Page 2 of Nantucket Longing

Henry burst into the kitchen, glossy and sweaty, but stopped short when he saw Madeline at the kitchen table.It wasn’t customary for an artist in residence to spend time on the family side of The Copperfield House.Madeline gave Henry what she hoped looked like a sly smile—one meant to translate how coy she was (although she felt jittery).

“Hi, stranger,” she said.“How was the run?”

“It was, um, not great,” Henry said, staggering to the kitchen sink to fill up a glass with water.“To be honest?I’m out of shape.”

Greta chuckled.“You threw yourself into work.The body goes when that happens.”

Henry laughed nervously.It was true that over the past six months, he’d been fully immersed in the story of Sophia and Francis Bianchi, so much so that he hadn’t even noticed Madeline when she’d been living just a few doors down the hall from him.Francis Bianchi was a dead Hollywood A-list director, and Sophia was his wife, who’d recently confessed to Henry that she’d been the screenwriter of all of Francis’s films.He’d taken advantage of her and cheated on her before he’d “murdered” one of his mistresses.But the truth was far more complicated than even that.Now that Henry had gotten to the bottom of Sophia’s story, he was hard at work on a script based on it.The Most Brutal Horizonwas set to start filming this fall.

A few months ago, fate had drawn Madeline and Henry together on a plane from Boston to Los Angeles.Although they’d spent weeks together at The Copperfield House, they hadn’t said a single word to one another.At the time, Madeline had thought her days at The Copperfield House had run their course.But it hadn’t been long after that that Greta had called and invited her out for another few months—free of charge.Madeline guessed that Greta was worried about Madeline.But she knew it was also more than that.Greta respected talent.She liked working with artists to propel them forward.And if anyone needed to be propelled, it was Madeline.

Madeline had rented her Los Angeles apartment out until the end of her lease and moved back to Nantucket Island and The Copperfield House with no real plans of ever leaving again.But was she really going to live at The Copperfield House for the rest of her life?She knew better than to think that was possible.Artists spent anywhere between three to nine months there and then moved on.It was the way of things.

It was better not to get hung up anywhere.

But it had been so long since she’d been able to sleep all the way through the night.The Copperfield House felt like the first home she’d had since she was seventeen years old.How much of that did Greta Copperfield understand?Would Madeline ever have to explain herself—draw out the stories of her life in a way that would make Greta and the rest of the Copperfield family adopt her into the fold?

Of course, Madeline was well aware of everything Greta had gone through.Google had filled her in on Bernard’s devastating twenty-five-year prison sentence and Greta’s twenty-five years hiding herself away at home.It didn’t seem like Greta dwelled on the devastation of their past.What was her secret?How did she forget?Madeline studied Greta’s face for clues, but Greta was careful never to give anything away.

Henry grabbed a banana and tried to sit down at the kitchen table, but Greta swatted him away, ordering him to take a shower rather than sweating all over her chairs.Henry’s already red face turned a shade of cherry, and he stuttered an apology.Madeline sipped her coffee and watched him, understanding how nervous and angular he got when she was around.The night of the Nantucket Gala, she’d dressed up to see him and watched him like a hawk, aching to be near him, to ask him what was on his mind, to ask him to wrap his arms around her and never let go.Where were these feelings coming from?She’d never had them before.She half expected him to announce a trip back to Los Angeles immediately—and she dreaded his departure from Nantucket, knowing he would leave a large crater in her heart.There was nowhere in the world she hated more than Los Angeles.But she would find it within herself to go out and visit him if he wanted her to.But then again, why would anyone leave Nantucket Island during the summertime?Why would anyone give up on the splendor that was this life?

Henry ran upstairs, leaving Madeline with her coffee and Greta with her notebook.Greta brushed her hand over her pages and cocked her eyebrow.“Henry wants so desperately to be a grown-up,” she teased.“But he’s all twisted up in the head.”

“Aren’t we all?”Madeline said.

Greta smiled and got up to make slices of toast with peanut butter.“What’s the plan for you today, darling?”

Madeline thought about her upstairs studio waiting for her.She thought about all she’d told Greta she would work on when she arrived.She thought about the empty canvas, the empty notebooks, the quiet piano.She wasn’t sure she could stand sitting for the entire day in her studio alone.The loneliness was bound to kill her.

Hadn’t she spent more than enough time in practice rooms by herself?Hundreds of thousands of hours at the piano?When would it ever be enough?

But before Madeline could answer, Henry was back in the kitchen, still sweating.“Actually, before I forget, would you like to come out on the boat with me?”

Henry was looking at her expectantly.Madeline’s heart fluttered.She’d never been out on a sailboat before, and it was truly one of the most beautiful days, a cerulean sky and a golden beach.She glanced at Greta, half expecting Greta to remind her of everything she still had to get done.You’re an artist in residency at The Copperfield House!Doesn’t that matter to you?And it did.It really did.But when Greta didn’t say anything, Madeline couldn’t help herself.“Oh, that sounds wonderful.”

Greta laughed.“Let’s meet tonight to discuss your project.”

What she meant wasyou need guidance, and my grandson is distracting you.

Madeline said, “Sounds great!”But already she was dreading it.

She took her toast upstairs to her bedroom to find her bathing suit.From down the hall came the sounds of the other artists, some of whom were listening or playing or writing music.Others were chatting over coffee or working on their sculpture projects or painting enthusiastically.Since she’d arrived, Madeline had more or less kept to herself, as was her custom.During her intense piano days, she’d never been particularly good at making friends, and after those days were through, she’d hardly mastered it.During her first stint at The Copperfield House, the only real “friend” she’d made was Greta, and she knew that was more of a mentor-mentee relationship—similar to the one she’d once had with Mrs.Everett.

At the thought of Mrs.Everett, Madeline stopped packing her things and took a breath, her heart racing.Everything spilled into her mind: Mrs.Everett’s musky perfume, which she used to try to hide her cigarettes, the intensity of her Southern drawl, and her big laugh.How often had Mrs.Everett said, “You’re going to be a star, honey”?It had seemed so sure.

Snap out of it, Madeline told herself.She changed into her swimsuit and a sundress and swept downstairs to find Henry waiting on the front porch.He looked jittery and far from the confident, up-and-coming Hollywood screenwriter she knew he wanted to seem like.It made her like him more.

As they walked to the harbor, Henry explained that the sailboat belonged to his grandfather Bernard, but that Bernard, like Greta, was working on a deadline and had limited capacity for “rendezvousing.”

“His words, not mine,” Henry said with a laugh.“But my grandparents met in Paris.Maybe you know that already.”

“Greta mentioned it,” Madeline said, remembering that rainy afternoon earlier this year when Greta had poured them each a glass of something strong and thick and recounted the long-ago days when she’d been studying at the Sorbonne and fallen head over heels for Bernard.Madeline had been sure nothing so magical would ever happen to her.And then she’d run into Henry Crawford on that airplane and thought maybe she was wrong.

Henry was a capable sailor.As he brought them out of the harbor, wind rushing through his black hair, he explained to Madeline that his father, Jackson Crawford, had taught him how to sail on Lake Michigan.“It’s no ocean, but the winds can really pick up out there,” he said.“Every year, we used to race in the Chicago to Mackinac Island race together.It took forever, and it was perilous.When we got to the island, there was a massive party.It was incredible.”He sniffed, looking reflective.

“Where is your father?”

“He’s in Manhattan, working in broadcast journalism,” Henry explained.“Two years ago, he left my mom to move to Beijing.It was all really dramatic, and I haven’t fully forgiven him.But it’s part of the reason we came out to Nantucket.And my mom’s happier now, I think.”

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