Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
June 2025
Nantucket Island
I t was the evening of the 2025 Nantucket Gala and the first-ever time Henry had ever worn anything that required insurance. The tuxedo Barry had selected felt starchy and stiff and was priced more than Henry had ever earned. Too terrified to drink anything but white wine, he walked nervously around The Hutton Hotel, watching Tara as she set everything into motion. In just forty minutes, they were set to begin with a series of speeches, small plays, musical acts, and anything else to enliven their guests and get them to donate more to their cause. Of course, Sophia Bianchi would be speaking first. She was the guest of honor.
Sophia entered the Nantucket Gala. She looked glamorous and fresh-faced, her hair cascading in beautiful rolls down her shoulders, and her arms and back toned from yoga. When she spotted Henry, she smiled and made a beeline straight for him. How many hours had Henry spent with Sophia at this point in their friendship? Hundreds, probably. She’d become a stand- in grandmother for him out in LA—but a cooler grandmother, one who didn’t hold anything back. He’d heard hundreds of her stories; he’d asked her question after question to get to the heart of her character, as well as Francis’s and Natalie’s. It was clear that Sophia thought Natalie and Francis really had been having an affair at the time of Natalie’s death. But it was also clear that Sophia had loved Natalie at one time. It gave the story a bit of juice and complication.
Nobody deserves what happened to Natalie. But that doesn’t mean Sophia ever has to fully forgive her.
“This is the night, Henry!” Sophia said. She looked on the verge of tears. Henry watched her eyes as they traced the courtyard, the white tablecloths, the servers, the stage. He wondered if it felt eerie to be back here again. He wondered if it felt like repeating a nightmare.
This was the final place Sophia had ever seen her husband. This was where her dream life had died.
But Sophia looked tremendously pleased. Perhaps the drama suited her.
“Is your mother coming? She said she’s halfway done with the memoir, and I’m so eager to hear what she has to say.”
“She said she loves it so far,” Henry lied. “But I don’t know if she’ll be able to make it. She’s slammed with work.”
A server cut past with a tray of champagne. Sophia and Henry both took one and clinked their flutes. “I’d better grab a seat and go over my speech again,” Sophia said.
“You’re at the table of honor.” Henry pointed to the table near the stage.
“Yet again! History repeats itself,” Sophia said, following his finger to the far end of the courtyard.
Henry’s seat was directly beside hers. Already, Barry and a few other producers were at their table, plus three women who’d founded Women Against Violence groups. They looked nervous but excited, smiling as Sophia bent across the table to shake their hands.
Henry thought to himself, We’re doing the right thing. We’re making an active change.
He hoped so, anyway.
Suddenly, Henry heard his name. He turned to find Madeline in a simple yet chic black dress, coming toward him. On her face, she wore a smile that made Henry think she’d planned to be here from the very beginning—even back in January, when he hadn’t noticed her yet.
He hadn’t seen her since the first night she’d returned to Nantucket. Now, his heart opened like a window. He wanted to take her hand. He wanted to ask her everything.
“Madeline! Hey. Glad you could make it.” Why was his voice shaky like that? Wasn’t he an up-and-coming Hollywood screenwriter? Shouldn’t he be more confident?
“Are you?” Madeline’s eyes glinted. “I heard tonight is the most dramatic event of the season. I couldn’t miss it.”
Henry grinned. “Tonight won’t be dramatic. Don’t get your hopes up.”
Madeline snapped her fingers. “Darn. Oh, but there’s champagne? Not bad.” She took a flute and raised it.
A strange moment of silence passed. Henry felt as though he had two left feet, as though the temperature suddenly skyrocketed. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck.
Henry couldn’t help himself when he asked, “Did you know? On the plane?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Henry,” she said.
“Come on. You do.” Henry smiled with exasperation. “You said you thought you knew me.”
“And you said you’d never seen me before in your life. Which one of us is telling the truth?”
“I was a little out of my mind this past winter.” Henry laughed. “But I feel like I would have remembered you if we’d met. I spent so much of January holed up in my room at The Copperfield House, writing.”
“I was just as busy as you.”
“I’m sure you were.” Henry laughed. “You didn’t tell me what your medium is.”
“Do I have to tell you? Your grandmother says it’s essential to keep our secrets to ourselves and not give too much away. And I would trust your grandmother with my life.” Madeline arched her brow playfully and whisked away to the table near the front, where one of Tara’s assistants assigned guests their seats.
