Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Madeline
December 2025
I t was the final week of jazz club performances before Madeline’s return to the United States. Paris was electrified with Christmas spirit, glowing with hundreds of thousands of Christmas lights and countless sidewalk markets that sold warm and spiced mulled wine and adorable chocolates and baked goods. Together with a few friends she’d made through the jazz club, Madeline popped from Christmas market to Christmas market, sampling as many treats as she could and buying gifts for Henry, Greta, and Bernard, as well as every member of the jazz band. It felt remarkable to have people to buy presents for. It felt remarkable to relearn how to love well.
At a market near Jardin de Tuilleries, Madeline sat with her friend Regina and drank mulled wine and swapped stories from long-ago Christmases. Regina was from Montana and explained that her family had been snowed in on Christmas more often than not, which made for strange but funny stories involving many hours of board games and charades. Regina was a jazz singer, and she’d left Montana at the age of fourteen to study in Paris, but she confessed to Madeline that she still ached to move back to Montana one day. She missed that big, beautiful sky.
It was Friday afternoon when Madeline swooped out of her apartment and went to the hotel down the block to meet Greta and Bernard. Just as she reached the curb, their taxi arrived and planted the two of them on the sidewalk, fresh-faced and smiling despite the long flight. Madeline threw her arms around them and helped them carry their bags into the hotel lobby, where two bellhops took over.
Greta put two hands on Madeline’s shoulders and scrutinized her. “You look beautiful and healthy, darling. It’s wonderful. Paris has been good to you.”
Madeline blushed. “You said it would be.”
“Greta is never wrong,” Bernard said, laughing as they climbed the stairs to their suite on the second floor. Bernard refused to get into Parisian elevators because they were too small and made him feel claustrophobic. “It’s best to just agree with whatever she has in her head so that you don’t waste anyone’s time, least of all your own.”
Madeline laughed and followed them into the suite, which was filled with buttercream light from the brief window of day before the city plunged into December darkness. Madeline chatted with them easily as they flitted in and out of the bathroom to freshen up, then led them down the block to one of her favorite Christmas markets, where she finally got up the nerve to bring up Henry. That week, they hadn’t found a single minute to talk on the phone, and Madeline’s heart felt squeezed with what she hated to admit was panic. At every turn, she felt more and more sure that Henry was going to fall in love with a Los Angeles girl and leave her behind.
Madeline said, “Henry’s probably on his way to Nantucket by now? I know he hates Los Angeles at Christmastime. It’s so soulless.”
Greta and Bernard exchanged a look that Madeline struggled to interpret.
“We can’t keep up with him,” Greta admitted finally. “Even Julia struggles to get a hold of him, and you know how close they are. But I’m glad to hear the two of you have continued your, um, correspondence?”
Madeline took a drink of mulled wine and felt her stomach flip. “You don’t mean that,” she said, trying to tease Greta. “You think I should move on.”
Greta sighed, her eyes on the church spire that shot up into the gray clouds above them. “I don’t want either of you to get hurt,” she muttered. “I know how driven you are.”
Bernard touched Madeline’s shoulder gently. “You’ll see him at Christmas,” he reminded her. “We’ll have plenty of eggnog, and Greta will cook enough food to feed the entire island, and we’ll eat it all in the span of two hours. It’ll be just as it is every year, except a little bit more magical because you’re in our lives now.” He gave her a smile that warmed her from the inside, even as she panged with fear at what Henry would say when he walked through the doors.
She imagined him announcing I’m in love with a Hollywood actress!
“Do you think it’s true that everyone who goes to Hollywood becomes, um…” Madeline trailed off, not sure if she should say more to Greta and Bernard.
Bernard filled in the gap. “Evil? Sinister? Money-driven?”
Madeline cackled and gave him an appreciative smile. “I guess that’s what I mean.”
“Not our Henry.” Greta furrowed her brow. “He’s in it for the artistry.”
“I’m sure the big check doesn’t hurt,” Bernard reminded her.
Greta shot Bernard a look. “When we started The Copperfield House, we promised ourselves we would never compromise on our art for money’s sake.”
“And then I went to prison,” Bernard tried to joke.
But Greta’s face fell at the memory, and the air felt taut around them. Greta strung her arm through Bernard’s and put her head on his shoulder. She met Madeline’s gaze.
“You know about the complications of life,” Greta breathed. “But it means you know about its beauty, too. The full breadth of it.”
Madeline took another sip of mulled wine and stirred with a longing she couldn’t name.
