Page 1 of Nantucket Gala

Chapter One

June 1985

Nantucket Island

It was Francis’s idea to sail to Nantucket. “Better to take our time, darling. The gala can’t start without us.” Despite beautiful and sun-dappled days of sailing up the East Coast, hours spent eating raspberries and drinking champagne and talking about the future, minutes during which Sophia was sure that nothing existed except Francis and Sophia and the enormity of their love, Sophia and Francis reached Nantucket with four days to spare—enough time to relax and recoup and reunite with their dear friends, Bernard and Greta Copperfield. To Sophia’s surprise, Bernard, Greta, and their four children met them at the dock. They were a picture-perfect family: eleven-year-old Quentin, eight-year-old Alana, six-year-old Julia, and five-year-old Ella. Ella handed Sophia a bouquet of handpicked flowers and smiled generously. “Welcome to Nantucket!”

Sophia beamed and fell into Greta’s embrace. “They’re gorgeous, Greta,” she whispered into Greta’s ear. “All four of them! But how do you handle so many?”

Greta laughed. “They’re much easier to manage than the artists at the residency, if you can believe it.”

“No surprise there,” Sophia agreed, looping her arm through Greta’s and following the children down the dock. They would have dinner at The Copperfield House and spend the night before checking into their hotel tomorrow. This would allow the four friends to talk deep into the night—about the nature of filmmaking, about Greta’s and Bernard’s writing, and about what was next for the two couples and the people who surrounded them.

After meeting in Paris thirteen years ago, Greta and Bernard had moved to Nantucket to refurbish an old Victorian home, which they then opened as an artist residency. Filmmakers and painters and writers and musicians of all backgrounds and ways of life came from miles around to live and work at The Copperfield House. The last time Sophia was here—two years ago and six months before her wedding to Francis—she’d sat with three Italian musicians on the back porch and listened to them perform an album that shot up to number one in Sicily the following year.

It was a space where magic flourished. It was a place where people could rejuvenate their artistic practices and feel the density of their souls.

Sophia liked to think of it as a place outside of time. But Francis often called her “overly romantic.”

Back at The Copperfield House, Quentin led his sisters upstairs to keep them from getting underfoot and, eventually, to put them to bed. He was a serious eleven-year-old with career ambitions and a desire to help his parents with all things Copperfield House and raising his little sisters. It was clear that Alana, at eight, already sort of resented this.

Greta kissed her children before they scampered away, telling them to have sweet dreams. She’d already fed themdinner before Sophia and Francis’s arrival. Now, she wrapped another apron around her waist and smiled at Sophia. The men had disappeared. Sophia wasn’t sure where they’d gone.

“Shall we open a bottle of wine?”

All the kitchen windows were open, bringing in the sounds of swelling waves and hawking gulls. Sophia sat at the kitchen table and watched Greta cook the rest of their dinner, puttering happily from one counter to the next and telling Sophia she didn’t want her help.

“It’s for the best,” Sophia admitted. “I hardly ever cook anymore. It seems like we’ve been traveling almost nonstop for six months. A month here, a month there, and plenty of dinner meetings with potential investors and actors and cinematographers.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Greta said.

“It’s been a dream,” Sophia agreed. “But I can’t for the life of me remember how to roast a chicken.”

“All that will come back to you when you need it again,” Greta assured. “Don’t worry yourself.”

Across the orange-lit sand walked Francis and Bernard, their hands behind their backs and their hair wind swept. Sophia wondered what they spoke about. Did Francis tell Bernard just how magical their previous few weeks had been? Did he ever mention what was really going on with his newest film? Did he ever clue him in on their secrets?

“Look at them,” Greta said, following Sophia’s gaze. “It’s always like old times with the two of them, isn’t it?”

“I sometimes wonder if Bernard regrets it,” Sophia said. “Leaving Francis in Italy and going to Paris, I mean.”

Greta’s eyes glinted with thought. “I asked him, of course.”

Sophia was surprised. “You asked him if he regretted giving up on his film career?”

“That, and leaving Europe and coming to Nantucket,” Greta affirmed. “He laughed at me. All he ever wanted, he said, was to write books and have a family. It’s what I always wanted, too. So I suppose we don’t have any regrets. Not right now, anyway.”

Sophia’s eyes widened. To her, it seemed that everyone was chasing Francis’s prominent filmmaking career. Bernard himself had been Francis’s protégé and mentee prior to Bernard’s departure for Paris, where he’d studied and met Greta and, apparently, decided he no longer wanted to make films. That was before Francis and Sophia met on the set of one of Francis’s films and fell in love.

That was back when Francis was married to somebody else.

Back when Sophia was trying to make it as an actress—despite her very little talent.

When it was time, Greta and Sophia set the table outside and called the men for dinner. Bernard poured the wine and raised a glass to toast Sophia and Francis and the upcoming Nantucket Gala.

“It isn’t every day that we come together to celebrate a future production,” he said, his eyes on Francis’s. “It’s a testament to Francis’s incredible previous achievements. It’s a sign of just how much respect my ex-mentor has garnered.”

“You’re too kind, Bernard,” Francis said, raising his glass. “Now all that’s left to do is hope people get their pocketbooks out and play the game!”

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