Chapter 10
Greta was able to chat with three other members of the Winsome Theater Troupe that week on the phone. They were all keen to regale their times in New York theater and frequently got off-topic so that they could brag about the soliloquies they still had memorized or the difficult costume changes they’d managed in fifteen seconds flat. They all remembered Celeste fondly. One of them had briefly dated her during 2007—before a crushing breakup that had nearly forced him out of the troupe. “But Celeste demanded I come back to rehearsal. She wouldn’t hear of having our ‘silly breakup’ destroy my career,” the man named Reggie said with a laugh. “I still loved her. I guess I never really got over her.”
“Were you surprised when she left the next troupe and quit writing altogether?” Greta asked.
“She was reeling about her mother. I knew that she had a really difficult relationship with her,” Reggie went on. “They didn’t speak for the entire time I dated her, but she cried about it sometimes. She felt she’d done something wrong. That she’d abandoned her mother when she should have stuck up for her in the face of her father.”
“He was a drunk, right?” Greta asked.
“Worse than that. It sounds like he sometimes hits her mother,” Reggie went on. “Celeste didn’t like to talk about it, but she mentioned it a few times.”
“Did Celeste’s father ever hit her?”
Reggie was quiet for a moment. “She never said if he did or not. But she knew violence. She knew trauma.”
“What makes you say that?” Greta hunted through her own memories for times Celeste might have mentioned something traumatic that had happened. But her mind’s eye produced only gorgeous sun-dappled memories of herself and Celeste on the back porch writing and running lines. It was as though she’d blocked out everything dark about that time.
“I can’t help but feel like I’m betraying her by telling you this,” Reggie went on.
Greta cocked her head and adjusted her phone on her ear. In her quest to discover Celeste’s past and paint a clear picture, she’d never once thought of it as a betrayal.
“I think it’s good to understand her better,” Greta said tentatively. “I think she’d want us to know her totally.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” Reggie said. “She had many secrets. I don’t know if she ever told anyone everything. She was a writer; that was how she worked through her problems.”
Greta’s stomach twisted with fear. Was Reggie going to keep a piece of the puzzle away from her? Did he not trust her with it?
“She always talked about the darkest time of her life,” Reggie finally went on. “It must have been 2002 or so. She was on the road, traveling from place to place. She’d always thought it would be romantic to be a vagabond, the way everyone does when they’re young. She said she met people who weren’t kind. People who taught her about the cruelty of the world.”
Greta frowned. 2002 was the year before Celeste had stomped up to the door of The Copperfield House like a straggly dog.
“I don’t have anything to back this up,” Reggie added tentatively, “but I think there was a man involved. An abusive man. I don’t think he ever hit her; I think she said she got away before he could. She was amazed to have fallen directly into a relationship modeled after her parents.”
Greta had been taking notes on a pad of paper. She circled the words “abusive man on the road” as though that could be the secret to everything. But there was so little she understood. She thanked Reggie profusely.
“She meant a lot to me,” Reggie said. “I was sad to see her leave New York.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“It must have been a few months before she married her first husband,” Reggie went on. “I ran into her near Broadway. She told me all about her wedding preparations. She seemed about as excited about it as any play she’d ever written. I was amazed. I’d always imagined her to be this free spirit who would never settle down. But I suppose we all need a place to lay our heads.”
“Especially someone like Celeste,” Greta offered. “Someone who didn’t have a place to live for so long.”
Greta said goodbye to Reggie and leaned back in her office chair, clicking the end of her pen. Whoever this abusive man was, Celeste had left him in her past. Greta liked to believe that she’d helped her through that process here at The Copperfield House. She’d filled Celeste’s plates with nourishing food, given her creative and stimulating conversation and allowed her to shuck off the horrors of the past for a little while. But history always repeated itself. Was it possible that Celeste had met someone similar to that man in the years after her mother’s suicide? Was it possible she’d declined rapidly after doing so much work to build herself back up?
It was nearly five-thirty. Greta went downstairs to prep dinner for herself, Bernard, Julia, and the members of The Copperfield House residency, both past and present. Aurora was coming by with her boyfriend, Brooks, and the videographer, poet, and sculptor currently residing at the residency planned to discuss their projections with Bernard and Greta that evening after dinner. She’d promised them exquisite French food. She decided on chicken a la orange.
Bernard stepped into the kitchen a few minutes after she started and set to work chopping veggies for a salad. He’d had a stimulating work session that afternoon and was in a wonderful mood, teasing Greta and kissing her on the back of the neck. Greta beamed at him.
