Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Madeline
Christmas on Nantucket Island
A ll the way back to Nantucket Island, Madeline didn’t have the nerve to talk to Henry, Greta, and Bernard about what had happened in Paris. Something about Aleksander and his confident and slightly sleazy demeanor didn’t sit in her stomach quite right, and she hardly touched her airline food—an Indian chicken meal that Henry said was the best he’d ever had on the plane. Madeline kept the foil on hers and tucked her head on his shoulder, watching the film he watched without earphones and pretending to know what was going on. Henry strung his fingers through hers. His eyelids flickered. In a few minutes, she knew he would be fast asleep.
Madeline got up to stretch her legs. Bernard and Greta were seated across the aisle and were both asleep, which was no surprise given all the Parisian exploring they’d done together over the past few days. Greta had had a list a mile long of all the Parisian sights she wanted to show both Madeline and Henry, and when her legs had tired out, she’d forced them back out onto the streets with a big list of both sights and bakeries. Madeline’s stomach ached from all that bread, but it had been worth it.
When Madeline returned to her seat, she connected her phone to the on-air Wi-Fi and googled Barbara Nowak for the first time since meeting Aleksander. The first image that appeared was of Barbara as a much older woman—probably as she looked now, with silver hair and powerful cheekbones and a shining epidermis that spoke of very good medical procedures and skincare. A quick calculation told Madeline that she was in her late sixties or early seventies, around Greta’s age and still, it seemed, very much influential in the classical music world. She’d recently given a talk about the “current worldwide benefit of teaching children classical music” in both Brussels and London, and she was set to give a concert in Poland in February. She was going to play Rachmaninoff—a piece Madeline herself had once perfected. In fact, she’d played it for her Juilliard audition and hadn’t listened to it once since.
It chilled her to the bone to learn that her grandmother was still playing it. She was still practicing eight, nine, maybe twelve hours a day.
Madeline darkened her phone and, not for the first time today, considered her mother, Diana. Why hadn’t she ever told Madeline about her super-famous pianist mother? Why had she kept it under wraps? Then again, Madeline reckoned how difficult it must have been to be a young girl with a very successful and busy mother. Eight hours of practicing a day meant eight hours during which she couldn’t have cared for her daughter. What had Diana done to fill the empty space? Madeline could only assume it had been incredibly difficult when Diana was very small. She’d probably screamed and cried at the sound of the piano.
So, the question for Madeline became: had Diana allowed Madeline to play the piano as a way to connect her to Poland and her roots? Or had she allowed Madeline to play the piano despite the painful connection to her mother?
Madeline didn’t know.
At two thirty in the afternoon, the plane landed in a snowy Boston. Unsurprisingly, given how close the Copperfields were, several of them were lined up in arrivals, including Julia, Anna, and Rachel, Henry’s tight-knit nuclear family. They swallowed Henry in hugs and then attacked her, too, saying how pleased they were that she’d managed to come back for Christmas. After months in Paris, it was strange to hear so much English at the airport, all of it so loud and boisterous, and Madeline breathed a sigh of relief when they reached the car and sped to Hyannis Port to take the ferry. All the way, she held Henry’s hand and listened as he talked to his mother about the reshoots required for several scenes in his movie, how close he’d become with the director, and his powerful relationship with Sophia Bianchi.
“It’s hard to believe it,” he said, “but it was a year ago that Sophia and I first met each other. Grandma sent me to her place for Christmas because she was worried I was too alone in Los Angeles. But I never could have imagined any of this would happen.”
“Do you think Greta knew? Do you think she imagined it?” Madeline asked, tilting her head. She knew that Greta had singular powers; that she could feel something extra-special about the world, about human relationships, about the possibilities available to her. It made her a fantastic writer.
“I don’t even think your grandmother could possibly know,” Julia said.
Back at The Copperfield House for the first time in months, Madeline fought her first instinct to go to the artist side of the house and instead let herself be directed to the bedroom that had been prepared for her and Henry. “We have a room ready for you at our place, too,” Julia explained nervously, smiling, “but we figured you’d be comfortable here, and Charlie’s girls are home, so.”
“We’ll make sure to be in both places,” Henry promised his mother.
When Henry closed the door to the bedroom, he and Madeline were alone for the first time in hours and fell onto the bed to cuddle. Henry’s eyes flickered closed, and Madeline kissed his neck and said, “We’re home,” although she wasn’t sure if that was exactly true. Henry’s home was in Los Angeles. Where was hers?
“Do you think we’ll ever live back in Nantucket?” she asked quietly.
Henry’s eyes opened, and he studied her. “I have another script in the works over in LA.” He said it simply, easily, although Madeline was sure he knew how much it might hurt her to hear it.
Still, Madeline squealed and hugged him. “I’m so happy for you!” She covered his face with kisses and told herself not to cry. “What’s it about? Why haven’t you sent me the script yet?”
Henry laughed and told her bits and pieces of the plot—that it was based on his grandparents’ life in Paris and that he wrote most of it last summer when he and Madeline were falling in love.
“Emotionally, I think it’s more about us than about Grandma and Grandpa,” he explained timidly.
Madeline’s eyes filled with tears. This was when she was supposed to tell Henry that she wanted to bail on Paris, bail on music and build a life with him in LA. It was where he was meant to be. But what about Poland? What about the life she’d never gotten to have? And why couldn’t she tell him about it?
I’m too nervous , she thought. She was frightened he’d tell her not to go to Poland, that there was nothing for her there. And if he told her not to go, it would break her heart.
Christmas was a beautiful time for the both of them. Madeline spent hours in the kitchen with Greta, slicing vegetables and chatting with her about all things writing, music, David, Paris, Henry, and filmmaking. Greta was extra eager to discuss Madeline’s newfound commitment to improvisation. Madeline had many theories about why she’d never been able to improvise before, and Greta explained that she thought a more creative mind was a more intellectual one. “You need to know how to be playful with your life and your time on the planet,” Greta said, stirring through a big skillet of frying onions. Outside, snow fell gently onto the beach and lined the porch stairs, and Madeline sipped a glass of mulled wine and thought that, to her, Paris already seemed like another lifetime.
“All my life, I practiced eight, nine, sometimes twelve hours a day,” Madeline said, feeling soft and sad. “There wasn’t time to be creative. My mother would smack the wall or yell if I made too many mistakes, and I was terrified of that.”
Greta turned away from the skillet to look at Madeline. It was rare that Madeline ever spoke of her mother, and Greta seemed to want to honor that.
“She was too strict with you,” Greta said. “I suppose that’s why you wanted to quit.”
Madeline shook her head, and bits of her hair got stuck in her lips. She stared out at the snow, willing herself to keep going. She traced back through time and remembered that fateful February at Juilliard—a day that had always been set aside to change her life forever. But never could she have imagined it would go like that.
It was then that Madeline got up the nerve to tell Greta the story that was never far from her mind.