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ChapterTwenty-Five
Bernard Copperfield’s court files remained splayed across the study, awaiting Alana and Julia’s continued exploration. Outside The Copperfield House, however, time continued to trickle forward. That Sunday, Julia headed off for Chicago to meet with her publishing house about the next steps for Bernard’s book and check up on her house, which was empty and probably overgrown since her and her husband, Jackson’s departure. This left Alana forlorn and lonely, terrified of the court files and what else they would reveal or not reveal.
The Monday after the court files arrived at The Copperfield House, Alana returned to the Nantucket Courthouse with another platter of cookies and a thank you card for Jeremy. She hadn’t heard from Sarah nor Jeremy since the Fourth of July, and her heart crackled with missing them.
Jane, the secretary, cast Alana a murderous look. “Can I help you? Or do you plan to sneak in, like last time?”
Alana bristled. She placed the platter of cookies and the thank you card on the front desk and said, “Is Jeremy here, by chance?”
“He’s not,” Jane shot back.
“Okay.” Alana glanced forlornly at the dark doorway that led to Jeremy’s basement lair. “Could you make sure he gets this?”
As Jane glared at the cookies, Alana explained, “Jeremy managed to come through for my sister and I on the files. We’re so grateful for his help.”
Alana hoped Jane would translate this as,I won’t come around to bother you anymore.
Jane made a strange animal noise in her throat. “I can get the cookies to him.”
“Thank you.” Alana walked back toward the door, her thoughts racing. She felt like a boat without a harbor.
On the side wall hung a large board made of cork, upon which Nantucketers hung pamphlets and advertisements.
MONICA - GUITAR LESSONS $25 PER HOUR
HOMEMADE FURNITURE BY CHARLIE BELLOWS
SAILING LESSONS FOR BEGINNERS
Alana paused for a moment, scanning over them. In the top-right corner, something particular caught her eye.
INTERESTED IN NANTUCKET ARTIST GRANTS?
Alana leaped toward it to read the fine print on the pamphlet. Beneath the large font was an invitation for all artists and community organizers to gather at a bookstore called Boxcar Books in downtown Nantucket on Tuesday, July 12th,at 7 p.m. It was an informational meeting to assist grant-seekers in the application process. It was exactly what Alana needed.
Beneath the information, the pamphlet said:Bring a brief write-up of your plans for your artist grant. We will discuss how to use your vision to achieve your goals.
“July 12,” Alana breathed.
That was tomorrow.
That night, attempting to avoid the sight of the court files in the downstairs study, Alana sat cross-legged on the back porch with a blank sheet of notepaper before her. Her pen poised, she watched the waves course across the beach and toy with the sands. It was an angry day in July, a day that kept the shoreline barren save for a few brave stragglers.
As an actress and model, I learned to…
What? What had she learned?
How to party with high rollers? How to whittle herself down to nothing? How to hate herself? What?
In the living room, Bernard sat at the piano and began to play Rachmaninoff, his favorite composer. The drama of each note flooded the house and made the windows shake in their panes. Alana closed her eyes and fell into the haze of his emotion. Although he rarely played, his fingers struck each note with purpose.
Come on, Alana.
And then, all at once, the idea came to her.
The following evening at seven sharp, Alana entered Boxcar Books. About twenty other people sat in plastic chairs arranged in front of a sturdy wooden desk, twiddling pamphlets that looked precisely like the one at the Nantucket Courthouse. Most of the group looked particularly “artistic” on purpose, with dyed hair and piercings and bored expressions. Some of them looked more like Alana, “community organizers” who wanted to build something on the island of Nantucket.
Aisha, the woman who’d organized the event, greeted them warmly. “There is nothing greater than the Island of Nantucket’s belief in our artists, our writers, our poets, and our filmmakers. We have an incredibly textured tradition here on the island, one that these grants attempt to uphold.”