“There’s something wrong,” Bernard said as he studied her. “What is it?”
Greta set down the big meat cleaver and rolled her sleeves up over her elbows. “It’s Celeste. An ex-boyfriend of hers mentioned an abusive ex she’d mentioned. But I don’t know how to get to the bottom of that story. It feels like taking one step forward and two steps back.”
Bernard snapped his fingers. “Didn’t you say that Celeste was sent here by an older brother? A writer?”
Greta felt the lightbulb go on in her head. “I’ll check the records!”
Greta left Bernard in the kitchen to check the computerized records of every single artist, writer, dancer, filmmaker, and so on that had ever stepped through the doors of The Copperfield House residency. This had been a task she’d assigned James late last summer. He’d computerized everything for ten dollars an hour. Now, all she had to do was type “Harding” into the search bar and draw up the file immediately. Brad Harding had been at The Copperfield House during the spring of 1995—eight years before Celeste had darkened its door. There was a photograph of him as a young man, confident and brash, and there were a few writing samples from his time at the residency. Greta vaguely remembered him. She hadn’t liked his writing as much as another writer staying with them at the time, and she’d probably unfairly spent more time with the other writer and left him in a lurch. A brief Google search told her that Brad had published three novels with mid-level success. He was in his fifties and lived in Providence, Rhode Island. Greta immediately contacted his literary agent and asked for his email address. By the time she was finished cooking dinner, the agent had written back.
Greta felt lost in a dream during dinner. As she blinked around the table, listening to the artists and family members she loved dearly exchange stories, talk about their projects, and exclaim about how good the food was, she felt transported through all the decades of life and artistry at The Copperfield House. It seemed incredible that, at one time, it had only been her and Celeste at the house. They usually hadn’t dined at the table like this and opted for the kitchen because it was cozier with just the two of them. But on Christmas, they’d eaten here, taking up as much space as they could and listening to romantic classical music. Had Celeste been harboring a recent secret about an abusive ex-boyfriend? Why hadn’t Greta seen it written on her face?
Aurora helped Greta clean the table and wash the dishes. Greta adored Aurora, a woman who’d come to The Copperfield House last summer and suffered a complete breakdown after working herself half to death. Her mother had also been a resident at The Copperfield House. But now that Aurora was in love and on medication, she was bright and happy; her creativity wasn’t bound to destroy her. She even showed Greta a few paintings she was working on, which Greta gushed over. Aurora was a success story of The Copperfield House. She was one of the reasons Greta wanted to keep going.
It took Brad Harding three days to answer Greta’s email.
Greta,
Thank you for your email and your touching comments about my little sister. I knew she’d stayed at The Copperfield House for a brief period, but I didn’t know you knew her as well as you did. Back then, Celeste and I didn’t have a very good relationship. It improved with time.
You say you have questions about my sister. I can’t imagine what they could be. But here’s a suggestion: I’m going to Martha’s Vineyard with my wife next week for a brief vacation. Perhaps we could meet and discuss this more. I’m happy to come to Nantucket.
All the best,
Brad Harding
Greta wrote back that she would take the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard on whatever day he had time. He was already coming all the way here; she might as well meet him.
Brad suggested meeting at the Aquinnah Cliffside Overlook Hotel. It was a swanky new resort-style hotel on the cliff that catered to elite vacationers. Greta took the ferry and drove out to Aquinnah, where she parked and stepped inside. Brad was seated by the window with a book in front of him. She tried to guess what it was as she approached. Something hefty and pretentious like Joyce or Dostoyevsky. But she was surprised to find he was reading Doris Lessing instead. She immediately warmed to him.
Brad glanced up, offered a half-smile, and stood to shake Greta’s hand. Greta remembered saying goodbye to him on his last day at The Copperfield House. “I wish you good luck in your career,” she’d said. But she hadn’t actually anticipated he would become much of anyone, not like his sister.
“I love Doris Lessing,” Greta said as she sat down.
“She’s sensational.”
A waiter came by to take their orders. Greta was jittery and ordered a white wine, while Brad opted for a Diet Coke. Greta guessed he was sober; alcoholism ran in their family.
“Thank you for meeting me today,” Greta said. “I’m sorry to interrupt your vacation. I’m sure you need it.”
“I usually take the afternoons to read anyway,” Brad said. He tapped his fingers across the table. “And like I said, I’m curious about your friendship with my sister. She never mentioned you.”
Greta’s heart felt bruised. “I met up with Celeste three weeks ago. She was in Nantucket and asked to get coffee. She didn’t mention her illness at all.”
