Page 14 of Nantucket Gala

“Let’s go back to my place, shall we?” Sophia got up before Henry could answer.

On the drive back to her Beverly Hills mansion, Henry cursed himself. Why had he asked if she was sure? He’d immediately cast his doubt upon her. He’d immediately suggested she was wrong.

But Sophia had been married to Francis during that time. If anyone knew the truth, it was her.

They didn’t talk the entire way home.

Sophia parked in the garage, got out, and entered her mansion. Henry gave his thigh a light punch and followed her in. Outside, the sky was darkening to a blue bruise. In the hallway, Sophia stood with her hand on a closed door.

“Listen, Sophia,” Henry stuttered, trying to work his way back into her good graces. “I’m sorry about what I said. I do believe you. I was just caught off guard.”

Sophia raised her eyebrow and opened the door to reveal what looked like a study. A mahogany desk stretched across the far wall, and what appeared to be at least two hundred books lined either side. Sophia entered the shadows and pulled open the bottom desk drawer. From within, she removed a big, dusty binder. This, she shoved into Henry’s arms.

“Open it,” she said.

Henry felt nervous. He felt like he wanted another drink.

Slowly, he opened the binder to find a yellowed script forA Cataclysm. Upon it were notes in blue, notes for changes and alterations to be made in the next draft. The handwriting didn’t look like a man’s handwriting. And in this version, at least, the first scene in the script didn’t start where the published movie actually began. It was clear this was an earlier version, a first draft.

It occurred to Henry that back then, they didn’t have home computers to just print and edit and reprint. Everything had to be done by hand or by typewriter.

He felt as though he were peering deep into the past.

Henry raised his chin to look at Sophia. “What is this?”

Sophia’s eyes were filled with tears. “It’s the first draft ofA Cataclysm. I wrote it in 1977 when I was nineteen years old.”

Henry sucked in his cheeks and looked back down at the script.

Was Sophia a crazy old woman telling stories? Or had she held on to this secret for decades?

“If you flip through that binder, you’ll find numerous other versions,” Sophia continued. “I fine-tuned it for years. I worked onA Sacred Figfor years, too, before I finalized the version you see on the screen. Oh! And here.” Sophia reached over to flip tothe final document in the binder. It was titledA Brutal Horizon, and it looked slightly newer than the others. “This was the movie we were getting ready to film. I worked on it for over a year. But as you know, it was never made.”

Henry felt woozy. He stared down at the title of this forgotten and never-made film. It was hard to put all the pieces of the past together. But it was clear that she wanted him to try.

“So everything beforeA Cataclysm? Francis Bianchi wrote those films himself?”

“As far as I know,” Sophia joked. “But it’s also likely he stole those ideas as well. He was a pretty good director, but he wasn’t an ideas man.”

“Those first films of his weren’t good,” Henry offered.

“You and I both know that,” Sophia said with a laugh.

Henry shook his head. He still wasn’t sure he wanted to believe this. She was an old woman. She had all the time in the world to doctor old scripts and make another reality seem true.

But why would she do that?

“You can look those over if you like,” Sophia said, suddenly sounding nervous. “I’ll make you another drink.”

Henry wanted to put the binder down and run out of the house. But what was he running toward? His lonely apartment in Echo Park? His failure?

“Have one last drink with an old woman on Christmas,” she urged. “It’s been a pleasure getting to know you. It’s really taken me back.”

Henry bowed his head and stepped into the hallway, clutching the binder to his chest. He followed her into the living room, thinking about the immensity of this secret if it really was true.

Why had she trusted him with it?

How was he supposed to keep it to himself?

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