Page 10 of Nantucket Longing

“I’m from Poland,” Diana said, which wasn’t a lie.

“That’s so funny,” the receptionist said.“You don’t sound like it.”

Diana felt like she was going to cry.In a moment of pure terror, she said, “Barbara Nowak is my mother.I need to speak to her.”

The receptionist was quiet for too long before she said, “I beg your pardon?”

“My mother,” Diana repeated.“My father took me to America when I was nine years old.”

The receptionist coughed.“As far as I know, Barbara Nowak doesn’t have any children.How could a mother have a career like she’s had?”

Diana squeezed her eyes shut.She thought it unlikely that an American receptionist ever would have been as rude as this Polish woman.

“Will you please tell her that her daughter called from Michigan?”Diana begged.“Will you take my phone number?”

“Michigan?”the receptionist repeated.

“My father died,” Diana said.“I wanted to tell her.”

This wasn’t the full truth, of course.What Diana wanted was for her mother to sweep to the United States and save her and the baby.In the next room, Allen started howling at the television like an abandoned dog.

“What is that noise?”the receptionist asked.

Diana started to list the numbers of her phone number, begging for the receptionist to take them.Finally, the receptionist said that she’d write them down, but she couldn’t promise anything.Diana supposed that was the best she was going to get.

Now, all she had left to do was wait and hope and pray.

Mama, please.Mama, I’m here.

ChapterSix

Madeline

June 2025

It was the day after the beach bonfire, the day after Madeline’s six-hour sailing adventure with Henry Crawford, and Madeline hardly slept a wink.She was too eager for what the summer had in store for her.It already felt like the most exciting time of her life.

Madeline was in the studio of The Copperfield House residency, drinking coffee and listening to the other artists catch up down the hall.Because Madeline had been “inducted” into the Copperfield family (at least for the time being), Madeline hadn’t spent much time with the residents, a fact that made her pang with guilt.She urged herself to go down, grab one of Greta’s croissants, and say hello, strengthening their connections.But she knew that urge was related to her desire to get as far away from her studio as she could.The blank page on the computer document beckoned; the blank page in her notebook echoed; the blank canvas seemed to shout at her to make something!Greta had texted to say that she’d join Madeline in her studio at eleven that morning “to discuss next steps,” and Madeline knew that she owed it to Greta to prove how remarkably gifted and creative she was.

But a part of Madeline wanted to ask Greta why she invited her back.

During Madeline’s first stint at The Copperfield House, she’d made a series of subpar paintings that had made Greta cluck her tongue and say, “Keep going.”She’d written a short story that had made Bernard say, “Your characters need more interiority.Does that make sense?They need to go deeper.”Because Madeline had once been well-versed in speaking to her piano teacher, crafting plans of attack for her more difficult pieces, Madeline was able to lie and agree and hatch a plan for her next creations.But she wasn’t a painting or writing prodigy.Did the Copperfields actually think she had talent?

Last night around the bonfire, Bernard had asked, “Have you ever given thought to playing music?We have plenty of them around here.”

But Madeline had never confessed to her pianist past.It felt like betraying herself and her mother to even talk about it.So she’d lied and said, “I’m tone deaf.”

How awful it felt to say that!It felt like denying her very name.But how could she possibly talk about everything that had happened?It was better to keep it buried.

To distract herself, Madeline pushed paints out of tubes and set up her easel.Sunlight came through the window and pooled on the hardwood floor, beckoning her.But Madeline set her jaw and got to work, painting what she initially assumed was just any woman’s face—a woman in her twenties or thirties, maybe, sitting by a window and gazing at the ocean.She worked diligently, letting her ego fall away (always a necessity when practicing the piano), and didn’t emerge from her reverie until Greta knocked on the door at eleven.Madeline nearly tumbled out of her chair.

“Come in!”

Greta swept inside, bringing a croissant and the smell of lavender and coffee.Madeline felt as though she’d been caught doing something outrageous.She could hardly look at the painting, so she pulled up her chin to look at Greta.Greta betrayed no emotion.

“Good morning.”Greta closed the door and sat beside Madeline, handing over the croissant.“I hope my grandchildren didn’t keep you awake too late last night?”

Madeline could have said,I couldn’t sleep because I want so desperately to kiss your grandson, and it’s all I can think about.Instead, she said, “I was in bed by eleven.”

---