him. Everyone was sure that Francis Bianchi was a murderer. All of his producers backed out of The Brutal Horizon . Many high-profile actors said they wouldn’t work with him. If he wanted to continue to make films, he had to do it elsewhere.”

Henry pressed his lips together and realized they were hard and chapped.

“I have to figure out why Sophia didn’t go with him,” Henry said, his head down as he watched the steam unfurl from his tea.

Greta touched Henry’s hand. “Don’t get too carried away, Henry. Remember this is just a story.”

“It could be my first big break,” Henry said, suddenly terrified. “I need it to be right.”