Page 15 of Nantucket Gala

Chapter Five

Christmas Day 2024

Los Angeles, California

Half out of his mind with surprise, immersed in stories from the past, Henry drove back to Echo Park and parked next to a taco truck. He sat in his car for nearly twenty minutes before he remembered to get out. He wasn’t hungry after that colossal Chinese meal, but he poured himself a glass of whiskey and disappeared into his bedroom. From his mattress, he listened to the sounds of his apartment and his roommates, who hardly knew him. He wondered if they missed their families or if they wished Henry had been there today to celebrate the holidays. He guessed not.

Probably soon, he’d leave this apartment and these roommates behind. They’d be a part of his past.

He wondered if he would ever think about them at all.

How long had Sophia been married to Francis? A few years? Yet it was clear to Henry that Sophia still thought about Francis nearly all the time. He took up so much of her brain.

A quick Google search told him that Sophia had never married anyone else. In fact, the internet didn’t say if she and Francis had ever gotten divorced.

He burrowed against his pillow and let himself close his eyes. For a few minutes, he let himself tumble through stories of the Hollywood elite. He let himself dream of being among them himself.

But then, his heart throbbed with thoughts of the Copperfields all the way across the continent.

It was nearly ten in the evening over there, but that didn’t mean anything. They’d accept his call. Henry grabbed his phone and called Grandma Greta, pacing his room until whoever lived the floor below knocked on the ceiling, telling him to quit it. He’d forgotten how thin the floors were. Was everything in Los Angeles built terribly?

“There he is,” Greta answered. “Merry Christmas, honey. How was your day?”

Henry returned to his mattress and puffed out his cheeks. “She’s really something, Grandma.”

Greta cackled. “Isn’t she? She’s an old Hollywood diva. I haven’t seen her since the old days, but we’ve talked a few times on the phone since your grandfather came home. How does she look?”

“She looks healthy,” Henry said, sounding hesitant. Was he going to tell his grandmother what Sophia had told him? Wouldn’t that break Sophia’s trust?

But he needed Greta’s guidance right now.

“And did she feed you Christmas dinner?” Greta asked, still sounding cheery.

Henry laughed, thinking of the platters of Chinese food. “She did.”

“What did she cook?”

Henry palmed the back of his neck. “She told me never to say.”

Greta laughed. In the background, Henry could hear the sounds of his remarkable and boisterous family. Were they singing? Playing games? He burned to ask. He wanted his grandmother to set the scene, as she so often did in her letters.

“Why didn’t you tell me I was going to see Francis Bianchi’s wife?” Henry blurted. “I walked right into the lion’s den!”

Greta laughed gently. “I wasn’t sure if you knew Francis Bianchi! Oh, but it makes sense that you do. You’re a screenwriter. You appreciate fine art. So many people stopped paying attention to Francis Bianchi and that entire film era, but not you. You’re a Copperfield.”

Greta sounded pleased.

“It shocked me,” Henry offered. “I saw his photograph on the wall and couldn’t believe it.”

“I bet Sophia loved that,” Greta said. “What else did she say? Did she tell you what she’s been up to since the eighties?” She paused. “Did she tell you where her husband wound up?”

Henry flared his nostrils. It was clear his grandmother knew about the suspicions of murder. His thoughts swirled.

“It was strange,” Henry said finally. “Sophia told me something. I’m not sure how to deal with it. And I’m not sure if I should tell you.”

“Did she profess her love for you? I heard she was doing that for a little while back in the nineties,” Greta joked.

“No. Nothing like that.” Henry pressed his lips together. “She told me Francis Bianchi didn’t writeA CataclysmorA Sacred Fig.”

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