Page 23 of Nantucket Gala

“The last remaining Copperfield in the Midwest,” Julia joked. “But she loves it.”

“Do you think she’ll come out east when she graduates?”

“I never know what my children will do.” Julia swirled her wine in her glass and looked at him with squinty eyes. “Your grandmother suggested you were working on something.”

Henry was surprised. He hadn’t told Greta a thing about his script. Maybe she sensed his creativity brimming, even from across the continent.

Or maybe she’d assumed he was coming back to Nantucket because of Sophia.

“I’m working on a script,” he confessed.

Julia clasped her hands together. “You’ll let me read it when it’s finished, won’t you?”

Henry grimaced. The last thing he wanted was to receive a list of a thousand things he needed to change from his mother.

“I do this professionally, you know,” Julia reminded him.

Henry bowed his head. “I know. And I respect your opinion.” It was true; he did. “I have a lot of work left before it’s ready to share.”

That was all he was prepared to say.

Their food arrived. Henry was surprised at how succulent the steak was, and Julia made a mess of the burger, covering her cheeks with mustard and mayonnaise.

“Good thing Charlie isn’t here,” Julia said with a laugh. “Although he’d probably say I haven’t changed at all since high school.”

That night, Henry and Julia had a nightcap at the hotel bar and parted ways. Out the window of his private room, Henry gazed into the darkness. It had stopped snowing, but the cars in the parking lot were covered in what looked to be eight inches. It was hard to believe it had accumulated so much. He felt as though he’d entered a different world.

He tossed and turned as he slept, twisting himself up in the sheets. He couldn’t stop imagining Francis Bianchi on the verge of committing murder. But every time his dream-brain presented the murder weapon, it was something stupid—a feather, a book, a pen, a mango. He woke up laughing at himself, frustrated. He hadn’t yet figured out the murder scene.

If only his dreams would present an idea.

The following morning, the ferries were running right on time. Julia and Henry drove aboard and grabbed coffees at the little shop, where they were surrounded by other travelers who’d missed last night’s ferry, too. No surprise that Julia knew a few of them. As she chatted them up, Henry was surprised tohear even more of a New England accent in her voice. Had she previously had a Chicago accent? Henry knew he did. He wore it with pride.

When they pulled up to The Copperfield House later that morning, Greta burst from the house wearing a big smile and a bright red apron. Violent cold winds pressed against her and blew her white curls out. Henry grabbed his bag and trampled up the steps to hug her.

“The missing Copperfield!” Greta said. “He’s here now. And my heart is full.”

Greta ushered Henry inside to find numerous other Copperfields waiting for him over a table full of brunch delights: pancakes and French toast and eggs of all kinds; bagels and casseroles and platters of French cheeses and bowls heaped with glossy fruits. Henry hopped from one hug to the next, clapping everyone on the back. Rachel wasn’t there, of course. But just about everyone else was. Even his uncle Quentin, that domineering force, took Henry’s shoulder and said, “It’s good to have you back, son.”

Henry felt gooey with the love of his family. After Greta’s urgings, he sat down and feasted, listening to everyone’s stories. Although he’d seen everyone for Thanksgiving, that now felt like eons ago. Everyone had a big update.

Of course, they pestered him for answers about his life out in Los Angeles. Henry was able to namedrop a few producers he’d met with, some of whom Quentin Copperfield had met over the years.

“They must have loved you,” Quentin said to Henry.

“We got along,” Henry said. “But they weren’t into the script I showed them. Which is okay. That kind of thing happens all the time.”

Quentin furrowed his brow. “Weren’t into it?”

“Now that I’ve thought about it a bit more, I don’t think the script was any good anyway,” Henry admitted.

Quentin continued to gape at him as though he couldn’t comprehend what he meant.

“I hate it when that happens,” Aunt Alana, of all people, interjected. “Sometimes I look back at what I’ve previously done and think, Who did that? It couldn’t have been me! But it was.” She winced and laughed.

Grandma Greta laughed, too. “It’s all about getting better. Right, Henry?”

“Exactly,” Henry said.

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