Nantucket Gala (A Nantucket Sunset #12)

Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

February 2025

Los Angeles, California

S unday morning, Sophia left San Francisco, flying first class back to LAX with her laptop open and a ton of notes scribbled in journals across her lap and in the empty seat beside her. As she’d texted Henry, she’d been in San Francisco to meet an old friend, a writer she’d met before she’d met Francis, before everything nightmarish had happened to her. This week, that friend gave her advice that felt like glue pulling all the scraps of her life together.

He’d said, “You’re a writer, Sophia. You need to do the work, whatever it takes.”

But this time, Sophia decided she didn’t want to write a screenplay. The film industry as it was now was garbage, and she had no interest whatsoever in writing for television. The idea that television had turned into an artistic medium floored her, no matter how much people told her The Sopranos was something special. No, this time, she planned to write a memoir that exposed every sinister detail of her life. She’d tell the story of Francis and Natalie in her own words. For the first time in her life, she wouldn’t leave anything out.

The plane landed at ten minutes past eleven. Before long, Sophia was in a taxi, whizzing back to her Beverly Hills home. To make sure it was still a go, she texted Henry: Tonight? I’m ordering food for us. Don’t tell your grandmother.

To this, Henry wrote: Looking forward! See you then.

Back at home, Sophia drew a hot bath and floated with the tips of her toes pointing toward the ceiling and the radio on. As she let her thoughts quiet and calm, a stray one came out of nowhere and suggested Henry inspired you . It was the reason you were writing your memoir. It was the reason you were coming to life again.

She realized it was true.

After she got out of the bath, she wrapped herself in a towel and sat at a desk she’d once used decades ago. It was here she’d written all of The Brutal Horizon and the untitled script they’d planned to film after that. As she sat in a haze of memories, she could almost make herself believe that Francis was just down the hall in his own office, smoking cigars and talking exuberantly to his cinematographer. She could almost imagine he would soon come down the hallway and kiss her and ask, “Dinner, honey? I want to take you out.”

A shiver went down her spine.

But the memoir was healthy, she decided. It would help her sort out the events of her life. It would help her figure out what she really thought of Francis—even now that he was gone.

She owed everything to Francis, really. The fact that he’d let her stay in his Los Angeles home was the only reason she’d had any stability. That, and the fact that he’d never demanded a divorce.

They’d lived like that for decades—in a kind of stalemate—neither one of them sending divorce papers. Not once had they reached out to one another. But Sophia continued to use their joint bank account. She continued to live. Francis could have stopped her at any time.

She would never forget that. She might have wound up destitute if not for that.

Francis’s goodness in the wake of Natalie’s death was never mentioned. Sophia needed to make that a central part of the book. She needed the Francis in the pages of her memoir to echo with the same contradictions and complexities as the real Francis. It was the only way to get the Sophia Bianchi story right.

Assuming the memoir sold, it would be the first money Sophia brought in by herself in ages. It would be the first piece of art recognized as Sophia’s own. For this reason, it had to be perfect. Sophia hoped she wouldn’t agonize over it for years and years, but there was no telling what would happen. Maybe when she died, it would remain unfinished. Perhaps she could give orders in her will for Henry Crawford to publish it for her. Maybe, in that small way, her legacy would live on.

I sound just like Francis , she joked to herself. I’m already thinking about my legacy.

Henry arrived five minutes before the food did. In his arms, he carried a bouquet. Sophia smiled and beckoned for him to enter, saying, “You’re a gentleman, Henry! Who taught you that? I know it wasn’t Bernard.” She winked.

Henry chuckled and removed his shoes. “It smells fantastic in here.”

“I hope you like Ethiopian food?”

Henry admitted he did. “But I haven’t had it since I left Chicago.”

“This is going to change your life.”

Because Ethiopian food was designed to be shared and eaten with your hands, Sophia and Henry opted for the smaller kitchen table overlooking Sophia’s immaculate garden. Sophia studied Henry’s expression, wondering what he thought of her life. Did he see it as the pathetic existence of an old woman? Or did he see the pride and grace she yearned to exhibit?

“I just got back from Nantucket,” Henry explained as they ate. “My grandma says hi.”

Sophia smiled. “You couldn’t pay me to go to Nantucket in the winter.”

Henry laughed. “It felt good to see some snow.”

“You’re nuts.” Sophia took a decadent bite of grilled meat and vegetables on a piece of spongey bread. “What did you get up to there?”

“Oh, you know. Seeing my mother. My grandparents. My cousins and sister and her new baby.”

“There are a lot of Copperfields now.”

“Too many. I’m still learning about them,” Henry admitted.

Sophia nodded, thinking of Bernard’s incarceration, the splitting up of a family she’d believed to be rock solid.

“I wanted to tell you that you inspired me,” she said.

Henry cocked his head. Something in his eyes told Sophia he was nervous.

“I’m writing a memoir,” she said. “I want people to know the truth. I want them to know that Francis stole from me, that I was never recognized for my talents. But I want them to know how complex Francis was, too.”

