Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Madeline
June 2025
M adeline was dizzy with feeling and sun-tired after six hours on the boat. Standing on the dock, she cupped her elbows and watched Henry tie the last of the rope knots and pull a tarp over the seats to protect them. She was glad she’d stopped at two glasses of champagne. Otherwise, she was sure she wouldn’t have been able to walk back to The Copperfield House. With a jolt, she remembered her meeting with Greta later—in just an hour or two, probably, although she needed to check the time to be sure. She’d lost track. But when it happened, Greta would probably take one look at her and say, “You’re in no sound mind to talk about your artistic practice.” Would she ask Madeline to leave The Copperfield House? Would she say she made a mistake by asking her back?
Henry smiled and put his hand around her waist. Madeline swayed with adoration. On the boat, they’d done this continually—touching each other, gazing into one another’s eyes—but they still hadn’t kissed. She wasn’t sure who was drawing the boundary between them. Was it her? Or was it him? Then again, she was sure Henry was more experienced than she was in matters of the heart. Since she was seventeen, she’d been more or less alone and had only kissed a few boys here and there, ones she immediately rejected and never saw again. What kept her from rejecting Henry? Was it because he was a Copperfield? Or was what she was feeling for him genuine?
But when they reached the boardwalk, they ran into several other Copperfields: Henry’s cousins Scarlet, Daniel, Laura, Ivy, and James. Scarlet was licking an ice cream cone and talking enthusiastically about something she was up to in Manhattan, and Laura kept interjecting with stories about her life at Columbia. Their conversations seemed to flow seamlessly, as though they’d been talking for years and had fallen into a rhythm. But on the boat, Henry explained that none of the cousins had known one another until very recently. “We just clicked,” he’d explained.
“We were thinking about having a bonfire!” Scarlet said.
“Maybe out in front of The Copperfield House?” James suggested.
Scarlet scoffed. “You just want Grandma to make snacks for us.”
“Hey. I want snacks from Grandma, too,” Ivy countered.
There was a funny pause, during which Madeline realized the four of them were assessing her.
“You’re at the residency!” Scarlet said finally. “But wait. Weren’t you there last year, too?”
Madeline blushed. “This is my second run, yeah.”
“Wow. Lucky,” Scarlet said. “What’s your medium?”
Henry chuckled, and Scarlet gave him a look.
“She does everything,” Henry said. “I think that’s why Grandma has taken such a liking to her. She sees herself in her. Ultra-talented at everything she sets her mind to.”
Scarlet’s eyes glinted. Was that jealousy Madeline sensed? Of course, she’d long since recognized the healthy competitive streak in most Copperfields.
“That’s a lie,” Madeline said, knocking Henry’s arm with her elbow.
“The Copperfields want us all to have a medium. Art is the only thing that matters around here,” Laura explained with a funny laugh and an eye roll. “Our parents are musicians, and they’ve hit that on Danny and me pretty hard.”
“What kind of musicians?” Madeline asked.
“They’re in a rock band,” Danny said. “They used to be sort of cool, I guess. But they still go on tour a lot. I guess old people still like them.”
Laura swatted her brother on the upper arm, and he yelped. “Ouch! What? It’s true.”
Coming from the world of hard-hitting classical music, Madeline found it hard to fathom that anyone could actually make a living at rock music. She’d hardly been allowed to listen to that growing up and had only dipped into it the previous few years. Her mother had pushed classical and sometimes jazz on her. Other rock and pop radio stations were not exactly forbidden but not encouraged either—similar to burgers or fries.
“We should grill out tonight!” Scarlet suggested. “Burgers? Hot dogs?”
Madeline panged with desire. Had Scarlet read her mind?
“I’m supposed to have a meeting with your grandmother,” Madeline said.
Scarlet gestured at the silvery sunset. “Grandma will understand. Today’s no day to overwork yourself.”
Overwork? Madeline had hardly started. But she heard herself laugh along with Scarlett and felt her fingers sweep through Henry’s. Together, they walked through the old Historic District, past the Sutton Book Club and their favorite diner, past a choir performing in the main square, and past tourists and their screaming children and their melting ice cream cones. Madeline felt a part of something. She felt accepted. And when they stormed through the family side of The Copperfield House, she felt swept up.
