Page 24 of Nantucket Gala

“And the script you’re working on now is truly inspired, isn’t it?” Greta’s eyes glinted.

Henry felt flush. “It is.”

“We’ll have to talk about it later,” Greta said.

“I’m dying to talk about it!” Julia interjected.

Grandpa Bernard’s laughter boomed. “Let’s let the boy settle in a little bit.”

But Henry didn’t want to settle in. He wanted to pester his grandmother. He wanted a clearer picture.

He was an artist on the brink of fame.

He was obsessed.

It felt clear to him now.

But it wasn’t till much later that night that Henry could corner his grandmother. By then, every other Copperfield had retreated to their private homes, and Grandma Greta and Grandpa Bernard had sequestered themselves in their separate offices. The wind outside howled and crashed against the roof.

To Henry, it felt as though The Copperfield House would collapse.

Henry tapped nervously on his grandmother’s door. He could still see light coming from beneath it.

“I was waiting for you!” Greta called. “Come in.”

Henry’s heart thumped. Slowly, he opened the door and stepped into his grandmother’s cozy office. Everywhere he looked, she’d hung photographs or notes, scribbled with what she needed for the next chapter or next project. It felt like stepping into the chaos of her mind.

Greta was wearing a big fuzzy robe and had her hair in a ponytail. She smiled from over the steam coming out of her tea mug.

Henry sat down across from her and positioned a notebook on his thighs.

“So you really are?” Greta pressed it. “You’re writing about her? About Francis?”

“And about Natalie Masterson,” Henry said, remembering the murdered girl’s name.

Greta raised her eyebrows.

“Did you know her, too?”

Greta shook her head. “I didn’t meet her, no.”

“There’s very little information online,” Henry said. “But I want the film to be based on what really happened. I want to honor Natalie’s memory.”

“You know she was an actress, I assume?”

“It was rumored she was going to be the next big thing,” Henry said. Several magazines had said the next Elizabeth Taylor, the next Katherine Hepburn.

“She was cast as the main actress inThe Brutal Horizon,” Greta added.

Henry raised his eyebrows. This was news. Although there was no way he would forget this fact, he scribbled it to himself in the notebook. “How did Francis get to know her? I mean, did he have a say in who was hired for his film?” Henry wet his lips and answered his own question. “I imagine so. He was enormous back then. I imagine he handpicked everyone who came on his set.”

“That’s something I don’t know,” Greta said.

“Did Sophia know her?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“But you were there,” Henry pressed. “You must have been at the Nantucket Gala the night of the murder.”

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