Chapter 13
The next morning, Greta was back in her office with the tiniest of post-wine headaches. Bernard had told her to relax and take a break, but it was already June 22, and she’d promised to have the first draft of her novel ready by autumn. That didn’t give her much time.
Greta continued her work from yesterday by writing, according to Brad, Celeste was in the mental hospital for two weeks before she was released. Brad made sure to be at Marshall and Celeste’s place when she arrived home. He wanted to intimidate Marshall, he said. He wanted to make it known that Marshall couldn’t hurt his sister and get away with it. But Celeste looked so happy to see Marshall. She hardly left his side and continued to talk about the babies they would soon have and the bright future that awaited them.
Brad had said, “She was on some kind of medication that dulled her senses. An anti-depressant or something. I wasn’t sure that was the right thing, either. She had to experience her grief after our mother’s death! She had to recognize that Marshall was no good! But when I told her to take care of herself, she took my hand and said, ‘Don’t worry about me, Brad. I’m going to be a mother soon. I’m going to be fine.’ My wife was begging me to go home, and I had another book due that year, and everything felt frantic. I feel as though I let Celeste slip through the cracks. But before I knew it, she was calling to say she was pregnant—for real this time. She’d waited four months to share the news. I was thrilled for her, to a point.”
Greta wrote Celeste had her first child in early 2012. A boy. Marshall was thrilled.
Brad had said, “What you have to understand is that Brad lost his grandfather and father to 9-11. He wanted to extend his family’s line. He wanted a little boy who would eventually turn into a firefighter. But when the baby was six months old, he became very sick. He had to be hospitalized for more than a month. This destroyed Celeste all over again. When I saw her next, she was a shadow of her former self. She was doing everything in her power to keep her little family afloat. That was the day she told me she was pregnant again. I told her she couldn’t handle it, that she had too much on her plate. She needed to get back to writing if she was ever going to! But she just shrugged her shoulders as though I was taking everything too seriously.”
Greta wrote, Celeste’s son survived his illness. At the beginning of 2013, she had another child, a daughter. She was lonely at home, and Marshall was not a worthy partner. Brad assumes he had affairs, but he never confirmed anything. By the end of 2013, Celeste was back in an institution. Brad and his wife picked up the slack with her children because Marshall called them sobbing. It was around that time that Marshall packed up everything he owned and fled. They never heard from him. And when they finally broke the news to Celeste, she was so out of her mind with grief that she was required to stay in the institution for another two months.
It was hard for Greta to align her previous memories of Celeste with this other Celeste. She opened another document on her computer and began to write about a memory she had of Celeste. They’d written another play together during January, February, and March of 2004, one that Greta actually thought would have a long life in New York City if Celeste ever dared to take it there.
“But you can’t put my name on it,” Greta had said as they washed dishes late one night. “It has to be you and only you.”
Celeste scoffed. “What are you talking about? We wrote this play together. I’m going to credit you. And who says I’m ever leaving Nantucket anyway?”
Greta turned off the water and looked at Celeste with her eyebrows raised. She thought, It’s true that it will kill me when Celeste leaves. But I can’t keep her here. I have to push her out so that she achieves what she needs to achieve. I have to let her know how essential it is to go after your dreams.
Greta said, “I’m washed up, Celeste. I’m nothing. You’re going to be the great one. You’re going to go the distance.”
Celeste rolled her eyes. “You’re not washed up. You’re fifty, for crying out loud. You could keep up your sensational career if you wanted to.”
Back then Greta felt a wave of anger roll through her. She turned back on the water and thought about Bernard alone in a cell somewhere. She wanted to scream and cry and break the plate in her hands. But she couldn’t. Carrying on like that wouldn’t help.
Brad had given Greta Celeste’s second husband’s contact details. Until now, Greta had refused to contact him because he recently lost his wife and the mother of his two children. She didn’t want to bother him. She didn’t want to drag him through the sorrows of the past. Of the husband, with whom Celeste had been vacationing in Nantucket in May, Brad had said, “She met him in late 2014. She was working as a copywriter at a little advertising agency in her town of New Jersey, and he was their accountant. I think she liked the stability of him. That, and she really wanted a father for her children. It terrified her to do it alone.”
Greta had said, “I can’t imagine raising children alone. I can’t blame her.”
And again, she’d cursed herself for ever thinking less of Celeste Harding on that final day she’d ever seen her. There was so much Greta hadn’t understood.
It was a surprise that Celeste’s second husband, Greg, wrote back within the hour.
“Greta, thank you for your kind message about my wife. We miss her dearly. We would be happy to welcome you to New Jersey any time that suits you. It sounds like you had a wonderful relationship with Celeste, and I’d love to learn more.”
Greta arranged to go to New Jersey on July 1st. Until then, she fixated on the notes she’d taken during her conversation with Brad and outlined how her story might align with Celeste’s in her memoir. She sent a rough outline to her agent, who said, “OH! I love this. Keep going.” Greta didn’t need the boost. She planned to keep going regardless. She was obsessed.
