Page 2 of Nantucket Gala

The Nantucket Gala had been Bernard and Greta’s idea. When they’d learned that Francis was struggling to get funding for his next production—a film calledThe Brutal Horizon—they’d pitched the idea of an immaculate party, a sort of fundraising event that would generate money for Francis’s next film and get everyone even more excited about Francis himself, who Bernard called a generation-defining artistic force.

The dinner was delicious because Greta had cooked it: salmon and rosemary potatoes and lemon tart for dessert. Another bottle of wine was fetched, and they sat back to watch the sun dive deeper over the horizon. Not once did a Copperfield child pester their parents. Not once did an artist from the residency come downstairs to bother Francis for an autograph. Sophia wondered if Greta and Bernard had asked them to stay away.

Under the table, Francis touched Sophia’s knee lovingly. She flinched but kept a smile on her face. It had been a remarkable seven days at sea. She wanted to keep the magic simmering between them, but something about returning to dry land forced gravity upon you. It forced you to reckon with the truth.

Soon after dinner, Bernard invited Francis to his study for cigars. Greta and Sophia cleared the table and sat beneath blankets on the back porch to watch the stars pop across the black sky. Greta let her hair down—literally and metaphorically—and Sophia thought to herself that Greta was every bit as beautiful as Hollywood actresses. But it was clear Greta didn’t care about that in the slightest. She was an academic. A writer. A woman who pursued language rather than anti-aging techniques.

Never had Sophia mentioned to Greta that she liked to write, too.

It felt like her biggest and most guarded secret.

Initially, Sophia had been embarrassed and sure she had no talent. Now, things were different.

Sophia asked Greta how it was to write and raise children at the same time.

“At my best, it’s a beautiful balancing act,” Greta said. “At my worst, it’s like juggling a bunch of plates and letting them all crash to the ground.” She laughed and sipped her wine. “But they’re good and creative children. I never have to ask them towrite or draw or read or make something because they always want to. That, in turn, pushes me to write and keep going in my own craft.”

“They’re yours and Bernard’s,” Sophia said. “They couldn’t belong to anyone else.”

Greta nodded, looking reflective.

From deep in the black night over the water came a flash of light. It was a boat—maybe a cruise liner or a freight. It spoke to the incredible density of the ocean. Sophia shivered, remembering her days out on it with Francis. Just the two of them. When would it be just the two of them again? After the film? That could be two years from now.

Sophia and Francis had already been married for a year and a half.

But Francis’s other two marriages hadn’t lasted more than four years. Sophia’s pulse quickened.

“How are you feeling aboutThe Brutal Horizon?” Greta asked. “You’ll be filming all over Europe, right? It sounds exhausting. But vivifying, I suppose.”

Sophia’s cheeks were warm. She bit her tongue hard to keep from spilling the beans aboutThe Brutal Horizon.

“You know what Francis is like,” Sophia offered instead. “It’s sensational to watch him work. He always completely disappears into it.”

“It sounds lonely.”

“It can be,” Sophia said. “But I make it my business to be as involved in the filmmaking as I can. I love the art of storytelling. You know I worked as an actress for a little while? And I love speaking with the actors and helping them find their motivations.”

Greta tilted her head. “It sounds like you're a part-time director.”

Sophia bit her tongue again.You just couldn’t resist, could you?she cursed herself.

“Not at all,” Sophia said, her laughter sparkling. “I just don’t want Francis to run off and forget about me. I like to be there.”

“How could he ever forget about you?”

Sophia drank more wine and pulled her eyes away from Greta’s.

“This is the second film of your marriage, correct?” Greta asked.

Sophia nodded. “We were married two months beforeA Sacred Figbegan filming.”

“That film was really something,” Greta said. “As was the one before it.A Cataclysm. It was clear with that one that Francis was a singular talent.”

“But the films before that were wonderful, as well,” Sophia offered, standing up for her husband. “He was already Francis Bianchi. He was already famous in the late sixties and early seventies. He was already famous when Bernard tracked him down and asked to be his mentee.”

Greta clucked. “I never cared for his films prior toA Cataclysm. But you won’t tell him that, will you? It’s just one girl’s opinion.” Greta winked.

Sophia’s heart swelled, and her lips quivered into a smile.

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