Page 35 of Nantucket Gala

Henry pressed his lips together and hunted through his catalog of answers to find the one she might like the best. “I want to make something that’s truly artistic. Something truly great.”

“A film?”

“Anything,” Henry offered. “But right now, I’m a scriptwriter, yeah.”

“Are you working on anything I might have heard of?”

Henry blushed and palmed the back of his neck. He wanted to say she hadn’t heard of it yet. But soon. But that felt overtly arrogant.

So he said, “I’m working on something. It’s in the early stages, but I have a producer, which feels like something.”

“That is certainly something,” she agreed. “I wish you luck, Henry Crawford.”

Henry realized his chance with her was slipping away. “You still won’t tell me your name?”

“I’ll tell you when the time is right.” The woman winked.

Henry could only drop his head against the seat and laugh. Again, he filled his mouth with wine and imagined another scenario: he and this strange woman exiting the plane together, getting into his car, heading back to her place or his to order Chinese food and talk about everything.

It suddenly struck him how lonely he felt now that he’d left Nantucket Island. During his visit, he’d been surrounded by love and good food and beautiful conversation. And now, he was headed back to his shoddy apartment and his strange roommates.

Was this really the right way to live a life?

After the flight landed in LA, the woman said goodbye and whisked off the plane and out of sight. Henry was genuinely impressed at her walking speed. After two glasses of wine and hours of sitting, he felt drowsy and uneven.Goodbye, Dream Girl, he thought, then laughed at himself. He didn’t believe in romantic meetings like that. He was a twenty-first-century man. He was a realist.

Waiting at the baggage claim, Henry checked his emails and discovered that his request to meet with a Hollywood historian had been approved.

The Hollywood historian’s name was Debra Hollow. In her email back to Henry, she wrote:

I think I’ll be able to help you find what you’re looking for. Let’s meet at the Frances Howard Goldwyn Library at one o’clock tomorrow.

Henry wrote back quickly to confirm.

On the drive back to Echo Park, Henry got caught in traffic. No surprise there. That was the Los Angeles experience. But as he waited, listening to the honk of horns around him, honks from people who were sure they’d get through this faster if they showed how angry they were, he engaged with the beauty of the bright pink sunset, the orange horizon line, and the impressive eruption of enormous buildings downtown. He let himself realize just how much he loved both realities—his world back in Nantucket and his life here.

Chicago is in my past, he realized now, perhaps for the first time.I have to let go and move on.

The next day, he met Debra Hollow at the library located three blocks from Hollywood Boulevard. Just as she’d looked in her photograph online, Debra had chaotic bleached-blond curls, thick horn-rimmed glasses, and a wacky outfit that suggested she liked to meditate and practice tarot. That was pretty typicalin LA, but not so typical in a library environment. Henry appreciated the juxtaposition.

Over coffee in the middle of the library, Debra hauled several folders from her bag and positioned them between them. They looked to be filled with old newspaper clippings and photographs. Debra wagged her eyebrows. “It took me five hours last night, but I tracked it all down.”

Henry’s heart jumped into his throat. “Five hours? Gosh, I’m sorry.”

“This is literally what I love to do most in the world,” Debra told him. “When I figured out their connection, I was heartbroken because it meant the search was over.”

Henry laughed. It was a little like finishing a script. You were exhausted and bleary-eyed and pleased with yourself, but you were sad that the journey was through.

Maybe everything really wonderful in life was like that.

Debra flipped open the first folder. Here, they found an old headshot from the late seventies or early eighties, based on the hairstyles. The headshot showed a very beautiful woman who might have sold out every movie theater and Broadway stage, given the chance. It was, of course, Natalie Masterson—the woman who’d died.

“I’m shocked this story hasn’t been dug up before now,” Debra said, rubbing her palms together. “My guess is that Francis Bianchi’s PR agents have been working overtime since the eighties to keep things under wraps. No, he wasn’t convicted—but most people who look at the facts are surprised about that. There should have been a trial, at least. Don’t you think?”

Henry nodded furiously.

“And that’s what your script is about?” Debra asked.

“I’m not really allowed to talk about it. Not legally, anyway,” Henry said.

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