Things at The Copperfield House carried on in much the same way. The current artists in residence left during the last week of June, and they held a final party for them to say goodbye and wish them well. Bernard made a final speech that brought tears to Greta’s eyes. He spoke about their unending commitment to the arts and just how important the arts were for empathy in this world that so often misunderstood itself. That night, Greta cuddled against Bernard before they fell asleep and watched the moon float dreamily out the window. She thought, How many years did I sleep in this big house all by myself? How many years did Bernard sleep in his prison bed alone? Yet here we are together, building our dreams side-by-side again. Why was I so lucky? Celeste was so unlucky. She lost her life.
Alana was jittery about her upcoming audition for Pete, the director. Twice, she confessed she still hadn’t told Jeremy about it. “Every time I sit down to tell him, I end up talking about something else. I’m totally terrified to audition, and I know he would be completely in my corner. It’s like a mental block I can’t shake.” Greta decided to give her daughter a pass. It was clear she was battling all sorts of emotions: fear of the unknown, fear of what she’d already lost, as well as apprehension, anger and embarrassment for going after her dreams. Greta said, “If you get the role, you’ll have to tell him. And like I said already, he’ll be over the moon.”
It just so happened that Alana’s audition was to be held on July 2nd. Greta made arrangements to stay in the city on July 1st so that she could meet up with Alana after the audition and hear how it went.
“I’ll probably be a mess,” Alana warned her.
“Then we’ll grab a wine and forget about it,” Greta assured her.
Greta was so anxious about her interview with Greg that she decided to leave Nantucket on June 30th and stay at a hotel in a New Jersey suburb. The hotel was located twenty-five minutes from Celeste’s old house, stitched between two fast-food restaurants. Greta considered taking a swim to calm down, but the pool was clustered with screaming children, and she padded back upstairs and removed her suit. She wasn’t sure why her interview with Greg filled her with such doom. But she felt she was getting closer to understanding Celeste and what had gone wrong. And she ached for Celeste almost all the time.
It felt as though she carried her ghost with her.
Greta woke up early the next morning and grabbed breakfast at the little diner attached to the hotel. She ate eggs, vegetarian sausages, and a biscuit slathered with butter, then scrubbed herself clean in the shower, dried her hair, and headed to her car to drive to Greg’s. She had to drive a few times around the block so as not to arrive too early. She didn’t want to surprise Greg and the kids too early. Plus, she wanted to remember Celeste’s children’s names. Greta remembered how earnest Celeste had been about her children, talking about her son’s desire to be an accountant and her other son’s perfect attendance. She’d taken refuge in the lives of her children rather than building her career.
The minute Greta rang the bell, a boy opened the door and blinked at her. He was maybe twelve and Celeste’s eldest. He gave her a look of confusion and called, “Dad!” Greta’s heart warmed at the thought that Greg had adopted both of Celeste’s children from her marriage with Marshall. He was probably a fantastic guy—even if he was an accountant. Or maybe all accountants were fantastic guys. They were certainly stable. They didn’t have the arrogance that came with many artists, musicians, and filmmakers. They woke up every morning, made their breakfast, cared for the people in their lives and went to bed on time. They carried life without needing to advertise just how painful it was for them. But that was the thing; being alive was inherently painful. Accountants, too, felt it. They just didn’t feel the need to carry on and obsess.
A middle-aged man with graying hair rounded the hallway corner with a toddler on his hip. He smiled a tired smile as he approached and extended his hand. “You must be Greta. I’m Greg.”
“Who are you?” the twelve-year-old asked.
“I’m an old friend of your mother’s,” Greta offered, feeling uneasy. How could she say that she was actually a friend when she knew so little of Celeste’s real life? “I was the friend she visited on Nantucket in May.”
Greg furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry?”
Greta immediately felt she’d done something wrong. “On May 14th. I met with Celeste at a French coffee shop in Nantucket. By the harbor.” She cleared her throat. “Celeste mentioned she was there with you.”
“We were there together,” Greg offered. “But she didn’t mention you or any coffee shop.”
Greta’s heart felt bruised. The twelve-year-old was looking at her accusatorially, and she wondered if she should just leave. Celeste hadn’t even wanted Greg to know about her existence six weeks ago! Was Greta breaking that trust?
“Sorry,” Greg offered with a wave of his hand. “My emotions are all over the place. Come in. Please.” He beckoned and then shut the door behind her. He then put the toddler down in front of the television and gestured toward a messy kitchen. “Can I get you a tea or a coffee?”
Greta shook her head. She didn’t want to make this young single father do more than he already had to. “You have a lovely home.”
“It’s a mess,” Greg said with a laugh. “I always knew Celeste was cleaner than me, but now it’s for real. I hope one of the kids grows up to be really organized. Maybe I can bribe them to keep the house in order.” Greg smiled. “Why don’t we talk in my office?”
Greta followed Greg down the hallway and into a plain office with white walls and a long white desk that looked like it was from IKEA. Greg closed the door behind him and sat in one of two office chairs, gesturing toward the other. There was a photograph on the wall of the entire family—four children and Greg and Celeste. Celeste looked like the version of herself Greta had met in May.
