Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
January 2025
F lights from Los Angeles to Boston that January were forty percent cheaper than during the holiday season. Through late nights of writing and editing and researching, Henry watched their dip nervously, his heart aching, until he finally took the plunge and bought a one-way ticket back East. His reason? He needed to return to the scene of Francis’s supposed crime. He needed to talk to his grandmother—and anyone else who might have been at the Nantucket Gala. It was all for the sake of his script.
He’d begun to believe this script was his ticket into the big leagues. He’d begun to think meeting Sophia Bianchi was the single greatest gift he’d ever received.
On the plane, Henry pulled out his laptop and read over the most recent scene he’d written. In it, the director (a fictionalized version of Francis Bianchi) and his wife (a fictionalized version of Sophia) were arguing a piazza in Rome. During the argument, fake-Sophia accused him of stealing all her ideas, and fake-Francis told her that nobody would have ever paid attention to her ideas if it weren’t for him and his fame. Around them, Italians watched without understanding what they were saying. A few took photographs. This caused fake-Francis to take fake-Sophia in his arms and kiss her. He knew people were watching and wanted to give them a show. The Italians cheered.
Henry shivered. Already, the script was shaping up to be one of the best things he’d ever written. Meeting Sophia had captivated him.
He wondered what it was like for her to hide her creativity from the public eye while her husband took all the credit.
A flight attendant came by with drinks and snacks. Henry bought a ham-and-cheese sandwich and a small beer and chatted with her for a moment, feeling like a real writer on the road, writing wherever he could.
“Are you working?” the flight attendant asked because the flight was only half full, and she had time to kill.
“I’m writing a movie,” he said.
The flight attendant’s eyes sparkled. “What kind of movie?”
“It’s a thriller of sorts,” he said.
“Oh, wow. Is there a murder?”
Henry smiled and nodded.
“I knew it. Is the husband the killer?” the flight attendant asked.
Henry laughed. “Isn’t he always?”
The flight attendant handed him his beer and sandwich and put her hands on her hips. “Make sure it’s different from all the other thrillers. Make sure it has something new to say.”
Henry’s smile waned. Had that flight attendant taken a scriptwriting course or something? Or did she sense that he was stealing someone else’s life?
He always thought that women had that capability. They could read people’s minds better than men could. He’d had two sisters growing up, so he knew better than most.
Henry’s excitement faded. He stuffed his laptop back into his backpack and ate his sandwich. Some turbulence bounced them over the Rocky Mountains, and he allowed himself a few moments of panic. A baby was crying in the back of the plane.
Maybe one day I can fly first class , he thought. Perhaps if I sell this script. When I sell the script.
The plane landed in Boston at five in the afternoon. Henry waited for his luggage and hauled it into the swirling snow outside. The balm of California was a thing of the past. He was frigid. Suddenly, he spotted his mother’s car in the swarm, and he hurried over, threw his bag in the trunk, and swung into the passenger seat. Julia had the heat on full blast. She crashed into him, hugging him as tears filled her eyes.
“You’re home!”
Henry didn’t feel that the East Coast was really home. Chicago would always be home.
But he didn’t want to kill the magic. So he hugged her tighter and said, “Thank you for coming to get me.”
“Any time, kid.” Julia fell back and looked at him for a hard moment.
But just then, one of the airport staff bustled over and directed them away from the airport. They needed space for other vehicles. They needed to get moving. Julia put the windshield wipers on full blast.
“I booked us a couple of hotel rooms,” Julia explained. “The ferries are canceled the rest of the night because of the weather. I hope that’s okay?”
Henry laughed. “It’s more than okay. What an adventure.”
“You’re telling me. I’m just so glad you could land. I was panicked, thinking they’d turn around and head back west.”
About two hours later, Henry and Julia found themselves at the hotel restaurant, poring over menus and sipping glasses of wine. Both of them had put on nicer clothes—a blouse and slacks for Julia, a button-down and jeans for Henry. Julia had added lip gloss. As Henry studied her, he was suddenly cast back to that day nearly three years ago when his father, Jackson, had announced he was leaving Julia for a job in China. Shortly after that, Julia went to Nantucket Island and changed the course of their family history forever.
Sometimes it still bothered Henry that his parents had gotten divorced. He’d wanted to believe in their love as a beautiful and singular love.
The fact that Julia had always been in love with her high school boyfriend was troubling. What else were people hiding in plain sight?
I saw my mother nearly every day for eighteen years , he thought now. And it never occurred to me that she didn’t fully love my father.
“I’m going for the burger,” Julia said. “I’m starving.”
Henry laughed.
“Steak for you?” Julia asked.
“Am I so obvious?”
“I’m just glad you haven’t changed too much out there,” Julia said, squatting at him. “You look skinnier. Are you eating enough?”
“There’s a taco truck right by my apartment,” he said.
“But you’re working too hard,” Julia said. “Hollywood eats you alive. It’s even worse than the publishing industry. Maybe?”
Henry raised his shoulders. “I think it’s all pretty difficult to crack.”
“I’ve told you before. You can work for the publishing house.”
“And I told you I want to try to make it on my own.” Henry smiled.
