Page 5 of Nantucket Gala

“Henry, it’s wonderful to hear from you. How are you?” Greta asked.

“I’m doing okay, Grandma,” Henry said, not bothering to make his voice brighter or happier than he felt. “It’s warm here. Sixties. It feels wrong.”

“I’d do anything for that right now,” Greta said. “My joints ache.”

Henry didn’t like to think about his grandmother getting older. In the scheme of things, he’d only just met her. He wanted a lifetime to get to know her better.

“Listen, Henry, I wanted to tell you something,” Greta said. “I know your mother is giving you a hard time about not coming home for Christmas. But you should be proud of yourself. You don’t have the money to fly back. You’re taking meetings with producers. You’re fighting for what you want. It’s exactly the Copperfield way.”

Henry’s lips quivered. He thought he might burst into tears.

“You have to put your life on the line,” Greta said, pushing it.

Henry sighed. A single tear trickled down his cheek. “Thanks for saying that, Grandma.”

“I know it can be lonely,” Greta continued. “But we’re pulling for you.”

Henry flipped over and stared at the wall, adjusting his phone to his outer ear. “How is your writing going?”

“Oh, it goes. It always goes.”

Henry knew that wasn’t true. He knew his grandmother had locked herself away for twenty-five years and gotten very little done. It was one of the great tragedies of the Copperfield name.

It was a tragedy that would always live within them.

“What are you going to eat today?” Henry asked, then listened to his grandmother describe her Christmas Eve and Christmas Day menu. Privately, he cursed himself for not taking the money to fly back and enjoy those spectacular feasts.

Maybe he could find a cheap ticket back in February if he got a few freelance gigs in January. Perhaps he could spend a month there in the summer.

His future was built on maybes.

“Listen, Henry. I wonder if you might do me a favor,” Greta asked out of the blue.

Henry perked up. What could he possibly do from here?

“What is it?”

“I have a dear friend in Beverly Hills,” Greta said. “She’s all alone this Christmas. I wondered if you might consider poppingover and saying hello. She’s getting up there in years. Maybe you could see if she needs anything done around the house?”

Henry’s heartbeat slowed. Going to a stranger’s house to do chores was the last thing he wanted to do.

“I think you’ll find her intriguing,” Greta said.

Henry bit his lip to keep from sighing. “That sounds great, Grandma. Can you text me the address?”

“I’ll have your mother do it.” Greta hated texting and tended to avoid it at all costs. “Thank you, Henry. I can’t wait to have you back in Nantucket. I’ll cook you something stupendous.”

“You always do,” Henry said.

Julia was back on the phone, telling Henry the details of their holiday: what the baby was wearing, what his sister Rachel was fighting with Anna about, what Aunt Alana was telling everyone about her stepdaughter’s theater production in Manhattan. Henry listened as tears continued to rain down his face.

But an hour later, after he’d been passed from one family member to the next, Julia said, “Your grandmother wants me to text you an address. She says to be there around three tomorrow. Does that suit you?”

“Sure,” Henry said, unable to find a way out of it. “I’ll be there.”

The following early afternoon in Los Angeles brought nearly empty roads. Henry wore a pair of sunglasses and his best pair of jeans and drove slightly over the speed limit all the way to Beverly Hills, where he parked in front of a dark blue stucco mansion and pulled the parking brake to ensure his car didn’t slide backward on the hill. When he got out, he engaged with the view in this lush neighborhood, surrounded by people wealthierthan he’d ever known. He wondered how his grandmother knew the person inside that house. She hadn’t even bothered to attach a name to the address.

That wasn’t like Greta Copperfield. Normally, she thought of every detail.

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