Page 45 of Nantucket Gala

“I guess we all think that to a certain degree,” Sophia said.

Natalie sighed and pressed open the door. After a moment’s pause, she forced her voice to brighten again. “I really do demand a dance. Come find me.”

She disappeared.

Sophia stood clutching both sides of the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. Just as she’d looked during the early moments of her miscarriage, she was pale but beautiful, like a snow queen.

A single thought thundered through her.My husband is having an affair.

The perfume was proof. But what could she do about it? Francis Bianchi had eternal power over her. She was trapped.

Chapter Sixteen

February 2025

Los Angeles, California

Sunday morning, Sophia left San Francisco, flying first class back to LAX with her laptop open and a ton of notes scribbled in journals across her lap and in the empty seat beside her. As she’d texted Henry, she’d been in San Francisco to meet an old friend, a writer she’d met before she’d met Francis, before everything nightmarish had happened to her. This week, that friend gave her advice that felt like glue pulling all the scraps of her life together.

He’d said, “You’re a writer, Sophia. You need to do the work, whatever it takes.”

But this time, Sophia decided she didn’t want to write a screenplay. The film industry as it was now was garbage, and she had no interest whatsoever in writing for television. The idea that television had turned into an artistic medium floored her, no matter how much people told herThe Sopranoswas something special. No, this time, she planned to write a memoir that exposed every sinister detail of her life. She’d tell the storyof Francis and Natalie in her own words. For the first time in her life, she wouldn’t leave anything out.

The plane landed at ten minutes past eleven. Before long, Sophia was in a taxi, whizzing back to her Beverly Hills home. To make sure it was still a go, she texted Henry: Tonight? I’m ordering food for us. Don’t tell your grandmother.

To this, Henry wrote: Looking forward! See you then.

Back at home, Sophia drew a hot bath and floated with the tips of her toes pointing toward the ceiling and the radio on. As she let her thoughts quiet and calm, a stray one came out of nowhere and suggestedHenry inspired you. It was the reason you were writing your memoir. It was the reason you were coming to life again.

She realized it was true.

After she got out of the bath, she wrapped herself in a towel and sat at a desk she’d once used decades ago. It was here she’d written all ofThe Brutal Horizonand the untitled script they’d planned to film after that. As she sat in a haze of memories, she could almost make herself believe that Francis was just down the hall in his own office, smoking cigars and talking exuberantly to his cinematographer. She could almost imagine he would soon come down the hallway and kiss her and ask, “Dinner, honey? I want to take you out.”

A shiver went down her spine.

But the memoir was healthy, she decided. It would help her sort out the events of her life. It would help her figure out what she really thought of Francis—even now that he was gone.

She owed everything to Francis, really. The fact that he’d let her stay in his Los Angeles home was the only reason she’d had any stability. That, and the fact that he’d never demanded a divorce.

They’d lived like that for decades—in a kind of stalemate—neither one of them sending divorce papers. Not once had theyreached out to one another. But Sophia continued to use their joint bank account. She continued to live. Francis could have stopped her at any time.

She would never forget that. She might have wound up destitute if not for that.

Francis’s goodness in the wake of Natalie’s death was never mentioned. Sophia needed to make that a central part of the book. She needed the Francis in the pages of her memoir to echo with the same contradictions and complexities as the real Francis. It was the only way to get the Sophia Bianchi story right.

Assuming the memoir sold, it would be the first money Sophia brought in by herself in ages. It would be the first piece of art recognized as Sophia’s own. For this reason, it had to be perfect. Sophia hoped she wouldn’t agonize over it for years and years, but there was no telling what would happen. Maybe when she died, it would remain unfinished. Perhaps she could give orders in her will for Henry Crawford to publish it for her. Maybe, in that small way, her legacy would live on.

I sound just like Francis, she joked to herself.I’m already thinking about my legacy.

Henry arrived five minutes before the food did. In his arms, he carried a bouquet. Sophia smiled and beckoned for him to enter, saying, “You’re a gentleman, Henry! Who taught you that? I know it wasn’t Bernard.” She winked.

Henry chuckled and removed his shoes. “It smells fantastic in here.”

“I hope you like Ethiopian food?”

Henry admitted he did. “But I haven’t had it since I left Chicago.”

“This is going to change your life.”

---