Julia rolled her eyes into a smile of her own. “I raised you to be too self-sufficient. What did I do wrong?”
The server came to take their orders. They handed over their menus, then sat wordlessly for a moment, studying each other.
“How’s Charlie?” Henry asked.
“He’s great,” Julia said, dropping his gaze. “You know, you can stay with us. If you want.”
“I already told Grandma I’d be at The Copperfield House.”
“Are you staying on the family side or the artist side?”
“Family,” Henry said. “Grandma says the artist residency is full right now.”
“It’s off to the races,” Julia affirmed. “Tons of people arrived in early January. I haven’t even met them yet. But your grandfather owes me chapters for his next book. I hope he isn’t wasting too much time lording over his new artists. Ah, but it keeps him young. I know that.” Julia waved her hand.
“Do you still go over there often?”
“I have an office there,” Julia reminded him. “It means you’ll see me every day you’re home, whether you like it or not!”
There it was again—that word “home.”
They talked about Julia’s publishing house, about her life with her new husband, about Anna’s baby and her boyfriend, about Rachel back at the University of Michigan.
“The last remaining Copperfield in the Midwest,” Julia joked. “But she loves it.”
“Do you think she’ll come out east when she graduates?”
“I never know what my children will do.” Julia swirled her wine in her glass and looked at him with squinty eyes. “Your grandmother suggested you were working on something.”
Henry was surprised. He hadn’t told Greta a thing about his script. Maybe she sensed his creativity brimming, even from across the continent.
Or maybe she’d assumed he was coming back to Nantucket because of Sophia.
“I’m working on a script,” he confessed.
Julia clasped her hands together. “You’ll let me read it when it’s finished, won’t you?”
Henry grimaced. The last thing he wanted was to receive a list of a thousand things he needed to change from his mother.
“I do this professionally, you know,” Julia reminded him.
Henry bowed his head. “I know. And I respect your opinion.” It was true; he did. “I have a lot of work left before it’s ready to share.”
That was all he was prepared to say.
Their food arrived. Henry was surprised at how succulent the steak was, and Julia made a mess of the burger, covering her cheeks with mustard and mayonnaise.
“Good thing Charlie isn’t here,” Julia said with a laugh. “Although he’d probably say I haven’t changed at all since high school.”
That night, Henry and Julia had a nightcap at the hotel bar and parted ways. Out the window of his private room, Henry gazed into the darkness. It had stopped snowing, but the cars in the parking lot were covered in what looked to be eight inches. It was hard to believe it had accumulated so much. He felt as though he’d entered a different world.
He tossed and turned as he slept, twisting himself up in the sheets. He couldn’t stop imagining Francis Bianchi on the verge of committing murder. But every time his dream-brain presented the murder weapon, it was something stupid—a feather, a book, a pen, a mango. He woke up laughing at himself, frustrated. He hadn’t yet figured out the murder scene.
If only his dreams would present an idea.
The following morning, the ferries were running right on time. Julia and Henry drove aboard and grabbed coffees at the little shop, where they were surrounded by other travelers who’d missed last night’s ferry, too. No surprise that Julia knew a few of them. As she chatted them up, Henry was surprised to hear even more of a New England accent in her voice. Had she previously had a Chicago accent? Henry knew he did. He wore it with pride.
When they pulled up to The Copperfield House later that morning, Greta burst from the house wearing a big smile and a bright red apron. Violent cold winds pressed against her and blew her white curls out. Henry grabbed his bag and trampled up the steps to hug her.
“The missing Copperfield!” Greta said. “He’s here now. And my heart is full.”
Greta ushered Henry inside to find numerous other Copperfields waiting for him over a table full of brunch delights: pancakes and French toast and eggs of all kinds; bagels and casseroles and platters of French cheeses and bowls heaped with glossy fruits. Henry hopped from one hug to the next, clapping everyone on the back. Rachel wasn’t there, of course. But just about everyone else was. Even his uncle Quentin, that domineering force, took Henry’s shoulder and said, “It’s good to have you back, son.”
Henry felt gooey with the love of his family. After Greta’s urgings, he sat down and feasted, listening to everyone’s stories. Although he’d seen everyone for Thanksgiving, that now felt like eons ago. Everyone had a big update.
Of course, they pestered him for answers about his life out in Los Angeles. Henry was able to namedrop a few producers he’d met with, some of whom Quentin Copperfield had met over the years.
“They must have loved you,” Quentin said to Henry.
“We got along,” Henry said. “But they weren’t into the script I showed them. Which is okay. That kind of thing happens all the time.”
Quentin furrowed his brow. “Weren’t into it?”
“Now that I’ve thought about it a bit more, I don’t think the script was any good anyway,” Henry admitted.
Quentin continued to gape at him as though he couldn’t comprehend what he meant.
“I hate it when that happens,” Aunt Alana, of all people, interjected. “Sometimes I look back at what I’ve previously done and think, Who did that? It couldn’t have been me! But it was.” She winced and laughed.
Grandma Greta laughed, too. “It’s all about getting better. Right, Henry?”
“Exactly,” Henry said.
