Page 46 of Nantucket Gala

Because Ethiopian food was designed to be shared and eaten with your hands, Sophia and Henry opted for the smaller kitchen table overlooking Sophia’s immaculate garden. Sophiastudied Henry’s expression, wondering what he thought of her life. Did he see it as the pathetic existence of an old woman? Or did he see the pride and grace she yearned to exhibit?

“I just got back from Nantucket,” Henry explained as they ate. “My grandma says hi.”

Sophia smiled. “You couldn’t pay me to go to Nantucket in the winter.”

Henry laughed. “It felt good to see some snow.”

“You’re nuts.” Sophia took a decadent bite of grilled meat and vegetables on a piece of spongey bread. “What did you get up to there?”

“Oh, you know. Seeing my mother. My grandparents. My cousins and sister and her new baby.”

“There are a lot of Copperfields now.”

“Too many. I’m still learning about them,” Henry admitted.

Sophia nodded, thinking of Bernard’s incarceration, the splitting up of a family she’d believed to be rock solid.

“I wanted to tell you that you inspired me,” she said.

Henry cocked his head. Something in his eyes told Sophia he was nervous.

“I’m writing a memoir,” she said. “I want people to know the truth. I want them to know that Francis stole from me, that I was never recognized for my talents. But I want them to know how complex Francis was, too.”

“That’s fantastic, Sophia.” He furrowed his brow as he chewed. “How are you going to handle the murder? I mean, are you going to say he did it?”

Sophia hadn’t fully reckoned with that part of the memoir yet. “That’s a question I’ll come to.”

Henry nodded, paused for a long moment, then straightened his face into a bright smile. “People are going to love it. I’m excited for you.”

“It won’t just be about Francis, you know. People forget that Francis died when I was twenty-seven years old. I had a whole life after that. I had numerous lovers and hobbies. I traveled extensively and became a very good tennis player.”

“I think people will be very curious about what you’ve been up to,” Henry said.

Sophia’s heart filled with light.

After Francis left Nantucket on a private plane and fled for Paris, running away from allegations and the smearing of his good name, Sophia didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, she’d been cast as the pitiful wife of a murderer, a murderer who’d probably been cheating on her with the woman he’d murdered, and the paparazzi hadn’t been able to get enough of her. Immediately, she flew back to Los Angeles to hide herself away. But the paparazzi had lined the sidewalks and the streets all over Beverly Hills, and she hadn’t been able to leave her house in eight months. Everyone felt sorry for her, but at the same time, everyone wanted a piece of her.

It was the most difficult time of her life. Bar none.

But bit by bit, Sophia had found solid ground again. She met up with old friends. She walked the beaches. She went to yoga class. By 1989, she went out on her first date with a businessman who seemed safe and whose favorite film wasGhostbusters. He’d hardly heard of Francis Bianchi, save for that bit about him maybe or maybe not being a murderer. They’d dated for six months and parted amicably. It had taught Sophia that there was more life to live. After that, there were more men, more female friendships, film-watching clubs, yoga classes, and dinners out. Somehow or another, Sophia had lived her entire life without staring her first trauma fully in the face. But that was what her memoir forced her to do.

All this and more she told to Henry over dinner. Henry listened and asked questions when he could. Sophia felt wild and free and creative. She felt as she had as a twentysomething.

Henry told her that his mother owned and operated a publishing house. “I’m sure she’d be overjoyed to read your memoir when it’s ready.”

Sophia was taken aback. Would it really be so easy to publish her work? Were people out there waiting to hear what she had to say?

After Sophia had exhausted herself, she asked Henry how it was going with his screenwriting career. “Are you on track to ‘make it’ by twenty-six?” she asked, grinning mischievously. His mother was foolish to put that timeline on him and his time in Los Angeles.

But what did she know about motherhood? She’d never had the chance.

The miscarriage would have to be in the memoir, too.

Henry put his hands on the table and took a breath. “I have to tell you something.”

Sophia had been through too much to sense any drama here. “Go on.”

“After we met, I was inspired by your story,” he said. Very quickly, I wrote a script based on your life, on the scripts you wrote without anyone knowing, on Natalie’s murder, and on the Nantucket Gala. It just poured out of me. And because my grandfather is very well-connected, he hooked me up with a producer out East, one who’s quite excited about the script.”

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