Henry watched her go, feeling as though she’d tugged his heart from his chest. It was as though they were playing a constant game of cat-and-mouse . I could play it forever , he thought, then cursed himself for being overly romantic.
He wondered if his grandfather had felt this way when he’d met Greta.
He wondered if his father had felt this way when he’d met his mother.
But very soon, Barry beckoned for Henry to return to the table of honor. Bernard and Greta were already on stage, flipping through notecards, preparing for their brief yet celebratory speeches. As Bernard strode to the microphone first, Sophia winced beside him.
“Are you all right?” Henry asked.
“It feels just like 1985, suddenly,” she said, then fixed her smile. “It’s strange. That’s all.”
“Good evening, and welcome to the second ever Nantucket Gala,” Bernard began. “My, things have changed in the past forty years, haven’t they? The last time I was here, I was a much younger man, with a very young family, and a wife trying to wrangle the mess of us. I was trying to make it as a novelist. Last time, we were celebrating a man I regret to say was my mentor and friend at that time. Francis Bianchi.”
A hush overtook the crowd. Henry was proud of his grandfather for telling the truth like this—for admitting that Bernard hadn’t known the intensity of Francis’s evils.
“Many have said that on the night of the first Nantucket Gala, Francis was responsible for taking a young woman’s life. Natalie Masterson. The case never went to trial. And many people believe that justice wasn’t served. One of the reasons we’re here tonight is to raise money for people like Natalie, people stuck in violent situations, people who don’t have the resources to get out. I’m proud to say that the machine behind this endeavor is my grandson, Henry.” Bernard extended his hand out to Henry, who blushed.
“It is my hope that women have the support to stand against their abusers,” Bernard finished, his voice wavering. “It is my hope that no tragic event like this—between a powerful man like Francis and a woman like Natalie—ever comes to pass again.”
After that, Greta got up and read statistics about violence within marriages and romantic relationships. It was a somber speech, but it was a necessary one that directed their attention away from Hollywood glamour and to the realities of the shadows that lurk just beyond.
Next, it was time for Sophia to get up on stage. Henry joined the crowd in applauding extra long for that beautiful, once-broken woman. She gripped the podium and gazed out across the crowd.
“Wow,” she began. “I genuinely cannot believe I’m here. You see, back in 1985 at the original Nantucket Gala, I was sitting at that very same table.” She pointed down. “But I wasn’t seen. Not really. I was there as arm candy. I was there to support my husband, the director Francis Bianchi. At that time, I was lying to myself and everyone else about the nature of our relationship. You see, he was taking advantage of my creativity, my talents. And he refused to tell anyone our secret.” She wet her lips.
Henry, Sophia, and Barry had discussed this at length. They’d decided they wanted Sophia to reveal herself as the true screenwriter here—at the gala.
“I was the true writer of A Cataclysm , A Sacred Fig , and The Brutal Horizon ,” she said. “Francis adored my scripts, but he felt sure I couldn’t sell them as a woman in the industry. Maybe he was right. So he put his own name on them. The main problem with that, of course, was that he promptly forgot that he hadn’t written them himself. His arrogance grew and grew. I was abandoned. And then, everything became even worse when I discovered he was cheating on me with my dear friend Natalie Masterson.” Sophia closed her eyes. Her face turned the color of soft cheese. “Never did I imagine that Francis could commit such a heinous crime. But that’s proof of something, isn’t it? We live our lives believing that the people we love are incapable of violent acts. We live in bubbles, thinking we’re safe. But so many of us are not safe. That is why I wrote my memoir. And that is why Henry and Barry are bringing us their film The Most Brutal Horizon . We want to illustrate just how dark a fairy tale can go.”
Again, the crowd applauded, but this time, they got on their feet. Sophia raised both hands, thanking them. Henry felt outside of his body. He couldn’t believe any of this was happening.
The MC of the event—Aurora, a local musician who’d once stayed at The Copperfield House and was still very close to the Copperfields—came out on stage and said, “We’ll now take a break for a bit of dancing, drinking, and snacking before we return to our seats for the first show. Enjoy yourselves, folks!”
When Sophia returned to the table, Henry reached for her hands and said, “You were magnificent!”
Bernard and Greta agreed.
“You were always meant to be a star, Sophia,” Greta said, her eyes shining.