“That’s fantastic, Sophia.” He furrowed his brow as he chewed. “How are you going to handle the murder? I mean, are you going to say he did it?”

Sophia hadn’t fully reckoned with that part of the memoir yet. “That’s a question I’ll come to.”

Henry nodded, paused for a long moment, then straightened his face into a bright smile. “People are going to love it. I’m excited for you.”

“It won’t just be about Francis, you know. People forget that Francis died when I was twenty-seven years old. I had a whole life after that. I had numerous lovers and hobbies. I traveled extensively and became a very good tennis player.”

“I think people will be very curious about what you’ve been up to,” Henry said.

Sophia’s heart filled with light.

After Francis left Nantucket on a private plane and fled for Paris, running away from allegations and the smearing of his good name, Sophia didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, she’d been cast as the pitiful wife of a murderer, a murderer who’d probably been cheating on her with the woman he’d murdered, and the paparazzi hadn’t been able to get enough of her. Immediately, she flew back to Los Angeles to hide herself away. But the paparazzi had lined the sidewalks and the streets all over Beverly Hills, and she hadn’t been able to leave her house in eight months. Everyone felt sorry for her, but at the same time, everyone wanted a piece of her.

It was the most difficult time of her life. Bar none.

But bit by bit, Sophia had found solid ground again. She met up with old friends. She walked the beaches. She went to yoga class. By 1989, she went out on her first date with a businessman who seemed safe and whose favorite film was Ghostbusters . He’d hardly heard of Francis Bianchi, save for that bit about him maybe or maybe not being a murderer. They’d dated for six months and parted amicably. It had taught Sophia that there was more life to live. After that, there were more men, more female friendships, film-watching clubs, yoga classes, and dinners out. Somehow or another, Sophia had lived her entire life without staring her first trauma fully in the face. But that was what her memoir forced her to do.

All this and more she told to Henry over dinner. Henry listened and asked questions when he could. Sophia felt wild and free and creative. She felt as she had as a twentysomething.

Henry told her that his mother owned and operated a publishing house. “I’m sure she’d be overjoyed to read your memoir when it’s ready.”

Sophia was taken aback. Would it really be so easy to publish her work? Were people out there waiting to hear what she had to say?

After Sophia had exhausted herself, she asked Henry how it was going with his screenwriting career. “Are you on track to ‘make it’ by twenty-six?” she asked, grinning mischievously. His mother was foolish to put that timeline on him and his time in Los Angeles.

But what did she know about motherhood? She’d never had the chance.

The miscarriage would have to be in the memoir, too.

Henry put his hands on the table and took a breath. “I have to tell you something.”

Sophia had been through too much to sense any drama here. “Go on.”

“After we met, I was inspired by your story,” he said. Very quickly, I wrote a script based on your life, on the scripts you wrote without anyone knowing, on Natalie’s murder, and on the Nantucket Gala. It just poured out of me. And because my grandfather is very well-connected, he hooked me up with a producer out East, one who’s quite excited about the script.”

Sophia felt as though she was about to cry. But were they tears of joy? Anger that he’d stolen her story? Fear of what people would think? She didn’t know.

“The story deviates from your life quite a bit,” he explains. “In it, fake-Francis is put in prison for his crimes, and the woman based on you, Sophia, goes on to have an incredible screenwriting and filmmaking career. It’s revisionist history. But I didn’t write it to spite you or make fun of you. I wrote it because, well, that’s the way it should have gone. And maybe in a way that’s what films should be. Dreams played out on screen.”

Sophia leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. The first thought she had was I need to stop this . But the next one was This kid has guts .

“We can’t move forward with the script without your approval,” Henry admitted.

The way he looked at her reminded her of the way Quentin, Alana, Julia, and Ella had looked up at Greta at The Copperfield House in the early eighties. They relied on her for everything.

Something in Sophia’s chest stirred with longing.

“I should say no,” she offered.

Henry bowed his head as though prepared to take her rejection.

“But I don’t want to,” Sophia stated. “Yet.”

Henry raised his eyebrows.

“I want to read it first,” Sophia said. “It’s the only way to know for sure if I’m on board.”

Henry inhaled sharply. “Of course! Of course. I’ll send you the PDF now.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, clicked thrice, and a ding came in through Sophia’s phone. Just like that.

There wasn’t much to say after that. Awkwardness permeated the air. Henry made light small talk and tried to ask Sophia a few questions about her life post-Francis, but Sophia was no longer in the mood to talk. Very soon, he admitted he had to go, and Sophia walked him to the door, where she gave him a loose hug.

“Good luck, Henry,” she said as he walked to his car.

Henry gave her a look that made her think of injured animals.

Would it really hurt to let him do this?

She wondered if Henry was any better than those paparazzi who used to follow her from place to place. She supposed that remained to be seen.

Slowly, she filled a glass with red wine and sat in the buttercream light of the evening. She put the PDF on her e-reader, and she prepared herself to read.