Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Madeline
September 2025
I t was the afternoon before Madeline’s flight to Paris. Madeline’s single suitcase was packed, and her passport—which had had to be rushed with Greta’s help—sat on the top of it, expectant and featuring a fresh photograph of Madeline, taken ten days ago at the Nantucket post office. Madeline left her room to grab a glass of water from the residency kitchen, where the others greeted her with half-jealous and half-friendly smiles and wished her well. They, too, were on their way out of The Copperfield House: Monty back to Marseilles and Benedict to a writing retreat in East London. They wouldn’t be far from Madeline at all—which was funny, given that Madeline had spent most of their time at the residency ignoring them and pursuing Henry instead. Even so, both of them had promised to call Madeline if they were in Paris; they promised to pop into the jazz club to hear her play. Benedict said, “I imagine we’ll see your name in headlines soon!” They were much kinder than Madeline had anticipated, and it brought tears to her eyes.
Madeline went downstairs to practice at the grand piano for an hour and a half: arpeggios, scales, a memorized piece or three, plus a good chunk of time during which she improvised whatever came to her head while she imagined herself on stage with David and the other jazz musicians, all of whom she’d met via video chat. They were kind and anywhere between thirty-five and sixty-two—lifelong musicians, as Madeline was. They were excited to meet her. There was a dinner planned for the night she arrived.
When Madeline finished practicing, Greta called her into the kitchen for a cup of tea. A big vat of soup bubbled on the stovetop, and outside, a violent rainstorm swirled over the Nantucket Sound, tinting the sky purple. Greta was wrapped up in shawls and a robe, and on the table were pages and pages of her novel, which she again was marking with a red pen. Madeline had read a few pages a couple of days ago, and she’d gushed with love for them and told Greta she didn’t have any notes. “You need to learn to be more critical! Especially with your friends!”Greta had said.
“You sounded good today,” Greta said to Madeline now.
Madeline blushed and went to the boiling kettle to pour the water. “I’m nervous to meet the others,” she said. But what she really wanted to say was that she was nervous to move to Paris by herself. She was worried she’d get depressed there. All year, she’d avoided being depressed because she’d been here at The Copperfield House, hiding from her problems and falling in love . What if all my problems are waiting for me in Paris? What if Henry never sees me again?
It seemed as though Greta could hear the stirrings of Madeline’s anxious mind. She put down her pen and stood. “Let’s go to the porch,” she said, carrying the mugs and guiding Madeline down the hall. They sat side by side and watched the rain cut across the beach and blast along the wooden slats of the docks. Madeline filled her mouth with hot tea and tried to make her heart slow down but couldn’t.
“I told you early on that I met Bernard in Paris,” Greta said.
“You did.” Madeline remembered how romantic their time in the City of Light had sounded to her. As Greta had recounted their story, she remembered that they’d been sitting in Los Angeles, sweating from the California heat.
Greta eyed her now. “You deserve to have a beautiful life in Paris, the way we did.”
“I hope I do,” Madeline said, although she doubted she was capable of building her own happiness like that.
“You haven’t talked about your past much,” Greta went on. “You haven’t told us why you quit the piano, and I don’t want to probe any deeper than you want to say.” She pressed her lips together. “Is it possible that what happened before could happen to you again?”
“It won’t happen again,” Madeline affirmed because it was impossible.
Greta looked relieved.
“But that doesn’t mean something else might happen,” Madeline was quick to add. “I don’t know.” How could she describe to Greta that she’d felt cursed since she was a little girl—that her mother Diana had told her of old Polish curses, magic as ancient as the soil beneath them? Of course, Madeline didn’t believe in any of that.
“It’s best not to think like that,” Greta said. “It’s best not to imagine all the bad things that will happen rather than the good. The mind is a powerful thing.”
Madeline looked down at her feet.
“I want you to know,” Greta said, “that I have a good feeling about this. Your life is about to begin in Paris, Madeline. I’ve known since I first saw you in Los Angeles that you’re meant for brilliant things.”
Madeline couldn’t look at her. She felt as though she were speeding down a tunnel without any sign of stopping.
Before she could stop herself, she heard herself ask, “But what about Henry?”
As soon as she said it, her heart felt crumpled up. She could feel Greta’s annoyance beaming off her in waves.
Madeline sniffed and tried to laugh at herself. “I’m sorry. I just, you know, really feel something.” Something? That was the understatement of the century.
Greta touched Madeline’s shoulder and forced Madeline’s eyes to hers. “I know you love each other, honey.” Her voice was far softer than Madeline had imagined it would be.
“But you don’t think love is enough?” Madeline asked.
Greta raised her shoulders. “It’s not that. Love is a beautiful thing. But you and Henry are gifted young people with a lifetime ahead of you. It would be terrible to hold yourselves back for something that amounts to little more than a summer romance.”
Madeline’s heart stung with sorrow. “It was so much more than a summer romance.”
Greta nodded urgently. “I know, honey. I do.”
Madeline’s legs were shaking so much that her knees clacked together.
“You’ve spoken often, I guess? Since he left?” Greta asked.
Madeline considered lying. She considered telling Greta that she and Henry had found time to talk to one another every single day for an hour or more. But the truth was that Henry was often still at work by the time Madeline was exhausted and in bed. When she tried calling him in the morning, he was often already awake, going over the scenes for that day or heading out for a run, which, he said, was “the only way to stay sane in that industry.”
“It’s been difficult,” Madeline admitted.
Greta nodded in understanding. Her eyes lit up with the lightning outside.
“That’s why you have to do your thing. You can’t wait around here or go out to LA and wait around there for him to get off work. It wouldn’t just be a waste of your talent. It would be a waste of your life.”
Madeline’s chest was tight. She repeated, “We love each other.” She was sure it hadn’t changed. She knew it in her bones.
But Greta only said, “If it’s meant to be, it will happen. If it isn’t, that doesn’t mean you won’t always be welcome here at The Copperfield House. You’re a member of the family, Madeline. I want you to remember that.”
The following morning, Bernard and Greta loaded Madeline’s single suitcase into the back of their BMW and drove her to the ferry. In the back seat, Madeline turned all the way around and gazed at The Copperfield House until the car turned out of sight. The old Victorian burned in the back of her eyelids, and she wept quietly until they drove on the ferry and got out to enjoy coffee on the top deck. It was a glorious morning, just shy of seventy degrees, and seagulls swooped overhead, jovial and squawking. It wasn’t a surprise that Bernard and Madeline knew a few people on the ferry, and as they gossiped with them, Madeline watched the island recede into the horizon line and fade to a mere shadow. At Hyannis Port, they drove out of the ferry and off to the airport, where Bernard and Greta hugged Madeline as though she were the granddaughter they’d never had.
“I told David to send recordings of all of your performances,” Bernard said. “We don’t want to miss anything.”
“And we’ll be in Paris in December to see your final shows and take you home,” Greta reminded her.
Madeline felt on the verge of a breakdown. She hadn’t anticipated that saying goodbye to Bernard and Greta would feel like a metal rod through her chest. She hugged them each twice, trying to memorize their faces, and wheeled her suitcase into the lobby, where people whipped around, flailing to look at the departures board and saying goodbye to their loved ones. Madeline dropped off her suitcase and watched the airport employee scrutinize her passport to such a degree that she half expected her to say, Madeline Willis? Is that really your name? The truth was, Madeline felt she’d lost her identity that day she’d auditioned for Juilliard, and she’d never really gotten it back. Maybe it awaited her in Paris.