Greta was in the kitchen with her three daughters: Alana, the ex-model; Julia, Henry’s mother, who owned a publishing house; and Ella, Laura and Danny’s mother and the one who Henry had explained had actually been adopted by a singer-songwriter who’d stayed at The Copperfield House in the eighties. Greta looked up from a skillet, where she was browning shallots, and caught Madeline’s eye. “You look like you had a beautiful day in the sun,” she said.
Madeline searched for some sense that Greta was disappointed in her. It reminded her of long ago when she’d put off practicing the piano for one reason or another, and her mother had told her she’d be up till past midnight to make it up. Madeline had known she was doomed to spend hours and hours at the keys, alone in her head, alone in her body. But Diana had made it clear that the piano came first.
But Greta was already shooing them out of the kitchen. “Scarlet! There’s wood under the porch. Take as much as you need.”
Madeline hung back for a second. She stuttered with, “Maybe we can have our meeting tomorrow?”
Greta waved her spatula, gesturing out the door. “We’ll find the time, my dear.”
Madeline couldn’t help but feel she’d done something wrong. Since the age of seventeen and even before, she’d perpetually felt as though she’d done something wrong or was about to do something wrong.
Not for the first time, she wondered if she needed years and years of therapy.
She’d been through so much. She’d been through more than she could fully name.
Madeline helped Scarlet and Henry carry wood to the bonfire area, where they tented it and used an old newspaper to make a fledgling flame. Ella and Julia set chairs out around the bonfire, talking rapidly about a mutual friend of theirs, Aurora, who, Madeline was pretty sure, had been the MC at the Nantucket Gala. The world of Nantucket and the Copperfields felt so dense; it felt sure they were never lonely. Not long after that, Henry’s older sister emerged from the house with her baby strapped to her chest. She looked ragged and exhausted but thrilled. Her boyfriend came out of the house a few minutes later—a boyfriend she’d met at The Copperfield House who, incidentally, was not the father of her baby. Henry had explained all of that, too: how Anna had been engaged in Orcas Island, how she’d been pregnant without knowing it, and how her fiancé had died in a freak accident. Henry had said, “She sees the baby as a gift, I think. And her new boyfriend totally accepts the situation. It’s a wild story.”
Madeline had thought to herself, I have stories, too. Why can’t I share them with anyone?
Not long after that, the smell of a cigar floated through the evening breeze. Madeline turned in her chair to see Bernard and Greta on the porch, Bernard with his arm slung over Greta’s shoulders as they spoke quietly, and he smoked. Madeline clutched her glass of water and considered the strength of their love. She realized that she’d never seen romantic love like they displayed it. Her mother and father had certainly never shown her anything like that. Was that why she was so nervous around Henry?
Suddenly, Henry touched her thigh, and Madeline nearly leaped out of her skin.
Henry chuckled and removed his hand. “Sorry. I was just going to ask if you wanted cheese on your cheeseburger?”
Madeline throbbed with fear. A voice at the back of her head told her to eat a salad, not the burger! But everyone else was going to eat burgers. Why wouldn’t she? She wasn’t a classical musician any longer. She could do whatever she wanted! Wasn’t that freedom just as delicious as a burger?
“Okay. Cheese sounds good,” she said.
“You got it,” he said, turning around to slap a piece of American cheese on a burger. His stepfather, Charlie, was operating the grill and talking to Julia animatedly, flipping burgers as Julia laughed.
The sun dropped into the ocean and cast them in darkness, lit only by flame. Henry’s mother handed Madeline a glass of wine, which she enjoyed with her burger and watermelon and salad. The textures were divine, succulent, and crunchy. She wanted to eat her fill and curl up on the sand by the fire and fall asleep. She wanted to drift away, listening to the sounds of all these lovely Copperfields exchanging stories and laughing together.
Suddenly, someone was calling her name. It took a minute for Madeline to realize it was Scarlet, asking her, “What were you doing out in LA?”
Madeline slid her tongue over her teeth. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” she said.
