Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Christmas Eve 2024
Los Angeles, California
S ixty-two degrees on the morning of Christmas Eve felt horrific to Henry Crawford. Out on the front porch of his apartment in Echo Park, he stood in a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of loose-hanging sweatpants, gazing down the block at the massive palm tree that shot up into the cerulean-blue sky. To him, the palm tree looked ancient and misplaced and lonely.
Where was the snow? Where was the winter wonderland? Where was the magic of Christmas?
He’d left it all behind.
It was Henry’s first Christmas Eve away from his family—the first he didn’t have money to fly back to meet them and had refused help out of what his mother Julia called “radical stubbornness.” But Henry didn’t have time to traipse back to Nantucket Island right then anyway. Besides, Nantucket still didn’t feel like returning to any kind of home. He’d been born in the suburbs of Chicago. He’d gone to university in Chicago. After graduation, he’d stumbled through the massive continent, spent occasional weeks in Nantucket with his grandparents and extended family, and made money freelance writing. But he was in California for the same reason as most everyone else in California—he wanted to make it in film. Specifically, he wanted to write scripts. His mother, who worked in publishing, was horrified.
But every single meeting Henry had stayed in Los Angeles to take had gone south. Nobody liked his ideas. Nobody even bothered to read his scripts.
Maybe he wasn’t good at this.
His mother had said, “Give yourself a time limit. If you don’t sell a script by twenty-six or so, maybe it’s time to get out of the game.”
Henry thought that was tremendously unfair. It gave him only three years to make it—three years to make mistakes and then bow out and do something “more practical,” whatever that was.
Not that the Copperfields were keen on practicality.
But unfortunately, his father, Jackson Crawford, who worked as a broadcast journalist, was of a similar mind. “The film industry is for hacks, son,” he’d said many times.
Henry’s roommate Matt clopped up the wooden staircase to their second-floor apartment. Two plastic grocery bags laden with frozen pizzas, frozen garlic breads, and frozen unclear items hung from his hands. It was clear from his eyes that he was out of it, which wasn’t a rarity. Henry wasn’t clear on how Matt made money. But Matt very rarely left his room. Even now, he struggled to make eye contact with Henry as though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing.
“Hey, man. Merry Christmas,” Henry said because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Yo,” Matt said, then slunk inside.
Henry followed him into their shared living and kitchen space. Their other roommate Tanya was at the kitchen counter making a mug of tea. Tanya was a little bit older than Matt and Henry, and she often treated them like her little brothers, trying to get them to drink more water and go on walks. More than that, Tanya was obsessed with tarot reading and frequently pulled cards for them without asking if they wanted it.
“I pulled a tarot card for you this morning, Henry!” Tanya said. “It was The Fool.”
Henry scratched his head and grimaced. “I feel pretty foolish right now. I guess the cards knew.”
“That’s not what it means.” Tanya rolled her eyes. “When The Fool appears, it means you’re supposed to take new chances and go after new ideas. It means, despite everything bad that’s ever happened to you, you have to have hope for whatever’s next.”
Matt chortled and stuffed the freezer with frozen pizzas.
Henry sat on the sofa and looked at his hands. He wanted to ask how he was supposed to have hope for whatever was next when producers kept rejecting his ideas for scripts. How was he supposed to have hope for his film career when nobody would give him a chance?
“Did you pull one for yourself?” he asked Tanya, wanting to get off the subject of himself as soon as possible.
“I did.” Tanya rattled off a bunch of tarot card logic that Henry struggled to remember, let alone listen to. She then pressed a mug of tea into Henry’s hands and gave him a strange look. “Call your parents. You’re homesick.”
It didn’t take a Tarot card read to see that, Henry knew.
Back in his room, Henry dialed his mother in Nantucket first.
“Henry,” Julia answered on the second ring. “We’re all together at The Copperfield House. You’re on speaker.”
Henry hated to be put on speaker. Awkwardly, he said, “Hello, everyone.”
“Hi, Henry!” He could hear his aunt Alana and his aunt Ella and his sister Anna and Anna’s baby in the background.
“We’re cooking,” Julia explained. “Lots to do.”
There was a strain in her voice, proof that she was still irritated that he hadn’t accepted money to fly home. “How were your meetings?”
Henry didn’t want to admit that every meeting had gone south, so he said, “They went really well. I’m waiting to hear back. But it’s the holidays, so I won’t know anything for a while.”
“Of course,” she said. “Make sure to follow up and thank them for their time!”
“He knows what he’s doing, Julia,” Aunt Alana said. Henry could picture her rolling her eyes.
Suddenly, another voice came through the speaker. “Is that Henry?”
It was his grandmother Greta. Henry’s heart slowed. “Hi, Grandma!”
“You put him on speaker?” Greta asked. “How awful. Let me take him.”
“Mom!”
But it seemed Greta had already stolen the phone and whisked it to the next room. Henry settled on his mattress and stared at the ceiling while tugging at his hair.
“Henry, it’s wonderful to hear from you. How are you?” Greta asked.
“I’m doing okay, Grandma,” Henry said, not bothering to make his voice brighter or happier than he felt. “It’s warm here. Sixties. It feels wrong.”