Sophia blushed. “Maybe it wasn’t meant to happen till now.”
“To everything there is a season,” Greta agreed. “Shall we dance?”
Before long, everyone was on the dance floor. Henry bobbed between family members and film industry folks he’d been introduced to, people he had to thank over and over again for making all this possible.
“Filming already this autumn, Henry!” they said, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Hard to believe it’s almost here!”
“Get ready for the job of a lifetime!”
“Get ready to never sleep again!”
Henry laughed with them. He knew he was in for a rude awakening. But still, this was his dream. It was becoming a reality. It was beautiful.
Madeline approached not long after that. When they locked eyes, she began to dance, and he sidled up to her and bobbed around, feeling like a kid.
“Nobody taught you how to dance, did they?” she asked.
“When was I supposed to learn?”
Madeline threw her head back. “If you get as famous as you want to be, you can’t reveal that you have two left feet.”
“Maybe people will find it endearing.”
“They won’t,” Madeline quipped.
“What can I say? I’m a Midwestern boy at heart.”
Madeline tilted her head. “Is that so? I thought you were full Nantucket, born and bred.”
“Not in the slightest,” Henry said. He glanced around at his grandmother and grandfather, dancing just a few feet away, at his sister Anna dancing with her boyfriend, at others he loved with his whole heart and spirit, all of whom called Nantucket their home, and winced. “But I have to admit. Nantucket is growing on me.”
“Your entire family is here. It’s in your blood,” Madeline said.
“Maybe.” He swallowed. “Why did you come back?”
“I told you. I don’t like LA.”
“But you could have gone anywhere.”
“And I love Nantucket,” Madeline said. “I pictured myself spending a dreamy few months here, making big leaps forward with my—” She cut herself off.
“With your what?” Henry smiled flirtatiously. “Come on. I could just ask my grandmother what your medium is. Are you a painter? A musician? What?”
Madeline shook her head ever so slightly. “Not so fast, Henry Crawford.”
Henry laughed. This girl was something else.
The night continued. Aurora called the first performance to the stage, and Henry and Madeline parted ways, sitting with additional drinks to watch the scenes unfold. Frequently, Aurora performed for them, using her guitar to accompany herself as she shook her wild mane like Stevie Nicks in the seventies. Henry was already tipsy, but he didn’t care. Frequently, Sophia caught his eye over the table and said something like, “This is already going a lot better than last time!” Henry smiled and laughed, agreeing with her.
About two hours into the night, something out of the corner of Henry’s eye gave him pause. He turned back, nearly spilling his champagne, and caught sight of his mother. Julia lurked in the corner of the courtyard with her hands crossed over her chest, watching the stage. Unlike everyone else, she was dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a tank top. Henry popped to his feet, excusing himself. The sour expression on her face told him something was wrong.
“Mom?” Henry hurried over.
On stage, Aurora was telling a series of jokes about what it was like to live on Nantucket. The crowd roared with laughter.
When she realized Henry was approaching, Julia flinched with surprise. “Henry, hey. Thank goodness. I was trying to figure out how to get your attention without joining the party.”
Henry’s heart pounded. “Is everything okay? Is Rachel okay?” He wasn’t sure why his thoughts went immediately to his youngest sister, who was visiting her friends in New York.
Julia beckoned for him to follow. They went into the hotel, then sat in the corner of a shadowy bar. Only a few other patrons were there, including hotel guests. Most looked sunburnt and like they’d spent all day fighting with their families. Julia ordered herself a glass of wine and rubbed her hands on her thighs. Henry suddenly felt sober. He ordered a glass of water.
“What’s up, Mom?” He didn’t want to say it, but she was freaking him out. She looked just as she had the other night, when she’d asked if he’d finished Sophia’s memoir.
“Does this have something to do with Sophia’s—” he began.
Julia pressed her finger to her lips. “Let’s keep it down.”
Henry felt reprimanded by his own mother. He shivered.
“I reread the ending of the memoir last night,” Julia said in a near whisper. Her eyes found Henry’s. “There’s no easy way to say this. But not everything adds up.”
“What do you mean?” Henry’s heart lurched.
“That night at the Nantucket Gala,” Julia breathed. “I think she’s lying. But I can’t put my finger on why.”
Henry’s eyes widened. From where they sat, they could hear a local Nantucket band playing on stage, with Aurora on vocals.