Scarlet laughed. “What of this, what of that?”
She wasn’t going to let Madeline off the hook.
“I was a server and a valet driver and a barista and a bookseller,” Madeline listed. “I cleaned houses for a little while, too, which wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It was quiet work. Nobody bothered me, and I listened to podcasts or audiobooks.”
Scarlet, who’d been born and raised wealthy in Manhattan, looked surprised. Madeline guessed she’d had a maid growing up and didn’t know how to clean properly. Because money had always been tight and essential for Madeline’s piano lessons and career, she and her mother had diligently saved pennies and cleaned everything themselves, usually with baking soda and vinegar.
“You moved out there by yourself?” Scarlet asked.
“I did,” Madeline said.
“After high school?”
“I didn’t technically go to high school,” Madeline said, surprising herself with her honesty.
Scarlet and several other Copperfields blinked at her. Henry looked nervous.
“I mean, I graduated. I took the GED,” Madeline explained. “I wasn’t home often enough to have a normal school schedule.”
Scarlet tilted her head. “You were competing in something? A sport?”
“Probably something bigger,” Laura speculated. “An art form. She’s at The Copperfield House, after all.”
Suddenly, Greta stormed up behind them, calling out, “Who wants s’mores?”
Madeline turned to look up at Greta, marveling at her timing. Did Greta know that Madeline didn’t want to talk about what she’d been up to in middle and high school? Greta betrayed nothing on her face. Instead, she tore open a bag of marshmallows and prepared to roast.
It was then Madeline thought back to the first time she’d ever seen Greta Copperfield.
It was the day her life changed forever.
* * *
It was last August. Los Angeles. One of those days of unrelenting heat that seemed to melt the pavement on the streets. Madeline was working at a restaurant right off Sunset Boulevard, where cocktails cost thirty-five dollars at the very least, and their top-selling burger was forty-seven dollars and eighteen cents—without included sides. Because the restaurant was on the touristy side, people didn’t always tip very well, and because of her ever-increasing rent and the cost of living in that city, Madeline was barely scraping by a living, often taking shifts at her last gig, bartending at the bowling alley down the road. Madeline was twenty-two years old and sure that her life would go on like that forever: filled with boredom and generic music playing on a speaker system as she took hundreds of orders per week.
It was hard to believe she’d ever had a chance to have a better life.
Madeline clocked out of work and went for a long walk. It was rare for anyone to go walking in Los Angeles, a city built for cars, but Madeline’s junker Chevy had broken down and left her with only her shoes to take her wherever she wanted to go. When she first arrived in Los Angeles, she’d had far less than she did now and had spent nearly a year at a hostel, sleeping in a room with eighteen bunk beds and, occasionally, bed bugs. Now, at least, she had a room in an apartment with four other transplants, most of whom were from the Midwest, just like her. But Madeline found it difficult to make friends with them. She’d never been good at relating to people, a fact she blamed on her classical music upbringing and being homeschooled. That, or maybe she was just strange. Perhaps she was doomed never to fit in.
When Madeline was two blocks from her apartment, she ducked into a little wine bar for a glass of something. She had a book in her backpack and no urgent desire to return to her little room and overhear through the thin walls her roommates talking about their romantic dates and how broke they were. Inside, the bar was mostly empty and playing jazz music that made her eyes sting. Her mother loved this particular Alice Coltrane album. She’d said Alice was a master. She understood things the rest of us didn’t. Madeline ordered a glass of red wine, opened her book, and pretended to read. But her thoughts lingered on her mother. What would Diana have thought of LA? She’d have said it was too sunny, that it didn’t let you think anything through, and that it sweated out all your instincts. She’d said it was the opposite of classical music because it was crass and dirty and hot.
It wasn’t until after her second glass of wine that Madeline realized the bar had a piano. It was tucked away in the shadows, glowing in vague blue light that made it look like a dream. Madeline was on her feet, surprising herself. It certainly wasn’t the first piano she’d seen since she’d stormed off stage at her Juilliard audition. Why did this one affect her so much?
