Page 56 of Nantucket Gala

In her womb, she felt the ache of what had been her baby. The baby had been only a few cells, stitched together, but they’d been proof of something that was now completely gone.

Gossip and whispers traced the crowd.

Paparazzi flashed with photographs. Darkly, Sophia thought,The press is going to have a field day.

It was a once-in-a-lifetime story.

From the onlookers, someone said, “He was having an affair.”

“Oh, but of course he was. He always cheated on his wives.”

“But he never got them pregnant.”

“Never.”

“He must have really liked this one. Or been especially careless.”

“Do you think he pushed her?”

“Maybe he pushed her when he found out she was pregnant.”

“But why wouldn’t he just leave that other one? The meek one? The wife? What’s her name?”

“Sandra. Or Suki.”

“Sophia.”

“Whatever. Why did he have to kill her?”

Suddenly, the police were there. Suddenly, someone was interviewing Sophia, asking her when she’d last seen her husband, asking her if it was likely that he’d killed Natalie, asking her if she’d known he was having an affair.

Sophia didn’t know what to do. She felt pathetic. She alternated between weeping, drinking water, and saying, “I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything.” But toward the end of the night, she heard herself say a final, “But he was capable of violence. I know he was.”

For whatever reason, she didn’t tell them about Dean Chatterly. Maybe it was guilt for what had happened to Natalie, she thought later. After all, if she hadn’t run out to the boardwalk, Natalie never would have fallen. If Sophia hadn’t been holding the only railing, Natalie would have kept herself safe. If only Sophia had reached out to grab her.Maybe I could have. Perhaps I could have grabbed her shoulder or her dress or her hand. Maybe I could have stopped this horrible tragedy.

But it was too late for what-ifs.

At two in the morning, Sophia returned to the hotel to find that all of Francis’s belongings were gone. For whatever reason, this felt fitting. She didn’t want to see him again anyway. She didn’t want to hear him crying about Natalie and how much he’d loved her and how much he’d wanted their baby. It wasn’t till two days later that she learned Francis had fled the country. Already, his name was besmirched. Already, there was discussion about trying him for murder. She heard the rumors everywhere. Never did she declare them untrue. Never did she say anything on the subject at all.

She was the only witness to Natalie’s death, and nobody ever knew. Nobody would ever know.

Without saying anything to Greta or Bernard, she returned to Los Angeles and hibernated till winter.

She hibernated for years, in fact.

But always there was money in her account. Always there was a roof over her head.

And once, in the late eighties, Francis sent her a letter. It just saidI didn’t do it, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve done so many terrible things.

Sometimes, Sophia speculated that Francis quit making films because he’d genuinely loved Natalie, and his grief at her death had put him in such a pit of despair that he felt he could never make anything again. But then she remembered. He nolonger had her scripts. He no longer had her creative drive. He couldn’t do it on his own.

This pleased her even though she found she couldn’t make anything anymore, either.

Many years later, when Bernard was arrested for stealing millions of dollars along with his accomplice, his so-called mistress Marcia Conrad, Sophia muttered to herself, “Men are all the same.”

Of that, she was wrong. But she didn’t know it yet. She wouldn’t know it till she met Henry Crawford many years later—and was forced to face the truth.

Chapter Twenty

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