“I’d do anything for that right now,” Greta said. “My joints ache.”
Henry didn’t like to think about his grandmother getting older. In the scheme of things, he’d only just met her. He wanted a lifetime to get to know her better.
“Listen, Henry, I wanted to tell you something,” Greta said. “I know your mother is giving you a hard time about not coming home for Christmas. But you should be proud of yourself. You don’t have the money to fly back. You’re taking meetings with producers. You’re fighting for what you want. It’s exactly the Copperfield way.”
Henry’s lips quivered. He thought he might burst into tears.
“You have to put your life on the line,” Greta said, pushing it.
Henry sighed. A single tear trickled down his cheek. “Thanks for saying that, Grandma.”
“I know it can be lonely,” Greta continued. “But we’re pulling for you.”
Henry flipped over and stared at the wall, adjusting his phone to his outer ear. “How is your writing going?”
“Oh, it goes. It always goes.”
Henry knew that wasn’t true. He knew his grandmother had locked herself away for twenty-five years and gotten very little done. It was one of the great tragedies of the Copperfield name.
It was a tragedy that would always live within them.
“What are you going to eat today?” Henry asked, then listened to his grandmother describe her Christmas Eve and Christmas Day menu. Privately, he cursed himself for not taking the money to fly back and enjoy those spectacular feasts.
Maybe he could find a cheap ticket back in February if he got a few freelance gigs in January. Perhaps he could spend a month there in the summer.
His future was built on maybes.
“Listen, Henry. I wonder if you might do me a favor,” Greta asked out of the blue.
Henry perked up. What could he possibly do from here?
“What is it?”
“I have a dear friend in Beverly Hills,” Greta said. “She’s all alone this Christmas. I wondered if you might consider popping over and saying hello. She’s getting up there in years. Maybe you could see if she needs anything done around the house?”
Henry’s heartbeat slowed. Going to a stranger’s house to do chores was the last thing he wanted to do.
“I think you’ll find her intriguing,” Greta said.
Henry bit his lip to keep from sighing. “That sounds great, Grandma. Can you text me the address?”
“I’ll have your mother do it.” Greta hated texting and tended to avoid it at all costs. “Thank you, Henry. I can’t wait to have you back in Nantucket. I’ll cook you something stupendous.”
“You always do,” Henry said.
Julia was back on the phone, telling Henry the details of their holiday: what the baby was wearing, what his sister Rachel was fighting with Anna about, what Aunt Alana was telling everyone about her stepdaughter’s theater production in Manhattan. Henry listened as tears continued to rain down his face.
But an hour later, after he’d been passed from one family member to the next, Julia said, “Your grandmother wants me to text you an address. She says to be there around three tomorrow. Does that suit you?”
“Sure,” Henry said, unable to find a way out of it. “I’ll be there.”
The following early afternoon in Los Angeles brought nearly empty roads. Henry wore a pair of sunglasses and his best pair of jeans and drove slightly over the speed limit all the way to Beverly Hills, where he parked in front of a dark blue stucco mansion and pulled the parking brake to ensure his car didn’t slide backward on the hill. When he got out, he engaged with the view in this lush neighborhood, surrounded by people wealthier than he’d ever known. He wondered how his grandmother knew the person inside that house. She hadn’t even bothered to attach a name to the address.
That wasn’t like Greta Copperfield. Normally, she thought of every detail.
It was almost like she did it on purpose.
Henry walked up to the black gate and rang the bell. He was immediately buzzed into an immaculate garden that lined the walkway. Up he went to the front door, where he buzzed again. A woman in her forties opened the door. Why did the older woman need Henry to come by when this woman was here? Couldn’t she do any task the older woman needed?
“Good afternoon and Merry Christmas,” the woman said, scooting back into the foyer. “You must be Henry?”
“I am,” he said.
“I’m Sue, the maid. Mrs. Bianchi is waiting for you down the hall.” Sue pointed toward an immaculate collection of vintage paintings and hanging pots lining the entry to the rest of the house.
Bianchi? Henry’s ears rang. Like Francis Bianchi?
Henry shook out the thought and walked slowly down the hall to the ornate living room. An old woman in her late sixties sat in an armchair, watching television. Her hair was silver and glowing, and her features were sharply feminine, her face shaped like a beautiful fox’s. She wore what looked to be a cashmere sweater and black jeans.
This woman looks more capable than me , Henry thought.
When Mrs. Bianchi spotted him, she got up easily and smiled. It surprised Henry how tall she was—maybe five-foot-seven.
“Hello, Mrs. Bianchi,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”
Mrs. Bianchi clasped her hands. “Merry Christmas, Henry. You know, you really look a lot like him.”
Henry tilted his head.
“Like Bernard, I mean,” Mrs. Bianchi said. “Although I haven’t seen him in years. Not since before he went to prison. My, what a tragedy that was.”
Henry’s heart sputtered. “People always say I look like my father.”
“Is he someone I might know?”
“Jackson Crawford,” he said. “He was big in broadcast journalism in Chicago. But now he’s based in New York City.”
