Chapter 5
It was Greta’s idea to invite the girls over to celebrate Sarah’s new off-Broadway play. Alana, Ella, Julia, and Sarah had agreed to join her on the back patio that evening for barbecue chicken and margaritas. But it was still hours before they’d show up. This left Greta alone in the kitchen, stirring up a homemade barbecue sauce and thinking about the past. Ever since she’d met Celeste the other day, she’d felt haunted.
Greta remembered the first week of Celeste’s stay at The Copperfield House back in 2003. Greta had put Celeste in Julia’s old bedroom rather than putting her up in the residency half of the house so that she didn’t have to heat that half of the house on colder nights. It was a strange June; the weather turned on a dime. Celeste was very quiet those first few days. When Greta asked her how she’d heard about The Copperfield House, Celeste said only that her brother had once lived at the residency. He was a writer like she was. Greta couldn’t help but take the bait. One night, over dinner of roasted potatoes and salmon, Greta asked, “So. You’re a writer. That’s why you wanted to come here. I’d love to see what you’re working on.”
It had been a long time since Greta had cared about anyone’s art. Most of all, her own.
Celeste showed her poetry collection sheepishly. Greta took the poems and prepared herself to be disappointed. She prepared herself to say, “They’re pretty good, but they need work. Here and here and here.” But instead, the poetry blew her socks off. She sat up all night by the fire and read through the poems as tears dried on her cheeks. This young woman had captured something about loneliness and heartache that Greta, in her fifties, had never managed with her own writing. Celeste was like Sylvia Plath reincarnated. She had a captivating power.
Greta kept her tone even when she told Celeste that she knew a publisher in New York City who might be interested in publishing Celeste’s poetry chapbook. Celeste brightened with surprise. They were in the kitchen over bowls of oatmeal, sipping coffee. Greta had a strange thought, “If I can get this girl’s chapbook published, I’ll feel useful again. I’ll feel a part of the world.”
Over the next four weeks, Greta helped Celeste re-order the poems so that the chapbook was seamless and powerful. They sent the poems to the publisher and celebrated with wine on the back porch. Celeste still hadn’t told Greta where she’d come from or why, but Greta decided she didn’t care. They laughed together. They exchanged poems they loved by long-dead poets who’d captivated their hearts. And Greta felt her own heart opening up bit by bit after six years of darkness.
But now—so many years after 2003—Celeste was a shell of a woman. Greta could not let it go. What had happened to her? Why had it happened between those magical nights in 2003 and now that had allowed Celeste to crumble?
Julia arrived fifteen minutes before she said she would. She’d brought ingredients for tequila and sat cross-legged at the kitchen table, mixing a big pitcher for everyone and chatting about a few books she planned to publish with her publishing house that summer. She had a brilliant mind and a creative intellect that sometimes floored Greta and Bernard. She was every bit their daughter, though—in ways Alana wasn’t.
Ella wasn’t biologically their daughter in the first place. But Greta never dwelled on that fact.
“And how are Anna and Adam? I keep missing them,” Greta asked about her granddaughter and newest great-grandson as she slid the barbecue chicken into the oven.
“Brilliant as ever. Anna and Smith are smitten,” Julia said dreamily, speaking of the newest writer produced by The Copperfield House who’d fallen in love with Anna. “Charlie and I had them over for dinner the other night, and Smith held the baby for hours to give Anna a break. I like to think she’s found someone who will protect her and Adam like that. Who will think of their needs above his own.”
It had been a fear of Greta’s after Anna’s fiancé’s death: who would care for her and the baby? Who would ever want to marry someone who’d gone through so much at such a young age? But Smith had been through his own trials. He was a writer. He didn’t shy away from the messiness of life.
Alana, Sarah, and Ella arrived with another Copperfield in tow—Laura, Ella’s daughter, who was in from the city. Laura had just finished her second year at Columbia and was staying in the city that summer for an internship. As they paraded through the house, she gushed to Sarah about what a fantastic time they would have together. Greta beamed and welcomed her daughters, granddaughter, and soon-to-be step-granddaughter into her arms.
“Congratulations, Sarah!” she cried. “I hear you’re a force to be reckoned with.”
Sarah laughed nervously. “I don’t know about that. I couldn’t believe it when he called to say I’d gotten the part. I’d basically talked myself out of it.”
“You should never talk yourself out of something you want in your bones,” Greta warned. “Nobody else in that city believes in you. You have to do all the believing yourself.”
