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Greetings Gregory,
I rather enjoyed our dinner party several evenings ago. Marcia suggested you were something of a genius, which I said I would pass along (but feel regretful about, as, if that head of yours gets any bigger, it very well could explode). Ha! You know that I jest, I hope.
In any case, with the turn of the season comes a whirlwind of new events, fresh ideas, and gorgeous conversations with the artists and writers at The Copperfield House.
Being me (and don’t you know that, given our history!), I always want to push boundaries, to follow the proverbial rabbit hole down one of my artist’s thought processes.
Unfortunately, for this fresh and top-secret project, we need funds— funds that the traditional art grants will not allow for.
“Hmmm…” Alana groaned as she and Julia locked eyes.
They both thought the same thing.
“It sounds a lot like Dad’s writing,” Julia breathed, sounding disappointed.
Alana dropped into the chair beside her. “Well, you should know. You’ve spent so much time with his words.”
“I just thought there would be a clear difference,” Julia muttered. “Something we could point to and say, ‘See? It’s not him at all.’”
Alana groaned. “We can read through the rest. Just to see?”
“Yeah. I guess.” Julia kicked the leg of the table.
“And Marcia is a writer. She spent so much time with Dad and probably learned how to imitate him,” Alana tried.
“Yeah.” All the color drained from Julia’s cheeks.
They’d pinned their hopes and dreams on six boxes that had spent the past twenty-five years dusting in a faraway warehouse. It hadn’t quite worked out the way they’d planned.
“Girls?” Greta appeared in the shadow of the doorway, wiping her hands across her apron and grinning. She seemed not to notice the massive array of boxes before them, nor the hundreds of files across the desks. “I’ve made dinner. Your father doesn’t seem interested in joining. Would you mind?”
Julia returned the email files to their yellowing folders, scrubbing her hands distractedly across her jeans. She marked where they’d been, mouthing to Alana, “For later.”
“What did you make, Mama?” Alana asked brightly, greeting her mother with a side hug.
“Oh, honey. I cooked up a bit of an experiment.” Greta bubbled with expectation, drawing her girls closer to the kitchen— the world of her own vibrant creativity.
Alana and Julia did their best to shove thoughts about their father’s emails deep into the back of their mind. Even still, each time they locked eyes across the table, they shared a single thought:What now?