After finishing their mulled wine, Madeline walked Bernard and Greta back to their hotel so they could rest before tonight's big show. Madeline returned to her apartment to practice and drink a ton of water and get dressed for the night. When she left the apartment, it was dark and spitting with snow. It filled her red curls and melted on her coat. At the speakeasy, she hugged her friends hello and fell into a wild and jazzy warm-up that felt second nature to her after so many months of doing just this. Every now and again, David still suggested that Madeline was on her way elsewhere and wouldn’t be in their jazz quintet in Paris for long. But how could Madeline leave a group that pulsed with such creativity and heart?
A full twenty minutes before the gig was set to begin, Bernard and Greta arrived, sitting in their easy elegance and sipping wine. The speakeasy filled up around them with both regulars and tourists who’d booked seats to see the iconic Madeline Willis. Madeline was no longer nervous in the least. She’d accepted her role.
Five minutes before they took the stage, Madeline glanced out into the crowd and saw—with a surge of panic and disbelief—that Henry stood in the far-back corner, his arms crossed as he scanned the room. Madeline couldn’t stop herself. She snapped out of the door and ran past Greta and Bernard, her heart surging in her chest. Several onlookers spotted her and said her name, remembering her as the musician they’d come to see. But she only had eyes for Henry. When he realized she was running at him, his eyes widened, and his smile became charismatic and charming. This close-up, she saw how tired he was, presumably from a recent flight. Why had he come all this way without saying so? A surprise , Madeline realized. He wanted to shock me to my core. But all at once, Madeline’s arms were around Henry’s neck, and he whirled her around joyfully as they both laughed.
“What are you doing here?” Madeline cried. She wanted to pinch herself and him to make sure they were real.
Henry set her feet back on the floor and kissed her gently; he kissed her in a way that made her heart balloon, in a way that made her want to take his hand and guide him out into the night, away from this thickening crowd. She was wordless. He’d come for her!
But from behind the stage, she heard David saying her name. She felt tugged back to the piano. Henry’s eyes were wide with recognition.
“It’s time,” he said, nudging her along.
Madeline wore an enormous smile and returned to the stage. A part of her sensed that this would be her final time up there. After this, she would return to the United States and move in with Henry and be by his side through everything. Thanks to David, she had her music confidence back. She could form another quintet in Los Angeles and bring sweeping and strange jazz music to that sun-bleached city. She could write music for movie scores or even, if it came to it, teach piano lessons. She didn’t owe anything to anyone except herself—the child and teenager who’d spent hundreds of thousands of hours mastering piano. She owed it to her love of music to keep going.
Madeline fell into the performance. In an article posted to a Paris nightlife website, the journalist would go on to write that this was one of Madeline’s very best performances, that she left everything of herself on stage. When it was finished, she stood with her colleagues and bowed three times, then played three encores before the crowd would let them go. It was nearly midnight, and she was exhausted. When she reached Greta and Bernard in the crowd, Henry was with them, drinking a glass of red wine and smiling sleepily. The three of them were jet-lagged but eager to spend as much time with Madeline as they could. Greta, especially, seemed to want to spend every minute in Paris wide-awake and experiencing everything.
“You were brilliant!” they told her. Henry kissed her cheek and waved the server over to order Madeline a glass of wine. Greta looked confused yet very pleased that Henry was there. She kept saying, “You’re a mystery man!”
“How did you get away?” Bernard asked him.
“We cut for the rest of the month,” Henry said. “Sophia had a few problems with some of the scenes, and they need to be rewritten.” He groaned and laughed.
“Of course she did,” Greta said, shaking her head.
“Sometimes I worry that making this film will take forever,” Henry admitted. “But mostly, I think—wow, I’m lucky to be able to do this at all.”
“That’s a great attitude to have,” Bernard said.
Madeline was about to respond, about to tell Henry how proud she was of him and his work, and maybe even about to tell him that she wanted to move to Los Angeles to be close to him when suddenly, a person she’d never seen before came up behind her and said, “Madeline Willis?” The lilting and foreign accent wasn’t French, and she couldn’t place it at first. She turned to find a man in his fifties or sixties with blond-gray hair to his ears and piercing blue eyes. At first, she assumed he was simply a fan, someone who’d wandered in to see some jazz and wanted to compliment her before going on about the rest of his night. She smiled at him, still with her hand on Henry’s arm.
“Hi, yes, that’s me,” she said. She assumed the conversation would be over in ten seconds.
“I wonder if you might speak to me in private for a few minutes,” he said.
Madeline’s heart dropped an inch, but she kept her smile upright. Why would this stranger want to talk to her?
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t catch your name?” She glanced at Bernard, hoping to give him an appreciation of her slight fear.
Bernard caught on immediately and furrowed his brow. She read the look like this guy won’t get away with anything; we have your back.
“My name is Aleksander,” he said.
“Where are you from, Aleksander?”
“I am from Poland,” he said. “Like you.”
Madeline laughed nervously and raised her chin. “I’m not from Poland. I’m from Michigan.”