“Maybe she was just trying to make the story sound more interesting?” Henry suggested. “Not everything has to be fact, you know? Especially when it comes to a memoir.”
Julia pressed the tips of her fingers to her forehead. “I just need you to read it and tell me what you think, Henry.”
Julia’s tone was harsh and deep. Henry leaned back in his chair and looked at his mother. A weight on his chest made it difficult to breathe.
“Something else happened that night,” Julia finished, looking down. “But Sophia’s keeping it from all of us. And I can’t figure out why.”
Soon after, Julia finished her glass of wine, paid, and fled, telling Henry she had no interest in the hypocrisy of the Nantucket Gala. Henry watched her go, feeling his stomach twist.
“Hey, stranger.”
He turned to find Madeline coming toward him. “Where have you been?” she asked.
Henry’s smile felt limp.
“That’s your mom, right?” she asked. “She’s a brilliant editor, you know.”
Henry nodded and looked beyond Madeline to where Sophia was laughing and chatting with Barry, the producer, and Bernard, his grandfather. Her skin shone in the moonlight.
“What do you think of Sophia?” he asked Madeline now. All the hairs on his arms stood on end.
Madeline considered this, following his gaze. Just as he’d known she would, she answered honestly. “She’s an actress. She has us wrapped around her finger.”
Henry’s mouth went dry.
Not long after that, Aurora called them back to their tables. Henry and Madeline said goodbye, and Henry found himself seated next to Sophia again. She babbled something to him about someone she’d met and laughed at her own joke, all without Henry making sense of it. He yearned to turn to Sophia directly and ask her what she was hiding. But he hadn’t read the memoir yet.
“Are you all right, darling?” Sophia asked. “You’re ashen.”
“I just need to drink more water,” Henry said, forcing himself to make eye contact.
For the first time, he wondered whether he was staring into the eyes of a killer.
It was true what Henry’s mother said. The memoir was a mess. But the mess didn’t come from poor writing. Sophia was a fine writer, if unpracticed, and her metaphors and similes were some of the more poetic things he’d read in years. What troubled him late that night, as he stayed up to read the entire memoir, were the logistics. At one point during the 1985 Nantucket Gala, Sophia said she was in the front hall with Greta when someone came screaming, saying they’d discovered a body. “Someone has died!” they screamed. But at another point, she said it was Francis who first told her that Natalie was dead. “When Francis confessed to me that he’d murdered that beautiful creature, it caught me off guard. I’d been having one of the most magical nights of my life. I’d felt sure only good things were coming—that once we got to France, I’d convince him to honor my writing abilities, that we’d eventually have children, that we’d be happy. But no. Instead, that handsome and horrible husband of mine went ahead and murdered my dear friend and his mistress. And in fact, I think he did it because she’d wanted to come forward with the affair—and thus force him to lose me, his word machine, his creative engine. He couldn’t stand it.”
Henry scratched his head. What Sophia had written was exactly what he’d deduced in his fictionalized screenplay. But there was no way he was one hundred percent correct. It felt more likely that Sophia had taken his account, made it her own, and rearranged her own history. But why would she do that if she didn’t have something to hide?
But other scenes felt false and strange. There was a scene wherein Greta Copperfield—his grandmother—gushed at Sophia and told her she was going to be the next Katharine Hepburn. There was a scene wherein a major Hollywood producer made a pass at her. There was a scene wherein Francis almost confessed to his affair with Natalie, but the dialogue was so clunky and stupid that it felt unlikely it had happened at all.
Henry stayed up until dawn, compiling his thoughts. When he was sure his mother was awake, he called her and said, “Okay. I see what you mean.”
“We can’t publish it like that,” Julia said, her voice still heavy with sleep. He could picture her in the kitchen wearing her soft gray robe and sipping coffee, bags beneath her eyes. “I mean, my publishing house would be laughed out of the industry if we put something like that into the world.”
Henry rubbed his temples. The Most Brutal Horizon was staged to begin filming in just a few months. Sophia’s memoir was meant to be a companion to the film. It was meant to heighten sales.
He’d thought Sophia could manage it.
“It’s clear she can write,” Julia said finally. “But can she be honest? That’s what I’m interested in.”
Henry sighed. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Be careful,” Julia urged. “I don’t know what kind of woman she is.”
Henry didn’t want to admit it. But he wasn’t sure anymore, either.