Page 48 of Nantucket Gala

Henry smiled. “That’s the idea, I guess—to do it better this time.”

“With less murder,” Anna offered.

“But it’s a fundraiser for women, right?” Rachel chirped. “You’re helping women get out of violent situations? That’s what someone told me back at school.”

Henry blushed. Although every single dollar they earned at the 2025 Nantucket Gala was pledged to women who want to get out of violent situations—bad relationships, bad families, bad towns—he knew the gala also worked as an advertisement, where they planned to announceThe Most Brutal Horizonas well as Sophia’s memoir,Ghost on Set. Still, he and Barry had agreed that they wanted to ensure that viewers understood the stanceThe Most Brutal Horizonhad on Francis Bianchi and the death of Natalie Masterson. No woman deserved what she’d gone through. No man was worth dying over. Violence was never the answer.

“I hope you’ll let me visit the set sometime,” Jackson offered. “I’ll be in LA sometime in the fall.”

Henry imagined showing his father where he worked, introducing him to the other writers, the script coordinators, the actors. Already they’d cast the actress who would play Sophia, the actress who would play Natalie, and the actor who would play Francis. All of them were up-and-coming; none of them had famous faces. Henry preferred it that way, telling the producer Barry that Sophia’s career never took off and he wanted this project to help lesser-knowns move forward.

He wanted to pull people up with him and into fame and glory.

After dinner, Jackson excused himself to head back to his hotel, where his girlfriend awaited him. Both Jackson and Julia had invited their current partners to dinner, but Henry was privately grateful they’d been able to sit just the five of them, as it had been in that Chicago suburb until his twentieth year.

Back at The Copperfield House, Greta announced that another group of artists were set to arrive that evening. “One of them was here in January when you were,” she said to Henry as she bustled around the kitchen, making brownies. “She wrote to me, saying she has more to do with her project. I thought she was such a dear. I told her she could stay as long as she wanted.”

Henry was only half listening, which he felt guilty about. But the next several days were action-packed for him. Tomorrow was Thursday, which meant Sophia and Barry arrived Friday, which meant the 2025 Nantucket Gala was to be held the following day. Luckily, they’d hired an event planner, Tara Steiner, who was masterful at sharing spreadsheets and informational documents regarding everything she’d arranged. But what Jackson had said was true. Why did Henry think this Nantucket Gala would be so easy when the other had been a disaster? It had ruined multiple lives.

“Why don’t you stay up and welcome them with me?” Greta suggested. “You said it yourself, you want to stay in Nantucketall summer to fine-tune the script before filming begins in the fall. You should get to know more people your own age, Henry. I’m worried.” Greta sat across from him at the kitchen table and folded her hands. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone all year long.”

“Isn’t that the Copperfield way?”

Greta lent him a crooked smile. “No. The Copperfield way is to work hard, yes. But we always follow it up with a good time.”

Henry couldn’t argue with that.

The next round of Copperfield artists arrived at nine-fifteen. Greta, Bernard, and Henry awaited them on the front stoop, eager to take their bags and ask them how their journey was. Because some of the rooms were still full with artists refusing to leave (they loved The Copperfield House too much, or they were too frightened to join the real world, which equated to the same thing), only three new artists arrived tonight—two men and a woman.

As they strode to the front porch, Henry prepared a smile.

And then, his heart dropped into his stomach.

The woman at the bottom of the steps was the same woman he’d met on the airplane four months ago—the one who hadn’t told him her name. She carried a leather suitcase with hardly anything in it in her right hand. Henry remembered it as the only carry-on she’d had on the plane and the reason she’d been able to dart away from him so quickly.

“Welcome!” Greta hurried down to hug the young woman. “It’s so good to have you back.”

Henry’s head dinged. This was the woman who’d been at The Copperfield House in January. For weeks, they’d lived just a few rooms apart. Probably Henry had seen her in passing. Probably she’d seen him, too. But both of them had been too immersed in their own artistic calling to pay attention.

“And welcome for the first time to the two of you,” Greta said to the men, ushering them forward. “I have plenty of dinner for all of you, stew with fresh bread. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Finally! Some real food!” the woman said, eyeing Henry with a mischievous smile.

Henry’s thoughts stirred. Did she know I was going to be here? Did she plan this? Did she know who I was on the plane?

No matter how long Henry scrutinized her face, he couldn’t tell where they stood. But it was clear that she knew he was the guy from the plane. She kept giving him furtive smiles. Henry felt foolish and speechless. For the first time all week, he was worried about something that had nothing to do with the Nantucket Gala.

He soon discovered that her name was Madeline Willis. Henry thought it was the most beautiful name he’d ever heard.

Because he’d already eaten, Henry was shooed away from the dinner table and told to return for brownies later. This left Henry in a liminal state. Up in his bedroom, he edited his script, answered emails to Barry and the event planner, and daydreamed about Madeline. What were the chances? Did this mean he was about to fall in love? Oh, but he didn’t believe in silly romantic things like this. It was only a coincidence. Right?

Back downstairs, Greta told Madeline and the other artists about Henry’s Nantucket Gala, along with the origin story, the Natalie Masterson murder, Francis’s escape to Paris, and Sophia’s disappearance from the public eye. It was clear it intrigued all of them, but especially Madeline.

“How did you hear about this story?” she asked Henry.

Henry eyed his grandmother. Did it sound lame to say she’d drawn him into the story like a moth to the flame? In some respects, it was as though on Christmas Day, Greta Copperfield had known all of this would happen. She was like a puppeteer.

“My grandmother made the introduction between Sophie and me,” he explained.

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