Of course, memory of her mother’s past tugged at her, demanding her attention. But how would this man know anything about her mother?
Aleksander smiled wider. “But don’t you know? You play like the most brilliant pianist from Poland. You look like her, too.”
Madeline’s heartbeat skipped. “I don’t really know any pianists from Poland.”
When was this guy going to get the hint and leave her alone?
But suddenly, Aleksander pulled a photograph from his coat pocket and pressed it into her hand. The picture was vintage, perhaps taken in the seventies or eighties, and featured a young woman at a piano wearing a velvet dress with her hair piled up and stitched together like a basket. The woman had Madeline’s face. It was uncanny. Madeline’s throat felt tight. Was it just a coincidence? Did many women of Polish descent look like one another? She blinked several times and told herself not to cry.
From behind her, Bernard said, “Madeline, are you all right?”
Madeline cleared her throat. “I’m just fine.” She passed the photograph back to Aleksander and looked him dead in the eye. What did he want from her? Why did it feel as though the ground was melting beneath her?
“Five minutes,” Aleksander said.
Her curiosity was piqued. She glanced back at Bernard, Greta, and Henry and raised her finger. “I’ll be back,” she said. What could she do but go with him?
But she wouldn’t go outside. When Aleksander tried to guide her out onto the street, she hunkered in the corner and said, “We talk in here or not at all.” She crossed her arms and told herself to be very brave.
Aleksander tucked the photograph back in his coat pocket and gestured to a passing server to order a glass of beer. “Do you know who the woman in the photograph is?”
“No. I’ve never seen her before.”
“She has your face, no?”
Madeline flared her nostrils. She felt as though this man were playing a game with her.
“That woman is Barbara Nowak,” Aleksander said, his voice shimmering with magic.
“Okay?”
“Barbara Nowak is the most famous female musician Poland has ever known,” he said. “She’s performed in every concert hall and philharmonic from here to Tokyo. She’s renowned. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her.”
“I’ve heard of her,” Madeline said, scoffing. She’d heard the name. She’d flitted in and around countless piano circles, where names like Barbara Nowak were said with gravitas. She’d even heard a few recordings of Barbara’s performances. But she’d never seen her photograph. Her blood ran cold.
“So you do know her,” Aleksander said, half accusing her.
Madeline tugged her hair. “What is this about?”
Aleksander smiled. “Barbara Nowak is your grandmother.”
The word rang through Madeline’s head. But as much as she wanted to resist it, as much as she wanted to say it wasn’t so, the minute he said it, she knew it was true. Her breath caught in her throat.
“She’s heard the recordings from your sessions here at the jazz bar,” Aleksander said, sniffing, clearly looking down at a place like this. “She’s quite impressed.”
Madeline felt woozy. Was she going to faint?
“She wants to talk to you about the next phase of your career,” he said, removing his business card and planting it in Madeline’s hand.
Madeline stared down at the card, at the Polish-looking last name that served as her ticket to someplace else, someplace better. This was far more than Juilliard. This was the grand stage.
“I haven’t played classical music in six years,” she said.
Aleksander scoffed. “We know all about you.”
Madeline flared her nostrils and looked at him. “You know what happened to my mother?”
Aleksander didn’t flinch. “It was a tragedy. Your grandmother has mourned her for years.”
Madeline’s first thought was that they were mourning alone when they should have been mourning together. Her next thought was why didn’t she reach out?
“She wants to meet you,” Aleksander repeated. “Contact me at that number so that we can make arrangements for you to come to Poland.”
“I’m going to Nantucket,” Madeline said, feeling silly and soft. “I’ll be out of Europe for Christmas.” And I’m moving to Los Angeles to be with my love.
But she found she couldn’t say that so easily.
“Tell me you’ll be in contact,” Aleksander said. “After Christmas is fine.”
Madeline felt herself nod. “Okay.”
Aleksander slipped past her, muttering in Polish when it looked like the crowd was going to obstruct his way. He gave her a final pointed look and said, “We’ll be waiting,” then disappeared into the night.
Madeline stood there with the card in her hand, feeling as though the world she’d once known no longer made sense to her. The rules were different. She wasn’t alone.
But that meant she never had been. And how could she make sense of that? How could she make sense of all the sleepless, aching nights, the starry sky over Los Angeles when she’d ached for her mother, for the love she’d once known?
It didn’t matter. Not now. She knew she had to go to Poland. She had to learn more about her mother, Poland, and her pianist past.
This was the reason she was a prodigy. Finally, the puzzle pieces were coming together, and she was going to understand herself—for the first time.
She tucked the card into her pocket and bit her tongue to keep from telling Henry she would run away to be with him. Maybe her career wasn’t finished quite yet.