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ChapterOne
It was important to wake up early for the downtown Nantucket Farmers Market. This way, you could arrive only moments after the farmers themselves had and catch stalls laden with vibrant green spinach, red peppers, fresh blueberries, raspberries, and strawberries, plus plenty of baked goods— cookies, cakes, and freshly-baked pies that caught the light of the early-morning sun. This way, you got the best of everything before tourists swarmed the place and before the heat of the June sun destroyed the soft, light air of the morning.
As Ella scoured the Farmers Market aisles with her mother, Greta, she felt serene and happy, talking easily with farmers, bakers, cheesemongers, and other Nantucket locals who’d all woken up at the crack of dawn to sell their goods. It was her second summer in Nantucket after decades away— and in only a few weeks, she would marry the love of her life, Will, in a gorgeous ceremony. There was so much to celebrate.
Greta paused to look at the onions on a long wooden table, her brow furrowed, as the farmer stepped out from the other side of his truck.
“I heard today’s the big day, Greta,” he said, wiping his palms on his jeans.
Greta raised her head and smiled, her face beautiful with lines and creases that had seen the depths of sorrow and the glory of unadulterated, pure happiness. Although she’d just learned last autumn that Greta wasn’t, in fact, her “real mother,” Ella adored that face.
“We’re so excited,” Greta gushed as the farmer approached.
“How long has it been since you closed up?” he asked.
Greta’s cheek twitched. “Our last residents left us in 1996, I believe.” She glanced at Ella, who nodded. “My youngest, here, was still in high school at the time.”
Ella remembered it well. As the accusations against Bernard had mounted, the artists in residence at The Copperfield House had run for the hills, sensing the death of the residency and death to their careers if they stuck around for too long. Since then, they’d learned that one of those residents, Marcia, had stolen millions, framed Bernard, and taken off for Hollywood, where she’d had a prosperous career. Last year, the Copperfield siblings had revealed what she’d done, but it was mostly too late. The statute of limitations was up. Marcia was persona non grata— but she’d also never been charged with any crime or received prison time. Because of this, Bernard had told them all to “try to forget,” as though that were possible.
“It must have been incredible to be raised alongside all those artists,” the farmer said to Ella.
Ella’s heart lifted. “It really was. It opened us kids up to so many different ways of life.”
“She’s in a very popular rock band,” Greta told the farmer of Ella, and Ella’s cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and pride. “They toured for years, all over the world.”
“Is that right?” The farmer looked at Ella as though he had heard of the concept of music but hadn’t looked into what it was yet.
“It is,” Ella said.
“And she picked out a wonderful musician for the residency this summer,” Greta continued. “What was her name, honey?”
“Aurora.” Ella breathed her name as though it was a poem, remembering the soulful nature of the strange woman’s voice. Her application for The Copperfield House Residency had been startling, romantic, and aching all at once, a clear winner alongside the other musician applicants.
“She also works as a painter,” Greta said as she piled onions into her wicker basket, brimming with pride. “When we have the art show for the residents at the end of the four-week rotation, I’ll let you know. You’ll have to come to see what they’re working on.”
“All I know are vegetables, Greta. You know that.” The farmer laughed, then discussed other items on his table— how healthy the radishes were, what he’d recently cooked with the potatoes. By the end of a five-minute conversation, Greta had piled her basket high with vegetables, which she paid very little for. Nantucket locals took care of one another. It was certainly different than what Ella had grown accustomed to during her many years in New York City.
When Greta and Ella returned to The Copperfield House, it was already eight a.m., and the entire family had thrown themselves into preparations for the five artists set to arrive for the residency that evening. Five bedrooms had to be completely prepared, as did the artist's studio, the music studio, the library, and the kitchen on the other side of the house, which the residents used instead of the family. Although it had been ages since The Copperfield House had been opened as a residency— nearly thirty years, in fact— Greta and Bernard had decided to operate in a similar fashion with the added benefit of having their children around to help.
Ella entered the artist residency-half of the big Victorian home and hurried upstairs to find Julia stretching clean sheets over one of the double beds, listening to a podcast about writing, as usual. Julia worked in publishing and was constantly in tune with the trends of the industry, especially now that her publishing house was off to the races in the wake of their father’s newest release. Although Ella did her best not to sneak up on her, Julia nearly leaped from her skin when she spotted Ella out of the corner of her eye.
“Oh my gosh! You scared me.” Julia turned off her podcast and fixed her face into a smile.
“Sorry about that. How’s it going up here? Can I help with anything?”
Julia mopped the sweat on her forehead. “There’s a big stack of clean linens on the shelf in the hallway. If you could make the bed on the other side of the hall, that would be—”
“Already on it,” Ella said, jumping out of the bedroom.
“Thank you!” Julia called after her.
There was a frenetic energy at the house the entire day, one that demanded that the Copperfield family speak quickly, finishing one another’s sentences and communicating in a sort of code. After Ella finished making the bed, she stepped back into the hallway and was nearly run over by the eldest Copperfield sibling, Quentin, who carried video recording equipment in a large box. His eyes were wide and panicked.
“Hey there!” Quentin stalled for a moment. “How was the market?”
“We bought half of everything,” Ella joked. “How’s the video studio?”
“It’s almost ready,” Quentin said. “Scarlet is down there now, finishing up.” Scarlet was Quentin’s eldest daughter, who’d recently dropped out of NYU due to her mother’s cancer diagnosis. Now, she’d decided to take even more time off of school to focus on making documentaries about Nantucket with Quentin. Using what they knew about film, they’d ensured that The Copperfield House Residency could accommodate every kind of director, videography, cinematography, and screenwriter, with equipment that made every other residency in the area a mockery. Bernard was terribly pleased.
