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“Alana Copperfield! You’ve been up to something.” Julia slid the key into the front door and pushed it open wide enough for her suitcases.
Before he could be asked, Jeremy grabbed both suitcases by their handles and heaved them inside. Julia explained that she’d brought several items back with her from Chicago, “stuff she probably didn’t need but felt nostalgic for.” Alana understood. Bit by bit, The Copperfield House morphed from an old, haunted house to its modern-day abode. It was natural to want pieces of their “real” lives there within its walls. It was natural to want to bring it all together as a sort of hodgepodge puzzle.
From the back porch came the sound of sizzling oil and screaming coal. Through the back hallway, light smoke from the barbecue appeared, along with the bubbling laughter of one Greta Copperfield. Jeremy stiffened at the sound, his eyes swimming with memories.
“Do you want to say hello to Mom?” Alana whispered. “No pressure.”
Suddenly, from the back shadows of the hallway came a spinning football. It seemed to come from nowhere. With perfect instincts, Jeremy lifted his hands and caught it, blinking down at it. “What the heck,” he muttered.
Alana leaped toward the hallway and found Bernard Copperfield sauntering toward them, a mischievous grin across his face. A memory fell over her, that of her father and Jeremy tossing a football in the backyard— times Bernard called “exercising his athletic side.”
“Jeremy Farley,” Bernard said kindly. “It’s been a while, but it looks like you’ve still got it.”
Jeremy’s laughter was joyful, surprised. “I don’t know about that, Mr. Copperfield. I’ve been out of the game a long time.”
Bernard pressed his thumb into his own chest. “Same here.”
The two men regarded one another with soft smiles. Alana could practically feel Jeremy trying to pair this version of Bernard with the one the tabloids had painted, of a ruthless man out to steal money from his dearest friends. It didn’t add up at all.
Finally, Jeremy spoke, his voice cracking. “Life didn’t exactly go as I planned.”
Bernard bowed his head. A cool breeze off the Nantucket Sound entered the room, ruffling the grey curls of his hair. “I know the feeling.”
From the back porch, Greta called out, “I need someone back here now to flip the chicken!”
One after another, Julia, Alana, Jeremy, and then, finally, Bernard marched down the back hallway and entered the gorgeous light of the late afternoon. Greta, a glass of white wine in hand, instructed Jeremy on which chicken to flip first, while Alana doused each with a homemade sauce. Bernard sat at the far end of the table with a harmonica raised to his lips as his eyes caught the last of the orange bulb of sun. The first of his buzzing chords rose out from the porch, becoming hazy over the rolling sands of the beach.
After countless apartments, homes on every coast, endless trans-Atlantic flights, and a nearly filled passport, Alana was suddenly struck with a strange and exhilarating realization.
This was home.
