Page 11 of Nantucket Longing

“Not too bad.”Greta smiled.“When Scarlet gets everyone going, it can be difficult to say no.She’s a spitfire.”

It was true that Scarlet was the one who’d demanded everyone sing songs and tell “secrets” and eat a few too many s’mores than they’d planned for.Madeline had wondered how anyone lived so well.

Madeline smiled.“I’d never really spent time with her before.She’s fun.”

“She’s fun, all right.”Greta sipped her coffee, and Madeline watched Greta’s eyes as they traced the painting.Madeline’s heart pounded.“What do we have here?”Greta asked, getting up to stand closer to the canvas.Madeline hung back, fearful.She felt the way she had when she’d played a new piece for Mrs.Everett—worried that she hadn’t interpreted it correctly.

Greta took a few minutes to say anything.Madeline alternated between fear that Greta would kick her out of The Copperfield House and relief that maybe, if she was kicked out, she could go back to her little life and stop pretending she was worth anything.

“This is something, Madeline,” Greta said finally.She twisted around to look at her.“Who is she?”

Madeline stuttered.“Oh, she’s just, you know.A woman.”

Greta arched her eyebrow as though she didn’t believe her.“You’ve painted her like you love her.”

Madeline stood with surprise.Her eyes went from Greta’s to the painting and back.Her heart pounded.

It was only then she realized she’d painted her mother.She placed her hand over her mouth in horror.How could she have conjured up this image of her mother—a version of her mother from so long ago—without realizing it?In the painting, her mother looked sorrowful and poetic, as though she were dreaming about her past or a future she’d never been allowed to have.The sight of her after so many years nearly brought Madeline to her knees.

Greta was watching her like a hawk.“You know her, don’t you?”

Madeline wasn’t sure how to speak about her mother.But under the intensity of Greta’s gaze, she felt she couldn’t lie, so she said, “She’s my mother.”

Greta nodded.“Is this taken from a photograph?”

“No,” Madeline said.“I don’t have any photographs of my mother.”

Color drained from Greta’s cheeks.The air thinned with what Madeline had said.But it was true.Madeline had never gone back to Michigan to get anything she’d owned, not photographs or old mementos, nothing; she’d never returned to the life she’d once shared with Diana; she’d never returned to any level of comfort after that fateful day at Juilliard.Her mother’s image had only ever lived in her head—and now, here she was on the canvas.Madeline felt as though she’d betrayed herself.

“I don’t know if I can finish it,” Madeline said.

Greta touched Madeline’s shoulder.“Maybe you owe it to yourself to try.”

Greta walked to the doorway, leaving Madeline alone with her mother.Madeline was suddenly frightened to remain in that room alone.

“Greta?”Madeline asked.

Greta paused in the doorway.

“It isn’t that good,” Madeline said of the painting.She’d seen marvelous paintings and sensational artists before, and she knew she wasn’t one of them.

Greta raised her shoulders.“How do you know?You aren’t done yet.”

After that, she disappeared down the hall.

* * *

At one, Madeline took a break for lunch and stumbled into Henry in the residency kitchen.He was tan and gangly and smiling, lost on the wrong side of The Copperfield House but very obviously looking for her.Madeline’s heart pounded.She glanced down at herself to see that her hands and clothing were covered in paint.But Henry wrapped her red hair around his finger and said, “I realized I forgot to tell you something yesterday.”

Madeline’s heart throttled in her throat.She couldn’t speak.

“I forgot to tell you how beautiful you are,” he said.“But I realized I was too frightened to.”

Madeline remembered how coy and funny and sarcastic she’d been with Henry until now.It was because everything had been a game, and now it very suddenly wasn’t.She trembled.Down the hall, she could see one of the artists, the English writer Benedict, ducking out of his room to fetch more coffee.She didn’t want him to share this intimate moment with anyone but Henry, so she suggested, “Let’s go outside.”

Henry and Madeline abandoned The Copperfield House—and Madeline’s painting of her mother—and raced down the golden sands beneath another cloudless sky.The farther Madeline got from the painting, the freer and emptier she felt, so much so that she felt she might float away.When they reached the harbor, Madeline and Henry pressed themselves into a hug and felt their bodies shudder with the strength of each other’s hearts.Still, they hadn’t kissed.

Madeline thought back to what her mother had always told her about her father, Allen Willis—how he’d swept her off her feet, and she’d always regretted letting a man do that.What if Madeline was making an enormous mistake?What if she needed to protect herself?After all, Henry was headed somewhere incredible.He was bound to be a successful screenwriter because the Hollywood elite had chosen him as the next best thing.That probably meant Madeline would be just a blip on his love résumé.

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