Page 58 of Nantucket Gala

Henry cleared his throat. “I think it’s a lie.”

Sophia didn’t hesitate. “What’s the difference between a true story and a lie?”

Henry leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He hadn’t expected this. He’d expected her to deny everything. He’d expected her to tell him to get out of her room.

After a long time, he asked the question that lay heaviest on his mind.

“Did you kill her?”

A shadow passed over Sophia’s face. She got up and spread her arms over the balcony, gazing out at the tempestuous ocean. As he studied her face, Henry’s heart seized. Had she really killed her husband’s mistress? Had she really framed her husband to get him to leave the country?

Had she drawn Henry into her world—to bring her career back to life again?

All Henry had wanted was to write a good story. All he’d wanted was to make it in Hollywood. He hadn’t imagined what evil awaited him there.

Should he make a run for it? Did she have a gun?

This isn’t a thriller, Henry, he scolded himself.

Finally, Sophia took a breath. Finally, she said, “I didn’t kill her.”

Henry’s heart stopped beating as quickly.

“I didn’t kill her. But neither did Francis.”

“Who killed her?”

Sophia lowered her chin.

Instead of answering, she said, “I knew the public was going to destroy Francis, and I let them. I let them rip his reputation apart. He ruined me, so I wanted him to be ruined.” She cleared her throat. “I think he was a truly horrible man. The fact that I let myself love him makes me stew in shame. Even all these years later.”

“You can’t help who you fall in love with,” Henry said.

Sophia snorted. “But you can choose not to get involved with a married man. I knew he was married. Natalie knew he was married. We’ve all made so many mistakes.” She sniffed. “I’m the only one left. And why? Do I deserve to keep going?”

Henry got up and walked to the balcony. He could feel her reverberating with pain. With his left hand he touched her shoulder, then watched as she recoiled. He let his hand drop.

“You need to write the real story,” he offered.

Sophia sniffed. “I don’t know if I can.”

“It’s the only way to let yourself free,” Henry told her.

Sophia turned to look at him. At that moment, Henry felt he could see the woman she’d been forty years ago—the beautiful screenwriter who’d yearned to make it. He wanted to tell herthere was still time to “make it,” whatever that meant. But it was far more important for her to find a way to heal.

Chapter Twenty-One

December 2025

Nantucket Island

My invitation to celebrate Christmas at The Copperfield House came as a surprise. Sophia hadn’t heard from Henry in two or three months, not since they’d begun filming onThe Most Brutal Horizon, and she’d been fully immersed in edits for her memoir—a memoir that told the total and complete story of what happened back in 1985. Those sorts of creative headspaces didn’t breed time for phone calls or messages. Sophia had decided her friendship with Henry was over. It had to be all right.

But when she got off the ferry in Nantucket and drove her rental to The Copperfield House, she was surprised when Henry bucked out the door to hug her and help her with her suitcases. He seemed stiffer and more muscular in her arms, and his face had changed a little bit, transforming him more into a man than he’d been a year ago when she’d met him.

“How was your trip?” he asked, hauling her two suitcases up to the porch.

“It was lovely,” she admitted, grinning from ear to ear. “When did you come out to Nantucket?”

---