“It’s incredible to meet you,” Greta began, although she wasn’t sure she believed that. She would have much rather met Celeste at a gorgeous Michelin-star restaurant in the city and heard about Celeste’s success as a playwright and director.
“You as well,” Greg said, but only because he was polite. He fluffed up his hair. “I wonder what day Celeste said you would be in Nantucket. It must have been the day I played golf with a man I met at a restaurant. But I can’t understand why she wouldn’t have told me.”
“Where did she say she was going?”
“She wanted to rest and catch up on reading,” Greg said. “She didn’t have much energy at that point. She was napping almost all of the time.”
Greta’s heart thumped. “Was it her idea to go to Nantucket?”
“It was,” Greg said. “It came out of nowhere. She suggested that she stop the chemo and all the medicine because it wasn’t going anywhere anyway. She wanted to enjoy her last months on earth. We went and got her a really lovely wig, and…” Greg paused and pressed his hand over his mouth. Greta was sure he was about to sob.
“She lived in Nantucket for over a year,” Greta offered. “With me.”
Greg’s eyes bugged out. “When?”
“In 2003 and 2004,” Greta said. “She came out of nowhere on a stormy night and didn’t leave for ages. She became sort of an adopted daughter for me. I was very lonely at the time.” Greta swallowed the lump in her throat, surprised that she’d already told Greg so much. “After she left for the city, I hardly heard from her until May when she said she planned to come to Nantucket.”
Greg’s eyes sparkled with intrigue. “You don’t think she planned the trip to Nantucket in order to see you one more time, do you?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t me,” Greta lied. “I know she just wanted to spend a beautiful week with her husband.” She swallowed. “She spoke so fondly of you and the children. I had never seen her as a mother.”
“She was a brilliant mother,” Greg affirmed. “It was a role she was born to play.”
Greta’s heart pumped. She went quiet as her thoughts hummed too quickly for her to make sense of them.
“You said you were working on something about my wife. That you needed information?”
Greta returned to herself and took a breath. “I’ve been trying to make sense of Celeste’s brief yet wonderful life. When I met her, she was just about the most dynamic and interesting writer I’d ever met. But when I saw her in May, she didn’t mention playwrighting at all. I’ve wondered ever since then why she gave it up.”
Greg’s lips parted. He gaped at Greta for a long time before saying, “Playwrighting?”
It was as though Greta had said “alien invasion” or “gluten-free bread.”
Greta nodded. “She was brilliant. I know she worked at a couple of theater companies in the city before her mother died. After that, she moved to New Jersey. I’m curious about her work after that. Maybe she wrote without showing it to anyone? Maybe she found artistic merit there?”
Greta leaned forward, and the office chair creaked beneath her. She threatened to throw her to the ground. Greg’s face was difficult to read.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a long pause. “I don’t know anything about that.”
Greta’s heart pumped. “But you know about her playwrighting career. You must have read her work. You must know how brilliant she was.”
Greg palmed the back of his neck and looked out the window. He looked like a man who’d just discovered a new continent but planned to turn back and not tell anyone about it. “She was a copywriter when I met her,” he said, which was information Greta already had. “I knew she was brilliant at that. I knew she was much better than that advertising firm. But she had two children, and we were falling in love. There was no talk about ‘going after your dreams in the city’ or anything like that.” He grimaced and looked Greta dead in the eye. “I’m sorry. It’s bizarre to learn this new facet of someone I’m mourning.”
Greta understood in her bones. Greg was probably trying to figure out why Celeste had kept so much information from him. Maybe she hadn’t thought he was worthy to know? Or maybe she’d wanted to shove all reminders about that time of her life into the back corners of her mind?
There was no telling what it meant. But Greta saw, clear as day, that she’d broken Greg’s heart. And that hadn’t been her plan.
“I should go,” Greta said. “I’m really sorry to bring this on you. It wasn’t my intention.”
Greg sputtered and stood up. He looked on the brink of crying. “She never mentioned writing fiction to me,” he said as he wrung his hands.
“Did she ever do anything creative?” Greta asked because she couldn’t help herself.
“She painted with the kids sometimes,” Greg said. “But she always talked about how terrible she was at it. We both were.”
Greta looked at the door and considered running out of there, away from this beautiful family and their tremendous pain.
“None of our kids are that creative either,” Greg went on. “One of them wants to be an accountant.”
“Celeste told me that day in Nantucket,” Greta said. “She was really pleased about it.”
Greg raised his shoulders. “What does it mean?”
“I think it means that making art brought her tremendous pain,” Greta said after a brief pause. “I think it means she didn’t want her children to go through that. And she never wanted to bring that darkness to your home. Not with you here.”
Greta frowned. She hadn’t expected this truth to fall upon her like this. But here it was. And it made a great deal of sense.
Greg walked Greta to the front door and opened it. Celeste”s eldest son watched her like a hawk as she prepared to go.
“She was a wonderful mother,” Greg said again. “I don’t think she ever wanted anything else.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Greta said. “Thank you for your time. The world has lost a wonderful person. It will never be the same.”
After that, she swept from Celeste’s home, and her four children and her very sad husband stepped into her car and sped to the city. She cried the entire way.