Page 59 of Nantucket Gala

“I’ve been here since early December,” he explained. “Madeline was back at the artist residency, and we took a break from filming for the holidays. Grandma bribed me into coming, telling me she’d already baked my favorite kind of cookies, and there wasn’t anything in LA for me anyway. Not in December.”

Sophia considered telling Henry he could always come over. But she didn’t want to push it.

Her heart gushed with goodwill.

The Copperfield House had been decorated immaculately for Christmas. The tree in the living room towered and glinted with what looked to be hundreds of decorations, many of which seemed to have been decorated by one of the many Copperfield children over the years. There were Christmas cookies and chocolates wherever you looked, several of which looked to be Greta inventions. Henry disappeared upstairs to put her things away, and Greta whizzed out of the kitchen to wrap her in a hug.

“You made it!” she cried. Then she lowered her voice and said, “I hope you don’t mind, but Julia let me read the latest draft of your memoir. It’s sensational, darling. It’s really the best thing you’ve ever made. And that includesA CataclysmandA Sacred Fig.”

Sophia thought she was going to burst into tears. She bit her tongue and tried to find the words to demonstrate how grateful she was.

But instead, she heard herself ask, “You don’t blame me for what happened?”

Greta shook her head. “It was an accident. You were having one of the worst days of your life. I was there. Remember?”

“You’re in the book,” Sophia reminded her.

“I love the way you represent me,” Greta said, pulling back to take a cookie off a nearby tray.

“I thought of you as a brilliant friend,” Sophia offered. “I still do.”

Greta swung her arm around her shoulder and pulled her deeper into the house, calling out to everyone, “My friend is here! Everyone, come say hello!”

Sophia felt swept up in Christmas magic. That night, she stayed up late with Bernard, Greta, Julia, Henry, Madeline, and a young woman named Scarlet Copperfield, talking about every book, film, and television show they experienced that year. Henry spoke at length about the changes he’d made to the script prior to filming, including pulling the story even further away from Sophia’s reality to make it “something else, something that feels more my own.”

Sophia was glad. She didn’t want Natalie’s life to be misrepresented.

Yes, Natalie had had an affair with Francis. But Sophia had long ago forgiven her for that. Now, all that was left was aching and sorrow about what had happened.

But Sophia needed to find a way to forgive herself. It would be a journey.

Before Sophia left on December 27th, Julia cornered her to talk dates of release for the memoir. “We’re thinking spring 2027,” she said. “That’s around the time Henry’s film comes out, and we want all the hype to carry over into sales.”

Sophia snapped her fingers. “It’s perfect, Julia.” After a moment of silence, she added, “I really appreciate you taking a chance on me. I know my first draft was a joke.”

“Most first drafts are messes,” Julia said. “Yours wasn’t a mess. It was just a lie.”

Sophia laughed. “I think there’s a compliment somewhere in there. I’ll take it.”

Julia hugged her tightly. “I can’t wait till we’re on the book tour together.”

Sophia could already imagine it: swanky hotels across the country, meet and greets with fans, fans who were probably just as much fans of Francis as they were of her. It would be a time of revelation, of fatigue, of talking and talking and talking about what she thought and felt all the time.

But it was so much better than sitting in her house alone.

She’d had enough of that.

Sophia drove to the Nantucket harbor and onto the ferry. Once parked, she got out and went upstairs to watch the island recede into the horizon. Seagulls buzzed overhead, swooping down to see if she had anything to eat. She didn’t.

“I’m sorry, boys,” she whispered to them, laughing at herself. Some way or another, she’d transformed into an older woman who talked to birds.

What a blessing old age is, she thought.

Sophia drove from Hyannis to the Boston Airport, where she returned the rental car and scouted for international departures. It was a loose plan. But at some point during her stay in Nantucket, she’d decided to miss her flight back to LA and take a different one instead. A flight from Boston to Paris was scheduled for five thirty that evening. She planned to be on it.

At this point in her life—a life she’d spent more or less wealthy—Sophia was accustomed to first class. She was accustomed to nice meals and divine champagne and enough space to move around. Sometimes, she let her eyes drift back to economy class, where she knew she would have been had she never met Francis Bianchi. But everything in life happened for a reason.

The following morning, Sophia landed in Paris and took a cab directly to a quaint boutique hotel in the Marais. Once there, she asked that her bags be stored in her suite while she “attended to something in the city.” The cab waited for her outside. She got in and directed them to the next location: Montparnasse Cemetery.

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