Page 11 of Nantucket Gala

Christmas Day 2024

Los Angeles, California

Sophia Bianchi returned to the living room with a pair of enormous sunglasses hiding her eyes and a big yellow trench coat whipping out from her shoulders. “They aren’t delivering,” she said. “I can’t believe this. What kind of Chinese place doesn’t deliver on Christmas Day?”

Henry popped back up from the sofa and clasped his hands together. He couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or not, so he lent her a loose smile, one he used to use as a teenager when he got whatever he wanted. Life wasn’t like that now.

“We’re going to have to go to them, I’m afraid,” Sophia said. “I can’t wait another moment. I’m starving!”

Sophia whipped around, her trench working like a cape, and led Henry through the back halls of the massive mansion, all the way to the garage, where her three sports cars were parked. All were convertibles, naturally, and all of them were powerful colors—purple, red, and yellow. Today was purple, apparently, although it made Henry wonder how she chose. Henry got intothe passenger seat and buckled his seat belt. All he wanted in the world was to text his grandmother right now and ask her what she got him into. But at the same time, he was having a better time than he’d had in months. This era in Los Angeles had been the loneliest of his life. Never had he so fully indulged the concept that he might not make it at what he dreamed. Never had he so fully imagined himself dying penniless and alone.

I was meant for something, he thought for the hundredth time.I hope it’s whatever this is.

“Let’s go!” Sophia Bianchi called, whipping backward down the driveway and through the winding roads of Beverly Hills. Her silver hair spread out behind her like a flying carpet. Henry allowed himself a moment of amazement right before Sophia slammed on the brakes and cried out.

A squirrel was in the middle of the road. Henry’s heart pumped in his chest. It looked up at them curiously as though it had never seen a car before. This was obviously unlikely in Los Angeles.

“Come on, little guy,” Sophia said, exasperated. “He’s looking at me the way Quentin Tarantino did at a party in the nineties.”

Henry twisted his head to stare at her. “You met Quentin Tarantino?”

“Met him? Of course. He was always at all the Hollywood parties back then. He wanted to be somebody, which meant he got himself in the mess of everyone else. And back then, strangely enough, I was still allowing myself to linger in the mess.”

Henry tried to calculate what this meant. Number one: Sophia had partied with the Hollywood elite after Francis’s fall from grace. Did that mean Francis had fled Hollywood and left the mansion to her? Or were they still married back then? He itched to return to his phone and get to the bottom of this. All the dates and gossip were probably listed somewhere online. Butright now, he had to “live in the moment.” It was Christmas Day, and Sophia wanted to celebrate.

He’d never seen an older woman drive so quickly. They were far over the speed limit until she whipped into a space in front of the Chinese restaurant and cut the engine.

“Nice parallel parking job,” Henry said, steadying his breath.

“When you’ve lived in Los Angeles as long as I have, you better know how to parallel park,” she said, raising a single eyebrow. “Shall we trade so you can show me your stuff?”

Henry laughed and waved his hands. He would never trust himself with such an expensive automobile. “You’ll have to take my word for it. I can do it.”

Sophia winked.

Henry followed Sophia into the Chinese restaurant, where they were seated at a booth near the window. There was only one other occupied table—a family of four, who either didn’t celebrate Christmas or who’d burned their Christmas dinner and fled here for sustenance. Sophia didn’t take her sunglasses off. Henry wondered if she was worried about being recognized. But he hadn’t even known she existed till earlier today.

Maybe she’s really arrogant, he thought.

Or just private.

Sophia ordered half the menu without asking Henry what he wanted, plus a cocktail for herself and a beer for Henry. Henry watched the server take the menus back and scurry to the kitchen. Sophia folded her hands under her chin and blinked at him from behind her sunglasses. He could see the density of her eyelashes.

“How long have you lived here, Mrs. Bianchi?” Henry asked, remembering what she’d said about parallel parking.

“I was eighteen when I moved out here,” she said. “1976.”

It boggled Henry’s mind to think that far back.

“How old are you, Henry?”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“So young!”

Henry let out a small laugh. “I don’t know. I feel a lot of pressure to make things work for myself professionally. My mother doesn’t approve of what I want to do. Neither does my father.”

“And your grandmother? What does she think?”

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