Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Madeline
Christmas on Nantucket Island
I t was only after Madeline told Greta the entire story of her mother’s death that Greta sat down. By then, the onions were finished cooking, and the soufflé was in the oven, and dinner was fast approaching, but Greta had never given Madeline any indication that Madeline’s story wasn’t her highest priority. Greta put her face in her hands and took a long, deep breath. Madeline watched her, captivated and exhausted. Never in her life had she told the entire story. She’d suddenly remembered so many small, important details—details of what her mother had been wearing on the day of the accident, details of what Mrs. Everett had said. Now that Madeline was so much older (at least in her mind), it seemed very strange that she’d been able to build her own life. It now seemed like an even greater tragedy, now that she’d lived through it.
“Madeline, I hope you know how strong you are,” Greta said finally.
Madeline bit her tongue to keep from sobbing. “I’ve just tried to take each day as it comes.”
“You’ve done far more than that, my dear. You’ve built a life for yourself,” Greta said.
“But I never could have without you,” Madeline said. “I was only half living before you walked into my life. I went to work and walked around and waited for something to happen. I might have kept doing that for the next five, ten, twenty years.” It chilled Madeline to think of all the time she’d already wasted. She realized she must have been terribly depressed.
“But it was you who had to be brave and sit back at the piano,” Greta reminded her. “I imagine that must have been incredibly difficult.”
“It was, and it wasn’t,” Madeline said, her chest filling with emotion.
Greta was quiet for a long time. From upstairs, Madeline could hear muffled conversation and laughter that sounded like it belonged to Alana and Julia and Ella—the three sisters, up to no good before Christmas. Madeline was so attached to them already.
“I have a confession to make, as well,” Greta said finally.
Madeline was suddenly frightened. “You do?”
Greta nodded. “That day in Los Angeles, I recognized you.”
Madeline was stricken. “I don’t understand.”
Greta folded her lips. She looked reticent. “For twenty-five years, I was alone in this big, empty house,” she said. “And I had a great deal of time to listen and think. One way I liked to pass the time was with my albums. I have about four hundred in the music room. Maybe you’ve noticed them?”
Madeline had, but because she streamed everything on the internet, she hadn’t taken the time to go through them.
“A few of my favorites were performed by a woman named Barbara Nowak,” Greta went on. “She was and still is a sensational pianist. She brings such personality and life to pieces that are two hundred years or more. I listened to her play for hours and hours and often turned the albums over to start them again.” Greta’s eyes were shiny with tears.
Madeline’s eyes closed. It’s happening , she thought then. Greta already knew. Had she known the entire time?
“I don’t know if you’ve seen her photograph,” Greta said quietly.
“I hadn’t until a few days ago.” Madeline pressed her lips together. “A man approached me in Paris. He mentioned Barbara’s name and showed me her photograph. I’d heard her name before, of course. She’s renowned and an incredible performer, and, you know, I was always eager to hear new renditions of songs I was practicing. But I didn’t know…”
“That you have the same face,” Greta finished.
“That she’s my grandmother,” Madeline said.
Greta leaned back in her chair and strung her arms tightly over her chest. It was a very long time before she was able to speak again, and when she did, all she said was, “I don’t know what to say.” Madeline guessed that was a rare thing for Greta Copperfield.
“She wants to meet me,” Madeline said.
Greta shook her head and adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “Of course she does. She must have heard about you. David said the quintet has been talked about in many different circles. He’s very pleased. And I imagine she’s so curious about what’s happened in your life and why you left the classical world and why you came back.”
Madeline let the silence hang before she said, “My mother never told me about her.”
“That is the strangest thing of all,” Greta said.
“She left Poland when she was nine years old,” Madeline said. “Her father brought her. I’d always assumed that my grandmother was dead. But all that time, she was alive and well and selling out thousand-plus concert venues. Meanwhile, we were so broke that my mother worked every conceivable job she could to put me through piano lessons and get me into competitions.”
Greta’s jaw was slack. She looked as though she couldn’t fathom it. “She still lives in Poland?”
“In Warsaw,” Madeline said because she’d looked it up. “She wants me to come next year.”
“And you’re going to go,” Greta said.
Madeline raised her shoulders. “Why should I?”
Greta cleared her throat and traced her fingers over the table. “You know that we Copperfields didn’t talk to one another for decades.”
“Yes.” Madeline knew it even though it was difficult to fathom.
“You know, it still breaks my heart,” Greta said, her voice breaking. She couldn’t look at Madeline. “We’ve forgiven each other, but I don’t know if any of us have forgiven ourselves. I hate that I didn’t pick up the phone, and I know they hate it, too. Meanwhile, Bernard was in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, and we carried on without one another. In some ways, I don’t know how we could ever be so cruel. In other ways, we were doing what we had to do to survive.”
Madeline narrowed her eyes. She was pretty sure she understood where Greta was going with this, but it didn’t feel comfortable. She took a breath.
“I think if your grandmother wants to see you, wants to meet you, wants to be in your life,” Greta said, raising her shoulders, “then you owe it to yourself to try. More love is never a bad thing.”
Madeline closed her eyes and let the words flow through her. She panged with fear.
Finally, before she planned it, she said, “I’ve been thinking of leaving Paris and moving to LA to be with Henry.”
Greta tilted her head. She looked mildly disappointed. “I don’t know what the future holds for either of you,” she said. “But you know my stance. Career first.”
Madeline laughed sadly. She now saw the cracks in Greta’s logic.
