Page 50 of Nantucket Gala

“She said she loves it so far,” Henry lied. “But I don’t know if she’ll be able to make it. She’s slammed with work.”

A server cut past with a tray of champagne. Sophia and Henry both took one and clinked their flutes. “I’d better grab a seat and go over my speech again,” Sophia said.

“You’re at the table of honor.” Henry pointed to the table near the stage.

“Yet again! History repeats itself,” Sophia said, following his finger to the far end of the courtyard.

Henry’s seat was directly beside hers. Already, Barry and a few other producers were at their table, plus three women who’d founded Women Against Violence groups. They looked nervousbut excited, smiling as Sophia bent across the table to shake their hands.

Henry thought to himself,We’re doing the right thing. We’re making an active change.

He hoped so, anyway.

Suddenly, Henry heard his name. He turned to find Madeline in a simple yet chic black dress, coming toward him. On her face, she wore a smile that made Henry think she’d planned to be here from the very beginning—even back in January, when he hadn’t noticed her yet.

He hadn’t seen her since the first night she’d returned to Nantucket. Now, his heart opened like a window. He wanted to take her hand. He wanted to ask her everything.

“Madeline! Hey. Glad you could make it.” Why was his voice shaky like that? Wasn’t he an up-and-coming Hollywood screenwriter? Shouldn’t he be more confident?

“Are you?” Madeline’s eyes glinted. “I heard tonight is the most dramatic event of the season. I couldn’t miss it.”

Henry grinned. “Tonight won’t be dramatic. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Madeline snapped her fingers. “Darn. Oh, but there’s champagne? Not bad.” She took a flute and raised it.

A strange moment of silence passed. Henry felt as though he had two left feet, as though the temperature suddenly skyrocketed. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck.

Henry couldn’t help himself when he asked, “Did you know? On the plane?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Henry,” she said.

“Come on. You do.” Henry smiled with exasperation. “You said you thought you knew me.”

“And you said you’d never seen me before in your life. Which one of us is telling the truth?”

“I was a little out of my mind this past winter.” Henry laughed. “But I feel like I would have remembered you if we’d met. I spent so much of January holed up in my room at The Copperfield House, writing.”

“I was just as busy as you.”

“I’m sure you were.” Henry laughed. “You didn’t tell me what your medium is.”

“Do I have to tell you? Your grandmother says it’s essential to keep our secrets to ourselves and not give too much away. And I would trust your grandmother with my life.” Madeline arched her brow playfully and whisked away to the table near the front, where one of Tara’s assistants assigned guests their seats.

Henry watched her go, feeling as though she’d tugged his heart from his chest. It was as though they were playing a constant game of cat-and-mouse. I could play it forever, he thought, then cursed himself for being overly romantic.

He wondered if his grandfather had felt this way when he’d met Greta.

He wondered if his father had felt this way when he’d met his mother.

But very soon, Barry beckoned for Henry to return to the table of honor. Bernard and Greta were already on stage, flipping through notecards, preparing for their brief yet celebratory speeches. As Bernard strode to the microphone first, Sophia winced beside him.

“Are you all right?” Henry asked.

“It feels just like 1985, suddenly,” she said, then fixed her smile. “It’s strange. That’s all.”

“Good evening, and welcome to the second ever Nantucket Gala,” Bernard began. “My, things have changed in the past forty years, haven’t they? The last time I was here, I was a much younger man, with a very young family, and a wife trying to wrangle the mess of us. I was trying to make it as a novelist. Lasttime, we were celebrating a man I regret to say was my mentor and friend at that time. Francis Bianchi.”

A hush overtook the crowd. Henry was proud of his grandfather for telling the truth like this—for admitting that Bernard hadn’t known the intensity of Francis’s evils.

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