The bartender was a guy in his early thirties, maybe. He gestured and said, “Another wine?” Madeline hardly heard him, but she nodded, and he tapped one on the counter and busied himself with scrubbing the counter. Madeline took the glass, half cursing herself. She wasn’t accustomed to drinking so much, not even on those rare occasions she went out with some of the other servers from the restaurant. She took a sip and walked toward the piano, her head throbbing with Alice Coltrane’s music. Just the sight of the glossy keys so close to her was overwhelming. She filled her mouth with more wine and raised a finger to hover about three inches above the middle C. Under her breath, she said, “Hundreds of thousands of hours spent with you, and now, I’m so frightened of you that I can hardly breathe.” After that, she pulled her hand back.
“Are you going to play something?” the bartender asked, his voice edged with annoyance. “If you do, I have to turn off the speakers. It's our policy. So just let me know.”
Madeline guessed that many bar dwellers came in here to whack the keys and annoy everyone else. She’d probably forgotten all of her Juilliard audition pieces. She probably had nothing to give. But at the thought that she and this piano—and all pianos—were foreign to one another, she collapsed on the piano bench and burst into tears. The bartender turned up Alice Coltrane, maybe to blot out her weeping. Madeline couldn’t look up. She cried for a full ten minutes, her shoulders quaking, until she heard a voice.
“Drink this.”
It was close, too close for Madeline to pretend the woman wasn’t speaking to her. Madeline raised her head to find one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen. In her early seventies, maybe, she had silver-white hair and thin eyebrows and a long, angular face that glowed in the soft blue light. She was wearing a black dress with straps that highlighted sculpted shoulders. Madeline was captivated. But she sniffled like a child.
The woman raised the glass of water so that Madeline could do nothing but take it. Again, the woman said, “Drink this.” Madeline took a sip and closed her eyes. A headache was coming on strong. When she finished half of it, she opened her eyes to find that the older woman remained before her with her arms crossed and wearing a frown. Madeline realized nobody had looked at her like this in a long time. She felt seen and understood. It made her want to weep.
“Thank you,” Madeline said. “I appreciate it.”
Behind the woman was a table of a few others around her age, all in their sixties and seventies and dressed immaculately. They were watching their friend, their faces edged with nerves as though the woman had decided to pet a wild animal. Madeline remembered how, during her junior professional career, older women like this used to dote on her. They didn’t pity her. They told her mother how special Madeline was and how lucky Diana was to have a daughter like her.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Madeline said.
“You didn’t bother me.” The woman’s voice was soft and like music. “I was hoping you would play something.”
Madeline shook her head. “I don’t know how.”
“Really? It looks to me like you’re at home with a piano.”
Madeline shook her head and stared at the ground. She knew the woman was just being nice.
When Madeline realized the woman wasn’t going to leave, she forced her head up, searching her mind for an excuse, anything to get this woman off her back. But the woman had reached into her wallet and pulled out a card that read: THE COPPERFIELD HOUSE - ARTIST RESIDENCY with an email, a phone number, and a drawing of a gorgeous Victorian home. Madeline’s heart thudded. Unable to stop herself, she took the card and gazed at the picture.
“I run a residency in Nantucket Island,” the woman said. “We offer space to think, to grow as an artist, to create. We’re always looking for young talent.”
Madeline shook her head again. “I don’t make anything. I’m just a server.”
“Is that so?” The woman’s eyes twinkled. She stuck out her hand and said, “I’m Greta, by the way. Greta Copperfield.”
“I’m Madeline.”
Madeline shook the woman’s lotioned hand and felt lightweight and strange.
“I’m in LA for another few days,” Greta said. “You can use that phone number to text me. Let’s get together for coffee. I can tell you more about The Copperfield House, and you can tell me more about your artistic mission.”
“Like I said, I don’t have one,” Madeline said.
Greta winked. “Everyone does.”
Madeline hurried to the bathroom, where she thought she was going to be sick. She remained in the stall for nearly a half hour, alternating between crying and feeling so dizzy that she had to hang her head between her knees. When she left the bathroom, she discovered that Greta Copperfield had paid for her wine and left the bar. She’d left a note with the bartender for Madeline that read: We should talk - Greta.