Mrs. Bianchi waved her hand. “I don’t bother myself with journalism. If it isn’t a book or a film, I have no interest in it.”
Henry chuckled nervously. “You don’t live in the real world.”
“Greta tells me you don’t, either,” Mrs. Bianchi said.
“I used to.”
“What took you out of it?” Mrs. Bianchi asked.
Henry was amazed at the intensity of their conversation. It had sprung out of nowhere. “I’m not sure. I’m more interested in what I can create, I suppose.”
Mrs. Bianchi snapped her fingers. “Do you think it’s self-obsession? Obsession with what your own mind can create?”
“I think it’s based in fear of the world, maybe,” Henry said.
Mrs. Bianchi’s eyes glinted. “Sit down, Henry. Would you like something to drink? Wine? Whiskey? It is Christmas, after all. We should celebrate.”
Henry sat on the sofa across from her and considered his hands. He’d assumed he was having a quick tea and leaving immediately. But he suddenly felt like something about this meeting was important. He didn’t want to flee just yet.
“I’ll have a small glass of wine,” he said.
Mrs. Bianchi walked to the corner to remove a bottle of wine from a little cabinet. Into two glasses, she poured a Primitivo. Henry allowed his eyes to roam the paintings and portraits on the walls—photographs taken in all corners of the earth.
Suddenly, he was on his feet.
“Wait a minute,” he sputtered, pointing at a photograph in Morocco in the early eighties. “That photo was taken on the set of A Sacred Fig .”
Mrs. Bianchi turned and studied the photograph. “Yes, I suppose it was.”
Henry’s heart ballooned. He took the glass of wine from Mrs. Bianchi and studied her face. “You’ve seen it?”
“Of course I’ve seen it,” Mrs. Bianchi said. She sounded vaguely amused.
Henry’s eyes bucked from A Sacred Fig photo to the portrait in the far corner, taken of a handsome man in his mid to late thirties. It was the famous director Francis Bianchi.
Henry sat down with surprise. Mrs. Bianchi’s smile widened.
It was clear she was enjoying the show.
“Greta didn’t tell you who I was married to,” Mrs. Bianchi said.
Henry’s voice wavered. “She didn’t.”
“I assume she didn’t think you knew him,” Mrs. Bianchi continued.
“ A Cataclysm and A Sacred Fig are two of my favorite films of all time,” Henry said. “I discovered them during my sophomore year of college and changed my major to filmmaking.”
Mrs. Bianchi’s eyes danced. “What do you think of his earlier work?”
Henry was nervous. The last thing he wanted to do was insult Francis Bianchi’s previous films. But the truth was, he hadn’t even been able to get through his late sixties or seventies works. Only A Cataclysm and A Sacred Fig were meaningful for him.
“They were okay,” Henry admitted, “but he didn’t come into his own till later.”
Mrs. Bianchi raised her eyebrows. “And then?”
“And then…” Henry stuttered and let his eyes drop, remembering.
Francis Bianchi hadn’t made another film after A Sacred Fig . He’d fallen off the face of the planet.
Was he somewhere in the house right now? Was he hiding? But no. He was probably ninety by now, if he was even alive. Henry itched to google if he was alive or dead. It felt strange that Henry didn’t know for sure.
“I’m sorry,” Henry said. “This is all pretty shocking.”
Mrs. Bianchi laughed and sat down with her glass of wine. “Don’t worry yourself. I didn’t realize you were such a fan. Not everyone finds and falls in love with Francis’s work. It’s been forty years, after all.”
Henry let himself smile. This was Francis Bianchi’s wife! This woman had slept next to Francis and dined with him and fought with him and, presumably, experienced his creative vision! Firsthand!
“You must have so many stories,” Henry said. His visions of leaving in an hour tops fluttered away. He wanted to hang around and soak up every story, every word.
“I do,” Mrs. Bianchi said.
“Do you like sharing them?”
Mrs. Bianchi laughed. “I don’t mind. Especially not on Christmas. Although it’s been ages since I told a good story.”
“I’m all ears,” Henry said.
Mrs. Bianchi twisted her head to look at Francis’s old portrait. “We’re going to need some food, Henry Crawford. Unless you like to celebrate Christmas on an empty stomach?”
Henry smiled. “My grandmother would be disappointed if I did.”
“That she would,” Mrs. Bianchi said. “I know of a pretty good Chinese restaurant open on Christmas. I’m pretty certain they deliver, even all the way up the hill. It’ll disappoint your grandmother that we don’t cook it ourselves. But she can’t blame us. I’m not even half as good as she is.”
“And I’m not even close.”
Mrs. Bianchi left the room to call the Chinese restaurant, leaving Henry spinning in the chaos of having walked into his hero’s wife’s home.
Tugging his phone from his pocket, Henry googled Francis Bianchi.
He only had time to read the first few headlines. But based on just that, before Mrs. Bianchi returned, he learned two things about Francis.
Number one: Francis Bianchi was no longer living.
And number two: Francis Bianchi had quit making movies in the eighties for a reason.
He’d been ostracized. He’d been kicked out of Hollywood.
And the reason was just as startling as the result.
There was a chance Francis Bianchi had committed murder.