Page 13 of Nantucket Gala

She still thinks Grandpa cheated, Henry thought, incredulous. But he couldn’t argue with her. She was the sort of woman who was perpetually set in her ways.

The food arrived. Platters of chicken and beef and fish, bowls of stew, dumplings, and sauces filled the table. Sophia looked pleased. She clicked her chopsticks together and instructed Henry on what to eat first. She clearly came here all the time and wanted to champion their best dishes.

Henry burned to ask her what she’d been up to since Francis’s demise.

He burned to ask if she believed Francis had really murdered someone.

He burned to ask why Francis wasn’t sent to prison.

Bernard Copperfield himself had spent decades in prison—and he’d never been accused of murder.

But Henry wanted to let Sophia take the lead. He didn’t want to scare her away.

So they talked about other things. He asked about what Hollywood had been like during her acting days. He asked about the famous people she’d met and what their wedding had been like.

Sophia had a great deal to say, perhaps because every woman loved to recount the details of her wedding, regardless of whathappened afterward. They had six different cakes, she explained, and she’d worn three dresses throughout the evening.

“That’s common these days,” she said. “Women love to have a costume change. But it wasn’t common back then. People thought I was quite provocative. I liked to give them a show. And Francis loved that I was like that. He said I was the leading lady of his life!”

Henry laughed at the right times and asked all the right questions. He discovered within himself that he was studying her, but he didn’t know why.

Maybe he wanted to write about her.

Perhaps he wanted to write about Sophia and Francis and Francis’s demise.

But how could he get away with it? This was her story. Regardless of how famous she’d once been, she was still just a person with personal memories and personal attachments and personal fears. And Grandma Greta hadn’t pushed him to meet Sophia for his own personal gain. She’d asked him to come here so he and Sophia wouldn’t spend Christmas alone.

Still, Sophia tugged at his creativity.

As they scraped their plates clean and finished their drinks, Sophia leaned over the table and wrapped her hands around her mouth. “Can I let you in on a secret, Henry?”

“I’m all ears,” Henry said.

“But you have to promise to keep my secret to yourself,” Sophia continued. “Can you do that?”

Henry laughed. Outside, the wind swept through the fronds of a palm tree and sent the trunk waving. “I don’t see why not.”

Sophia bowed her head and took a breath. “All right. Here it goes.” She wiggled in her seat. “Francis Bianchi didn’t writeA Cataclysm. He didn’t writeA Sacred Fig, either.”

Henry’s ears rang. What he was hearing was sacrilegious. It went against everything he understood about two of his favorite films and his favorite screenwriter, Francis Bianchi himself.

“Are you sure?” Henry asked.

Sophia’s face darkened. “I’m sure.”

Henry crossed his arms over his chest. “All right. Who wrote them?”

Sophia put the tip of her finger on the table. “I can hear the doubt in your voice.”

“There’s no doubt,” Henry tried to assure her, although it was a lie.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I do,” Henry pressed. “But who wrote the scripts? And why did Francis cover it up? Why would he taint his legacy like that?”

Sophia waved her hand to beckon the server over. Without looking at the bill, she handed him what looked like three one-hundred-dollar bills. “Keep the change.”

The server looked unsurprised, as though Sophia came in and did this kind of thing all the time. “Thank you, Mrs. Bianchi. Merry Christmas.” He hurried away.

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