Page 53 of Nantucket Gala

“That’s your mom, right?” she asked. “She’s a brilliant editor, you know.”

Henry nodded and looked beyond Madeline to where Sophia was laughing and chatting with Barry, the producer, and Bernard, his grandfather. Her skin shone in the moonlight.

“What do you think of Sophia?” he asked Madeline now. All the hairs on his arms stood on end.

Madeline considered this, following his gaze. Just as he’d known she would, she answered honestly. “She’s an actress. She has us wrapped around her finger.”

Henry’s mouth went dry.

Not long after that, Aurora called them back to their tables. Henry and Madeline said goodbye, and Henry found himself seated next to Sophia again. She babbled something to him about someone she’d met and laughed at her own joke, all without Henry making sense of it. He yearned to turn to Sophia directly and ask her what she was hiding. But he hadn’t read the memoir yet.

“Are you all right, darling?” Sophia asked. “You’re ashen.”

“I just need to drink more water,” Henry said, forcing himself to make eye contact.

For the first time, he wondered whether he was staring into the eyes of a killer.

It was true what Henry’s mother said. The memoir was a mess. But the mess didn’t come from poor writing. Sophia was a fine writer, if unpracticed, and her metaphors and similes were some of the more poetic things he’d read in years. What troubled him late that night, as he stayed up to read the entire memoir, were the logistics. At one point during the 1985 Nantucket Gala, Sophia said she was in the front hall with Greta when someone came screaming, saying they’d discovered a body. “Someone has died!” they screamed. But at another point, she said it was Francis who first told her that Natalie was dead. “When Francis confessed to me that he’d murdered that beautiful creature, it caught me off guard. I’d been having one of the most magical nights of my life. I’d felt sure only good things were coming—that once we got to France, I’d convince him to honor my writing abilities, that we’d eventually have children, that we’d be happy. But no. Instead, that handsome and horrible husband of mine went ahead and murdered my dear friend and his mistress. And in fact, I think he did it because she’d wanted to come forward with the affair—and thus force him to lose me, his word machine, his creative engine. He couldn’t stand it.”

Henry scratched his head. What Sophia had written was exactly what he’d deduced in his fictionalized screenplay. But there was no way he was one hundred percent correct. It felt more likely that Sophia had taken his account, made it her own,and rearranged her own history. But why would she do that if she didn’t have something to hide?

But other scenes felt false and strange. There was a scene wherein Greta Copperfield—his grandmother—gushed at Sophia and told her she was going to be the next Katharine Hepburn. There was a scene wherein a major Hollywood producer made a pass at her. There was a scene wherein Francis almost confessed to his affair with Natalie, but the dialogue was so clunky and stupid that it felt unlikely it had happened at all.

Henry stayed up until dawn, compiling his thoughts. When he was sure his mother was awake, he called her and said, “Okay. I see what you mean.”

“We can’t publish it like that,” Julia said, her voice still heavy with sleep. He could picture her in the kitchen wearing her soft gray robe and sipping coffee, bags beneath her eyes. “I mean, my publishing house would be laughed out of the industry if we put something like that into the world.”

Henry rubbed his temples.The Most Brutal Horizonwas staged to begin filming in just a few months. Sophia’s memoir was meant to be a companion to the film. It was meant to heighten sales.

He’d thought Sophia could manage it.

“It’s clear she can write,” Julia said finally. “But can she be honest? That’s what I’m interested in.”

Henry sighed. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Be careful,” Julia urged. “I don’t know what kind of woman she is.”

Henry didn’t want to admit it. But he wasn’t sure anymore, either.

Chapter Nineteen

June 1985

Nantucket Island

Sophia Bianchi returned to the dance floor of the Nantucket Gala with fresh knowledge that her husband was having an affair with the beautiful actress Natalie Masterson. There was nothing she could do about it. Her heart burned with fury, but she grinned at everyone she met, grabbed fresh flutes of champagne, and got drunk very quickly. Who cared? She was no longer pregnant. She was no longer wanted. Her days in Hollywood were running out.

When Francis approached her again for a dance, she agreed, nearly stumbling into him.

“You’ve really gone off the rails, haven’t you, honey?” Francis breathed into her ear. But he was drunk, too. He smelled of whiskey and cigars. He smelled of the money he’d earned long ago—money she’d fight for in the divorce.

“You’re one to talk, baby,” she cooed into his ear.

Francis walloped with laughter and searched her face for understanding. Sophia stuck out her tongue like a child, thentold him, “You know, none of these people know the truth about you. None of them know you can’t put more than three words together without getting a headache.”

Francis’s smile melted. “You’re out of your mind, Sophia. I’m going to call you a car.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Sophia said, maintaining her grin and her grip on Francis’s shoulder. She could see from his expression that her nails were hurting him. “You’ll let me party all night long, and then you’ll take me to France and Italy, and you’ll take me to fancy restaurants, and you won’t spend a single night with that Natalie girl, not one, or else I won’t give you another script. Do you hear me?”

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