Page 33 of Nantucket Gala

“Darling, are you feeling all right?” Francis closed the distance between them and put his hands around her waist.

Ask him, Sophia begged herself.Ask him what that smell is!But she couldn’t. It was impossible. He was in such a beautiful mood, and he was so handsome, and she was pregnant and so happy. Why would she mess that up? Suddenly, Francis’s lips were on hers, and he carried her to the bed and laid her gently on the cloud-like mattress.I’m just imagining the smell, she told herself, then gave herself over to him.

Her husband. Her loyal, handsome, talented, brilliant husband.

Her husband, who’d read her scripts and said they were remarkable and intellectual, and there was nothing else like them in the world.“You’re a genius, Sophia. If only the world could handle it. If only we could tell them it’s you.”

He’d said that. He’d actually said that.

But that was years ago when they’d first met.

That was before Francis had left his second wife.

Now, Francis fell asleep for twenty minutes. Sophia watched him, feeling gooey with love. Maybe when he woke up, she’d find a way to tell him about the baby. According to her friends back in LA, you weren’t supposed to tell anyone until three months had passed or so. But you were supposed to tell your husband immediately. That was clear.

But suddenly, Francis erupted from the bed and said, “We’re running late!”

Sophia leaped to her feet to check the time. It was true; in only a few minutes, her hair and makeup crew planned to arrive, and she needed to jump in the shower. Francis hurried to put on his shirt and pocket his cigarettes. Before she could catch him, he was gone.

Sophia was in awe of her makeup and hair team. Just as they’d done at the premiers forA CataclysmandA Sacred Fig, they made her look glossy and regal and mystical, like a woman in an antique painting. More than that, they actually spoke toSophia as though she were one of them. In a way, she sort of was. She’d come from nothing. For whatever reason, she’d married this famous director. But in her mind, she was still a girl from a nowhere town. She was still just a smidge up from the status of nobody.

If only they knew she wrote the scripts.

Francis came to the suite to pick her up. It reminded Sophia of being in high school and waiting at the front door for her prom date to come up the stairs. The makeup and hair ladies said ohh and aah until she put her arm through Francis’s and went downstairs. Sophia’s blush made her look sun-kissed.

“You look incredible, Soph,” Francis breathed, looking proud of himself and of her.

“So do you.”

“We’re a power couple,” Francis announced.

They left the hotel and were immediately accosted with flashing cameras. This time, Sophia felt armed and ready with Francis beside her. She smiled in a way that was meant to show just how confident she was. They were Hollywood elite.

A limousine waited to take them to The Hutton Hotel. The driver opened the back door for them, and Francis helped Sophia in first before he slid in after.

“Look at them,” Francis said, shaking his head. “They’re so hungry for us!”

He gave them a final wave and turned to look at Sophia. His eyes glowed with love.

Sophia thought,Tell him about the baby right now! Tell him now!

But her lips felt frozen with a smile.

Chapter Twelve

February 2025

Los Angeles, California

To Henry’s surprise, he was able to fly from Boston back to Los Angeles with the help of the producer, who told him that he needed to start listing his expenses for travel, food, and accommodation. “We’ll take care of all of it,” Barry said. “We don’t want you to go broke working on the Untitled Bianchi Script.” Henry was floored. Never in his life had he been paid to do something creative.

According to Greta, this kind of thing was a necessary next step. “It means you’re a legitimate scriptwriter now.”

On the airplane, Henry didn’t opt for business class, though. He didn’t want to go overboard. But he did buy a glass of wine as he flew across the continent, his hands crossed on his lap as he watched the night enfold them. Across the aisle was a woman around his age who kept glancing over at him. Henry wondered if he seemed special or important. Maybe it was just because he’d begun to think of himself in a certain light.

“People can sense all kinds of things about you,” his grandmother had said. “As long as you believe them.”

“I’m sorry to bother you. But…”

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