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ChapterTwelve
Alana’s return to The Copperfield House wasn’t perfect timing.
Since the beginning of May, Julia and Charlie had successfully chased off the majority of the hungry journalists, all who’d been eager to chat with Bernard Copperfield in the wake of his return to the island. Now that Alana was a hot commodity in the news world, the same journalists filtered back across the lawn, anxiously awaiting anyone’s appearance on the front porch. Some other journalists, more for tabloids than anything else, had appeared as well.
“It’s like a jungle out there,” Julia called as she entered from a five-mile run, slick with sweat. “Luckily, they don’t want to talk to me.”
“They will once your publishing house releases Bernard’s book,” Greta said softly, seated on the chair nearest the black television, a bit of knitting in her lap.
“That kind of press will only benefit the sales of the book,” Julia said. “I welcome it.”
Alana grimaced and stepped toward the window, peeking between the curtains to watch as two gossip journalists with bleached blonde hair spoke to one another with enthusiastic gestures, stretching their fingers out to show off their newly manicured nails.
“I wonder if Asher is receiving so much attention as well,” Greta said.
Alana chuckled, trying to find good humor in the mess. “Asher’s probably out on the yacht with one of his lady friends. No way that the paparazzi can track him down.”
“How did they figure out where you were?” Julia asked.
“Oh, gosh. We haven’t been exactly hiding away, have we?” Alana replied with a laugh. “Wine nights at the winery. Long walks on the boardwalk. A sailing trip here and there with Charlie.Alana Copperfield, spotted at her childhood home located on the island of Nantucket— nursing her wounds after her traumatic meltdown!”
“You didn’t have a meltdown,” Greta shot, adjusting her glasses over her nose. “You had a perfectly reasonable response to a terrible situation.”
Julia headed to the kitchen. There came the sound of the faucet and then the glug-glug of her sipping water. Alana walked in after her and leaned against the wall of the kitchen, crossing and uncrossing her arms over her chest.
“Do you think the rest of my life I’ll just be holed up here, hiding from society?”
Julia sputtered. “No way. People have very short memories. You know that.”
Alana groaned. “Another fear I have is that this is it for me. That I’ll never be anything more than Asher Tarkin’s angry ex-wife.”
Truthfully, this was almost all Alana thought about these days. Now that she was back on Nantucket full-time, sleeping in her teenage bed and watching sad foreign films, she had little concept of her “next plan.” In Paris, Bianca texted that she’d nabbed another audition for a commercial for a “middle-aged solution to weight loss.” Alana didn’t want anything to do with commercial work. She didn’t want to run after such things hungrily, knowing that each job offered very little artistic nourishment.
In short, her question was this:Who am I without modeling? Without acting? Without Asher?
Julia arched her brow. “Alana. What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. I mean. Come on.” Alana shook her head. “I’m a model in a forty-four-year-old woman’s body. It means I’m not worth much.”
“The modeling industry is so destructive,” Julia countered. “I watched its effect firsthand as my girls grew up. When she was fourteen, Rachel sobbed in nearly every dressing room we visited, just because she didn’t look the way the girl in the advertisement did.”
Shame stretched across Alana’s shoulders. “I hope you don’t think I…”
“No. I don’t blame you, obviously. I blame the bigger system. And now, that same system is eating you alive because you’re no longer worthy, apparently, of being a part of it,” Julia countered.
Greta appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, unraveling her gray curls from a braid so that they fluffed out on either side of her ears. She looked like a beautiful witch.
“What are you girls chatting about in here?” she asked brightly.
Alana and Julia locked eyes for a moment.What could they tell her about the world outside after Greta had spent so much of her life locked away in this very house?
“I was just complaining to Julia that I don’t have a purpose in life,” Alana tried, laughing.
“That’s ridiculous.” Greta’s eyebrow arched dangerously. She then trounced to the refrigerator, yanked open the door, and scowled inside. After a long pause, she added, “But I suppose I remember feeling that way when I was younger.”
“When was this?” Alana asked.
Greta began to pick and choose items from the fridge, arranging them out across the counter. Butter, camembert, gorgonzola, olives, eggs.