“Regardless,” Greta said, “you owe it to yourself to meet the one and only Barbara Nowak. After that, you can decide—Paris or Los Angeles or something else entirely. Your life is your own.”
Madeline filled her lungs and realized she’d never fully thought that before. Her life belonged to her! It didn’t belong to the piano, or to her mother, or to her piano teacher. It didn’t belong to Henry, either.
“I hear you, Greta,” she whispered.
Suddenly, the timer rang, and Greta was on her feet, whipping the soufflé from the oven and placing it on the counter with a thrilled smile. “Not bad,” she said of what she’d created. “Not bad at all.”
* * *
On Christmas morning, Madeline and Henry woke up at dawn and went for a long, chilly walk down the beach. They were quiet and soft with one another, holding hands and kicking their feet through the snow that lined the sand. The water frothed and stirred. When they were so far down the beach that they couldn’t see The Copperfield House anymore, Henry took both of Madeline’s hands in his and said, “I want to tell you something. Something crazy.”
“Me too,” Madeline said because she still hadn’t explained the story of Barbara Nowak and how, already, she’d bought a flight from Paris to Warsaw to see her grandmother’s performance. She knew Henry would understand; she knew he would have empathy for the tremendous undertaking this was. But she knew it meant more time apart—and a difficult comprehension of how the next year of their fledgling relationship would go.
“Can I go first?” Henry asked, laughing at himself. He really did look so handsome, his cheeks red from the cold, his hair flying around his face. He’d forgotten his hat, and Madeline itched with the desire to give him hers instead, if only to keep him warm.
She’d never loved anyone like this before. It was the greatest pain she’d ever known. It was also worth everything.
“I’ve been thinking I want to ask you to marry me,” Henry said. He said it so beautifully, in such an open way—a way that suggested he wanted to talk to her about this before making a grand proposal, a way that suggested he respected her opinion on a matter as great as this.
Madeline took a breath. She thought back to the previous few months of Parisian living, during which she and Henry had hardly managed to speak on the phone for more than an hour per week. She’d thought he’d forgotten about her. What did that mean?
“How long have you been thinking this?” she asked.
“Basically since we met on that plane,” Henry said with a funny laugh. “Listen. I know we’re young, and I know people don’t usually get married young anymore. But doesn’t that make it interesting? Doesn’t that mean we could grow together and change together and make art together?” Implied in what he was saying was the idea of being like his grandparents—forever in love and making art.
Madeline’s heart ached. She clung harder to his hands and said, “We haven’t seen each other for months.” Maybe he doesn’t mean it. Perhaps this is all in his head. Maybe it’s a bit of Christmas confusion.
“I don’t want to go through that again,” Henry said. His thumb swept over her hand.
Madeline swallowed the lump in her throat. “I have to go back to Paris.” And Warsaw.
“I know that,” he said, his voice hiccuping. “But my movie will finish up soon, and then I’ll have a small break and come see you, and then, you know, down the road…” He trailed off. “Who says we can’t live all over the world? Who says you can’t be a famous pianist wherever you want?”
Madeline laughed. “Is it that simple?” She knew it wasn’t.
Henry raised his shoulders. “Why can’t it be?”
“Because I’m still at the beginning of my career,” she said.
She meant I have so much to figure out.
Henry’s hands loosened on hers. His eyes echoed disappointment. A frigid wind rushed between them, ruffling their coats.
It was then that Madeline explained the story of Barbara Nowak. Henry was quiet, listening with narrowed eyes, as she talked about her fears and her reticence, her memory that Barbara hadn’t been with her or her mother at any point during the past twenty-plus years, her memory that nobody had stepped in to help after her mother had died.
“Where was she?” Madeline whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “I was all alone and so young, and I had nobody. I never even went back to Michigan. I started over completely. Blank slate. And I had no idea who I was.”
Henry wrapped his arms around her and held her as she cried into his chest.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, trying to calm herself down. “You just told me you might want to marry me, and I’m a mess.”
Henry smoothed her hair gently and said, “I think helping one another through messes is a big part of marriage.”
Madeline pressed her nose to his. Her tears were frozen on her cheeks.
“I’ll come with you,” Henry said, his voice firm.
Madeline shifted against him. “What do you mean? What about the film?”
“I’ll figure something out,” he said. “I want to be there.”
Madeline had a strange hunch that Barbara wouldn’t take kindly to that—that Barbara would want Madeline to herself. But Madeline couldn’t refuse Henry. So she said, “Please. Come with me.” Her heart jumped into her throat.
Maybe everything would be all right.
Later that morning, Madeline and Henry sat cozily with Scarlet, Julia, Anna, and Rachel and ate Greta’s homemade cinnamon rolls until their bellies ached. Christmas presents were piled under the tree, stacked in a way that suggested none of the Copperfields were architects. Greta explained the schedule for the day, which was mostly food focused, and she said, “I don’t want anyone to tell me they’re too full to eat. The menu is set.”
“You won’t have any problems with us,” Julia said, laughing.
Greta pursed her lips and continued to stir more dough. Still more Copperfields streamed in, brushing hair from their cheeks and hair and kissing and hugging everyone hello. A few of them hadn’t seen Madeline yet, and they stole space around the table to ask her questions about Paris, her jazz pianist career, and how she liked it. She didn’t tell anyone about Henry’s proposed proposal—a potentiality that opened her heart like a window. All the while, Greta beamed at Madeline with all the love and pride of a true grandmother.
Madeline wondered if Barbara Nowak was going to look at her like that. It frightened her to realize that soon, she would know one way or the other if Barbara loved her or her mother at all.