Madeline didn’t think she would contact Greta. But that night, delirious from the wine and the piano incident, Madeline had a strange dream about Nantucket Island. In the dream, she was running down a long, golden beach, her red hair flipping out behind her, her legs screaming. In the far distance was her mother, waiting for her on a dock, her hand raised as she waved and waved to her. In the dream, Madeline screamed, “Mom! Wait for me!” And then she woke up.
Before she contacted Greta, Madeline googled her and learned everything she could about the Copperfield family, their sordid past, and their residency. A number of prestigious artists, writers, filmmakers, and musicians had walked the grand halls of that beautiful Victorian. Could she number herself among them? Why did Greta want her to? Did she really think I was worthy of all of this? Miraculously, she saw that not everyone had to pay the residency fees, that there were opportunities for scholarships, and that the state of Massachusetts often subsidized The Copperfield House to “maintain the artistic journey of one of Nantucket’s favorite families.” It seemed that, now that Bernard was fully cleared of all charges, the state of Massachusetts wanted to make up for all they’d put the family through.
Greta suggested they meet at a coffee shop not far from where Madeline lived with her messy roommates. Madeline put on her nicest dress and, on the walk there, practiced answering questions in her head. She was reminded of practicing the piano, how she’d gone over and over the same passages thousands of times. But real life wasn’t like that. It was a constant performance that, it seemed, she was doomed to fail.
Greta was dressed in brown linen, her hair flowing gently to her shoulders. She greeted Madeline with a handshake and bought them each matcha lattes and croissants, explaining that she was still looking for “the best croissant” in Los Angeles but had found nothing that came close to Parisian fare. Greta then explained that she’d met her husband in Paris and they’d fallen back in love in the City of Light, remembering everything that had unfolded between them and deciding to nourish it. Madeline felt swept up in the story of Greta and realized that she would never have a romance like this. She was too unlucky. She was too lost.
“I imagine you’ve looked up The Copperfield House?” Greta asked.
Madeline nodded. “But again, I don’t know what I would do there. I don’t have an art right now.”
“But you did.”
Madeline furrowed her brow. “I mean, sort of.”
Greta folded her lips. “Is anything keeping you in LA?”
“What? No. I hate LA.”
Greta laughed. “I’m not exactly keen on it, either. But tell me. Why do you stay?”
“It was where I came when my life fell apart,” Madeline answered honestly. “I figured, when I lost everything, I would just go as far west as I could and find the sunlight. I decided I didn’t want to be cold and lonely anymore. So now, I’m hot and lonely.” Madeline tried to laugh, but she thought she might cry again, so she bit her tongue.
“Did you envision something else for yourself out here?” Greta asked.
“Maybe. I mean, who doesn’t want to work in Hollywood?”
Greta nodded. “Did you try?”
“No. I mean, I was going to take an acting class, but I didn’t have enough money,” Madeline said. “I never have enough money. And five years have gone by already. I’m twenty-two, but I feel, like, twice my age. I feel like my life is over. I thought about going somewhere cheaper, of course. But I’m terrified of picking back up and starting over again. When does it end?”
Greta’s eyes echoed her joy, her peace. Madeline wished she could bottle that feeling and drink it for herself.
“I’m not in the business of asking people to come to The Copperfield House like this,” Greta said finally, clicking her fingernails on the table. “But I have a sense you could really use it. If you want to.” She paused and arched her eyebrow. “We’d have a room ready for you as early as November. You could stay till the end of January. What do you say?”
Madeline shook with fear. But before she could overthink it, she heard herself say, “Yes.”
Greta didn’t show any emotion. She took a sip of matcha latte and turned to gaze out the window. A skateboarder rushed past, his hair a blur out behind him.
“How I miss Nantucket,” Greta said. “The only danger in going there is the fact that you’ll struggle to ever leave again.”
Madeline laughed. It didn’t seem like a real danger.
But now, sitting at the bonfire so many months later, with Henry’s hand on her thigh and Greta’s laughter in her ears, Madeline recognized Greta’s warning.
How could she ever leave all of this?