“Would you want to talk about it all the time?” Brad asked. “It was all her family and friends could fixate on. She probably wanted to pretend that everything was all right.”
Greta wanted to point out just how dull their conversation had been. But she thought that maybe that played into Brad’s theory, too. Celeste had wanted to have a normal everyday conversation with someone she’d once loved, Greta. And Greta had spent that time judging her. Her stomach roiled. When the wine came, she drank it too quickly and shivered.
“I’ve been trying to put together the pieces of Celeste’s life,” Greta went on. “We spent a very intense year and a half together, and I hardly heard from her after she left The Copperfield House.”
Brad raised his eyebrows. “She stayed with you for over a year?”
Greta felt a jolt of pride. She’d offered that young woman safety in a world that seemed so cruel to her. “Yes.”
“She never mentioned that,” Brad offered. “I assumed that she stayed as long as any artist did during my time there. I had a room for about three or four months if I remember correctly.”
“Three months was typical back then,” Greta said. She cleared her throat and added, “You’ve done very well for yourself, Brad. It’s always wonderful to see an ex-Copperfield House resident take their career so seriously.”
Brad raised his shoulder. “I don’t remember you being quite so enthusiastic about my work back in 1996.”
Greta faltered. He remembered the way she’d regarded his work, too. Her thoughts raced for a way out of this. A way to prove that she adored his writing if only to get him to tell her more about Celeste.
But Brad waved his hand and gave her a half-smile. “I’ve gotten way better since then. If anything, your reluctance to give me praise was the drive I needed to take myself more seriously. I didn’t publish a book till 2003, but I wasn’t ready till then, either. But I was impatient. Probably arrogant.” He smiled. “I’m still slightly arrogant. I don’t know if that ever goes away.”
“You have to be a bit arrogant to publish anything,” Greta said. “It’s the nature of writing.”
It was less tense between them. Greta loosened her shoulders. “I met someone by chance who knew Celeste in the city,” she went on. “She talked about her tremendous years at the Winsome Theater Company. That was after her year with me. I was so pleased to know she’d had so much success there.” Greta furrowed her brow. “But I didn’t know about your mother until very recently. I’m so sorry that happened.”
Brad turned and looked out the window at the jagged cliff that jutted across the property. “Celeste and I went many years without hearing from our mother. It was a surprise to us both when she popped up in New York wanting to build a relationship with Celeste. I was in London at the time, touring my first book, but I called Celeste when I could. I was terrified that something bad was about to happen.”
“What made you think that?”
“Because in our family, something bad was always about to happen,” Brad said. “It felt like we were cursed. But Celeste continued to reassure me every time I called. She said that Mom was better. That she was stable. That she’d gotten a job and an apartment all on her own. She sent photographs of them together at Central Park, picnicking and smiling. They looked just like any other mother and daughter.
“Celeste called me the day after Mom died,” Brad went on. “She sounded so flat. So tired. She reminded me of our mother when she went through her depressive spells when we were kids. It took me forever to get it out of her that Mom had died by suicide. I wasn’t surprised. Like I said, she’d been depressed for most of my childhood. The fact that she’d had Celeste as an older mom hadn’t helped things. I’m pretty sure Celeste was a mistake or a mad dash for Mom and Dad to fall back in love again. Who knows? I urged Celeste to seek help, and I made arrangements to come to the city to help. By the time I got there, Celeste had already quit the new theater company. We traveled back to our hometown and buried our mother in her family plot.”
“Did you stay home long?” Greta asked.
“About three weeks,” Brad said. “There were loose ends to tie up. There wasn’t an inheritance, of course, but we had to sell the house and get rid of all the stuff Mom had left behind when she’d spontaneously gone to New York.”
“Did Celeste talk about going back to the city? Did she talk about wanting to keep writing?”
Brad hesitated. “I remember she talked about wanting everything to slow down for once. I told her that was possible. She could write from anywhere; she didn’t have to live in the fast-paced city.”
Brad’s eyes filled with tears, and he put his hands over his face as his shoulders sagged. Greta kept herself from reaching out to touch him on the shoulder. It wasn’t appropriate. He wouldn’t have liked it.
His words were tear-soaked. “I think we thought the worst was over after that. Our father was dead. Our mother was gone. And we could carry on with our lives as writers and artists; we could be better than they ever were.” He smeared his fingers down his cheeks and added, “But for Celeste, that wasn’t the end of her misery. It was really only the beginning.”
Greta gaped at him for a long time, waiting. Outside, dark clouds roiled over the island and threatened to shake them with a sudden storm.