“And the script you’re working on now is truly inspired, isn’t it?” Greta’s eyes glinted.
Henry felt flush. “It is.”
“We’ll have to talk about it later,” Greta said.
“I’m dying to talk about it!” Julia interjected.
Grandpa Bernard’s laughter boomed. “Let’s let the boy settle in a little bit.”
But Henry didn’t want to settle in. He wanted to pester his grandmother. He wanted a clearer picture.
He was an artist on the brink of fame.
He was obsessed.
It felt clear to him now.
But it wasn’t till much later that night that Henry could corner his grandmother. By then, every other Copperfield had retreated to their private homes, and Grandma Greta and Grandpa Bernard had sequestered themselves in their separate offices. The wind outside howled and crashed against the roof.
To Henry, it felt as though The Copperfield House would collapse.
Henry tapped nervously on his grandmother’s door. He could still see light coming from beneath it.
“I was waiting for you!” Greta called. “Come in.”
Henry’s heart thumped. Slowly, he opened the door and stepped into his grandmother’s cozy office. Everywhere he looked, she’d hung photographs or notes, scribbled with what she needed for the next chapter or next project. It felt like stepping into the chaos of her mind.
Greta was wearing a big fuzzy robe and had her hair in a ponytail. She smiled from over the steam coming out of her tea mug.
Henry sat down across from her and positioned a notebook on his thighs.
“So you really are?” Greta pressed it. “You’re writing about her? About Francis?”
“And about Natalie Masterson,” Henry said, remembering the murdered girl’s name.
Greta raised her eyebrows.
“Did you know her, too?”
Greta shook her head. “I didn’t meet her, no.”
“There’s very little information online,” Henry said. “But I want the film to be based on what really happened. I want to honor Natalie’s memory.”
“You know she was an actress, I assume?”
“It was rumored she was going to be the next big thing,” Henry said. Several magazines had said the next Elizabeth Taylor, the next Katherine Hepburn.
“She was cast as the main actress in The Brutal Horizon ,” Greta added.
Henry raised his eyebrows. This was news. Although there was no way he would forget this fact, he scribbled it to himself in the notebook. “How did Francis get to know her? I mean, did he have a say in who was hired for his film?” Henry wet his lips and answered his own question. “I imagine so. He was enormous back then. I imagine he handpicked everyone who came on his set.”
“That’s something I don’t know,” Greta said.
“Did Sophia know her?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“But you were there,” Henry pressed. “You must have been at the Nantucket Gala the night of the murder.”
“Was it a murder?” Greta asked. “You sound so sure of yourself.”
Henry suddenly felt as though his grandmother was playing a game with him. He took a breath and searched her face for signs of the truth.
“Will you tell me everything you remember about that night?”
Greta rolled her head in a circle.
Henry wanted to say she knew he was coming here to pester her with questions!
But finally, Greta began to tell him what she remembered.
“It was a really hot day in June. Quentin had a sore throat.”
I can’t use that in my script , Henry thought dully.
“Sophia wanted me to meet her before the gala, but I was running around, trying to tend to something for the residency and pick up Quentin’s medicine,” Greta said. “Tons of wealthy people were coming to the island for the gala. Everyone wanted to contribute to Francis Bianchi’s next big production.”
“Sophia Bianchi’s,” Henry corrected.
“Well, sure. But we didn’t know that till recently, did we?” Greta smiled.
“Anyway. What I remember of the gala is that everyone was overdressed, and everyone was trying to impress each other. Everyone was fawning all over Francis Bianchi. Bernard was wearing a tuxedo, and I had a very small stain on my dress from when Alana played with my makeup without asking. Hm. What else? The food was dreadful, although I’m pretty sure it was quite expensive.”
Henry continued looking at his grandmother, waiting for something he could put into the script.
Finally, it came.
“There was a scream, and everyone ran out behind the hotel to find Natalie Masterson. She was dead. But I couldn’t get close enough to see her.”
Henry wanted to ask if she saw the body.
“Did you see Sophia or Francis after that?” Henry asked.
Greta shook her head. “Not that I can recall. Bernard and I were needed back at home. Like I said, Quentin was sick, and Ella was only five years old. I was needed here. I was needed at home.”
Henry leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He felt his grandmother had conned him into coming back to Nantucket.
She knew I wanted to interview her. She knew she didn’t have anything up her sleeves.
Unless she was keeping something from me.
But why would she do that?
“Why did people think Francis did it?” Henry asked. “And why wasn’t he convicted?”
Greta raised her shoulders. “Apparently, the situation was fishy.”
“Was he cheating on Sophia with Natalie?”
“That is conjecture,” Greta said.
“Come on. Can’t we make a guess?” Henry pressed. “Sophia was Francis’s third wife. He’d cheated on his second one with Sophia. He’d cheated on his first with his second. I’m sure there were plenty of other women in between.”
Greta’s eyes sparkled. “You’re writing a story, Henry. You don’t need to get bogged down in the dramatic details of real people’s lives. You can write whatever you want.”
Henry sighed.
“But I’ll take you there if you want,” Greta offered. “The Hutton Hotel. It was truly spectacular back then. Strangely enough, I haven’t been back since.”