Page 7 of Nantucket Gala

Mrs. Bianchi turned and studied the photograph. “Yes, I suppose it was.”

Henry’s heart ballooned. He took the glass of wine from Mrs. Bianchi and studied her face. “You’ve seen it?”

“Of course I’ve seen it,” Mrs. Bianchi said. She sounded vaguely amused.

Henry’s eyes bucked fromA Sacred Figphoto to the portrait in the far corner, taken of a handsome man in his mid to late thirties. It was the famous director Francis Bianchi.

Henry sat down with surprise. Mrs. Bianchi’s smile widened.

It was clear she was enjoying the show.

“Greta didn’t tell you who I was married to,” Mrs. Bianchi said.

Henry’s voice wavered. “She didn’t.”

“I assume she didn’t think you knew him,” Mrs. Bianchi continued.

“A CataclysmandA Sacred Figare two of my favorite films of all time,” Henry said. “I discovered them during my sophomore year of college and changed my major to filmmaking.”

Mrs. Bianchi’s eyes danced. “What do you think of his earlier work?”

Henry was nervous. The last thing he wanted to do was insult Francis Bianchi’s previous films. But the truth was, he hadn’t even been able to get through his late sixties or seventies works. OnlyA CataclysmandA Sacred Figwere meaningful for him.

“They were okay,” Henry admitted, “but he didn’t come into his own till later.”

Mrs. Bianchi raised her eyebrows. “And then?”

“And then…” Henry stuttered and let his eyes drop, remembering.

Francis Bianchi hadn’t made another film afterA Sacred Fig. He’d fallen off the face of the planet.

Was he somewhere in the house right now? Was he hiding? But no. He was probably ninety by now, if he was even alive. Henry itched to google if he was alive or dead. It felt strange that Henry didn’t know for sure.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said. “This is all pretty shocking.”

Mrs. Bianchi laughed and sat down with her glass of wine. “Don’t worry yourself. I didn’t realize you were such a fan. Not everyone finds and falls in love with Francis’s work. It’s been forty years, after all.”

Henry let himself smile. This was Francis Bianchi’s wife! This woman had slept next to Francis and dined with him and fought with him and, presumably, experienced his creative vision! Firsthand!

“You must have so many stories,” Henry said. His visions of leaving in an hour tops fluttered away. He wanted to hang around and soak up every story, every word.

“I do,” Mrs. Bianchi said.

“Do you like sharing them?”

Mrs. Bianchi laughed. “I don’t mind. Especially not on Christmas. Although it’s been ages since I told a good story.”

“I’m all ears,” Henry said.

Mrs. Bianchi twisted her head to look at Francis’s old portrait. “We’re going to need some food, Henry Crawford. Unless you like to celebrate Christmas on an empty stomach?”

Henry smiled. “My grandmother would be disappointed if I did.”

“That she would,” Mrs. Bianchi said. “I know of a pretty good Chinese restaurant open on Christmas. I’m pretty certain they deliver, even all the way up the hill. It’ll disappoint yourgrandmother that we don’t cook it ourselves. But she can’t blame us. I’m not even half as good as she is.”

“And I’m not even close.”

Mrs. Bianchi left the room to call the Chinese restaurant, leaving Henry spinning in the chaos of having walked into his hero’s wife’s home.

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