Page 42 of Nantucket Gala

All he could do was keep working.

Chapter Fifteen

June 1985

Nantucket Island

It wasn’t till Francis returned to the table as the guest of honor that Sophia was able to excuse herself for the bathroom. By then, her lower gut felt as though it was going through a woodchipper.

It was a kind of pain she’d never experienced.

“Be back soon, honey,” Francis said distractedly before turning to Bernard and asking him about something else. Sophia couldn’t concentrate. But in the back of her mind, she thought,You wouldn’t be a good father, Francis. You’re too selfish. Maybe all your ex-wives understood that about you. What took me so long?

And then she wondered where that came from.

Her vision blotchy, she clacked in heels from the courtyard down the long hallway, searching for the bathroom. Where was it? Why wasn’t there a sign? Suddenly, she panicked, and her vision blurred. She felt as though she was going to faint. And then what? The paparazzi would have a field day. They’d sayshe was too drunk to stand. They’d say she was “terrified that Francis was cheating.” They’d write lie after lie about her and leave her on the concrete walkway alone.

And Francis would grow enraged with her. He’d say that she ruined his big day.

But shouldn’t it be their big day?

Finally, she found a server who told her where the bathroom was located. As another wave of pain crashed over her, she pummeled her shoulder into the door and tore into the bathroom stall. Just before she closed the stall door behind her, she spotted her reflection in the mirror. Although she was pale, she was surprised to see just how beautiful she still looked. Her hair was shiny and perfect. Her makeup made her look refined.

Her reflection was worlds away from how she felt.

I’m getting away with it, she thought, then locked the door behind her.

Sophia said a small prayer before she checked on herself.Please let the baby be okay. Please let this be normal pregnancy pain. Please.

But she already knew there was nothing normal about this. There was blood. It wasn’t a lot of blood—nothing that made her think she was dying or that an ambulance needed to be called. But it was enough to indicate that whatever fledgling pregnancy she’d had was no more.

This was a period.

Sophia sat on the toilet and stared at her feet. Her heart was in her stomach, and her hair spilled down her shoulders and mixed with the sweat on her neck. Tears made her cheeks swampy. Under her breath, she cursed herself, “Why did you do this, Sophia? How could you let this happen? You were so happy, Sophia! Everything was going perfectly, Sophia!”

Right then, nobody could tell her it wasn’t her fault. Nobody could say that miscarriages happened all the time.

It felt like the end of the world.

It was terrible timing.

All Sophia wanted right now was to go back to the hotel. She wanted to wrap herself in all those white sheets and sob into a stack of downy pillows. She wanted Francis to abandon all this Hollywood glamour and console her.

But he never even knew about the baby.

It struck Sophia now that Francis might not believe her. Maybe he’d say that she was making the pregnancy up to steal away his attention on “his big night.” She certainly didn’t want to ruin the Nantucket Gala! She wanted to raise funds forThe Brutal Horizon. It was her favorite script!

But what was she going to do?

She had to force herself through the rest of the night. She had to pretend to be happy. She had to clean herself up.

But Sophia didn’t have anything for her period. Slumped over in the stall, she pondered what to do. Maybe she could flag down a server and ask for help. Perhaps someone who worked at the hotel had supplies. Maybe there was a way out of this conundrum.

Suddenly, as though God himself had heard her prayers, the bathroom door opened, and a little voice rang out. “Sophia? Are you in here?”

“Greta!” Sophia’s heart spasmed. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Greta, I’m in here!”

Greta’s high heels appeared under the bathroom door and pointed out as though she were a ballerina about to practice a plié. “What’s wrong, honey?” Greta’s voice was tentative, and Sophia had the sense that this was how Greta spoke to her own children.

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