Sarah’s smile widened. She seemed to be an intelligent and optimistic young woman with enough talent to go the distance in that cut-throat environment. Greta eyed Alana and hunted for clues of jealousy. Greta would have empathized. During her twenty-five years of anonymity and hiding out at The Copperfield House, she’d felt the rest of the world go on without her. She’d felt she’d given up.
But she was back to writing like crazy. It was proof that there were numerous phases in life. You just had to be strong enough to live through them.
Over dinner, Sarah talked at length about her apartment and the play. Greta asked numerous questions about how Sarah got into character, the backstory of the playwright and the resumé of the director until Alana came right out and asked if Greta wanted to come to New York City to help Sarah move in on June 1st. Greta was taken aback and laughed.
“Is it that obvious that I’m so intrigued?” Greta asked.
“It’s not a long trip,” Alana assured her.
“I’m not as strong as I once was. I don’t know how I can help you move furniture or boxes or anything like that.”
“‘I’m only bringing the basics,” Sarah said. “The apartment is furnished, and I’ll be at rehearsals all summer anyway.”
Greta swelled with excitement. She imagined herself in the Lower East Side, surrounded by the bustling city, chatting to neighbors on the front stoops, grabbing a bagel for breakfast. She imagined herself to be fifty years younger and living an alternate version of her life. It was a shame you didn’t get to do it many different times in many different places.
“I’ll go,” Greta said. “Just tell me how I can help.”
It was settled.
That evening, after the girls went off in their separate directions, Greta sat on the back porch alone with a cup of tea. Bernard surprised her with a knock on the door.
“Can I join you? Or do you want to be alone?”
“Please,” Greta said. “You know I love your company.”
Bernard sat beside her with a cup of tea and folded his hands on the tabletop. The sun plotted its final course into the ocean and cast everything in an orange sheen.
“Alana tells me you’re off to New York City.”
Greta laughed. “It’s silly, isn’t it? I just want to experience a little bit of Sarah’s off-Broadway magic.”
“I think it means a lot to Alana that you want to join.”
Greta arched her brow and watched as a seagull swept lazily through the sky. “Maybe.” She could feel Bernard watching her curiously.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” Greta said.
“You’ve been quiet ever since you got back from the coffee shop the other day. Did something happen?”
Greta turned to look at him. She should have known he would notice a shift in her behavior. This was Bernard Copperfield, the novelist and king of nuance. She couldn’t get anything past him.
“It’s hard to explain,” Greta said.
“Try me.”
Greta took a sip of tea and swept through her memories. It was difficult to know how to explain something so tender. “I met with a friend I hadn’t seen in twenty years. She was a young poet and playwright. She stayed at The Copperfield House between 2003 and 2004, and we became very good friends. I thought she would become someone incredible. Someone the world would know. But she faded into obscurity. And when I saw her the other day, I hardly recognized her. I feel that something happened to her. Something that made her hide from the world. But I don’t know what.”
Bernard furrowed his brow. “Wow.”
Greta laughed. “Too much?”
“No. I should have known it was a doozy.” Bernard thought for a moment. “You can tell me if this is off the mark. But it seems to me that Celeste helped you through a difficult time. You think she’s in a difficult time now, and you want to help her through that, too.”
Greta perked up. “I think you hit the nail on the head.”
Could it really be that simple? Could Greta approach Celeste and ask her what was wrong and how she could help? Celeste had said she lived in New Jersey with her husband and children. She had her number. She could text Celeste and meet up with her when she went to the city with Alana and Sarah. Her heart thrummed with excitement. I should have said something immediately. That was probably why Celeste reached out to me in the first place. She needs help. She needs the sort of guidance she’s come to expect from Greta Copperfield.
“Bernard, you’re a genius,” Greta said before throwing her arms around him.
That night, Greta texted Celeste:
“Wonderful to see you the other day. I’m coming to the city on June 1st, and I would love to come to New Jersey to see where you live and meet your family. What do you say?”
Greta felt the text to be magnanimous and kind. She felt sure Celeste would text within the hour to make a date. But that night, she received no word from Celeste. She received nothing the next day, either. When she mentioned this to Bernard, he said, “She has kids. I’m sure she’s just busy.” But by the end of the week, Celeste hadn’t answered, and Greta was worried. Maybe Celeste hadn’t been impressed with Greta during their meeting. Maybe she’d thought less of her. Worse, maybe Celeste was embarrassed about her state and career and had decided to hide herself.
Greta sent seven text messages over the next couple of weeks, but none of them were answered. She decided to put this quest to bed. It was clear Celeste didn’t want anything to do with her anyway.