Page 6 of Nantucket Gala

It was almost like she did it on purpose.

Henry walked up to the black gate and rang the bell. He was immediately buzzed into an immaculate garden that lined the walkway. Up he went to the front door, where he buzzed again. A woman in her forties opened the door. Why did the older woman need Henry to come by when this woman was here? Couldn’t she do any task the older woman needed?

“Good afternoon and Merry Christmas,” the woman said, scooting back into the foyer. “You must be Henry?”

“I am,” he said.

“I’m Sue, the maid. Mrs. Bianchi is waiting for you down the hall.” Sue pointed toward an immaculate collection of vintage paintings and hanging pots lining the entry to the rest of the house.

Bianchi? Henry’s ears rang. Like Francis Bianchi?

Henry shook out the thought and walked slowly down the hall to the ornate living room. An old woman in her late sixties sat in an armchair, watching television. Her hair was silver and glowing, and her features were sharply feminine, her face shaped like a beautiful fox’s. She wore what looked to be a cashmere sweater and black jeans.

This woman looks more capable than me, Henry thought.

When Mrs. Bianchi spotted him, she got up easily and smiled. It surprised Henry how tall she was—maybe five-foot-seven.

“Hello, Mrs. Bianchi,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”

Mrs. Bianchi clasped her hands. “Merry Christmas, Henry. You know, you really look a lot like him.”

Henry tilted his head.

“Like Bernard, I mean,” Mrs. Bianchi said. “Although I haven’t seen him in years. Not since before he went to prison. My, what a tragedy that was.”

Henry’s heart sputtered. “People always say I look like my father.”

“Is he someone I might know?”

“Jackson Crawford,” he said. “He was big in broadcast journalism in Chicago. But now he’s based in New York City.”

Mrs. Bianchi waved her hand. “I don’t bother myself with journalism. If it isn’t a book or a film, I have no interest in it.”

Henry chuckled nervously. “You don’t live in the real world.”

“Greta tells me you don’t, either,” Mrs. Bianchi said.

“I used to.”

“What took you out of it?” Mrs. Bianchi asked.

Henry was amazed at the intensity of their conversation. It had sprung out of nowhere. “I’m not sure. I’m more interested in what I can create, I suppose.”

Mrs. Bianchi snapped her fingers. “Do you think it’s self-obsession? Obsession with what your own mind can create?”

“I think it’s based in fear of the world, maybe,” Henry said.

Mrs. Bianchi’s eyes glinted. “Sit down, Henry. Would you like something to drink? Wine? Whiskey? It is Christmas, after all. We should celebrate.”

Henry sat on the sofa across from her and considered his hands. He’d assumed he was having a quick tea and leaving immediately. But he suddenly felt like something about this meeting was important. He didn’t want to flee just yet.

“I’ll have a small glass of wine,” he said.

Mrs. Bianchi walked to the corner to remove a bottle of wine from a little cabinet. Into two glasses, she poured a Primitivo. Henry allowed his eyes to roam the paintings and portraits on the walls—photographs taken in all corners of the earth.

Suddenly, he was on his feet.

“Wait a minute,” he sputtered, pointing at a photograph in Morocco in the early eighties. “That photo was taken on the set ofA Sacred Fig.”

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