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“Listen,” Ella interjected, still hoping to form some kind of friendship or understanding with this incredibly talented individual. “Will and I are hosting a Nantucket Music Festival this weekend. We have a very small time slot before our band goes on. Would you be interested in performing a few songs?”
Aurora’s lips parted with surprise. For a long time, she stared at Ella as though she had three heads.
“I mean, you really don’t have to,” Ella hurried to add. “I’d just really like to support your work any way that I can. And the Nantucket Music Festival is pretty well-attended. It’s not massive, but it would be a nice steppingstone to whatever’s next.”
Aurora glanced left to right, then bent her head low to speak to Ella exclusively. Even Will had turned to speak with Danny about the prospect of another round of tennis.
“You’re not just asking me this because you feel sorry for me, are you?” Aurora breathed.
Ella frowned, caught off-guard by the question. It was yet another indication of how Aurora thought about herself— that she wasn’t a worthy musical talent, that the only attention she got was a result of pity.
“I’ve been a professional musician for twenty years,” Ella said. “And I recognize your talent for what it is— something that can take you far. If you have the strength to work for it.”
Aurora made her hand a fist on the table. “I’ll work for it. I’ll do anything for it.” Her eyes were fiery.
Ella was overcome with the sensation that Aurora had many different layers to her: the recluse, the romantic, the fiery artist, the primadonna performer. It was difficult to know which Aurora you were going to get next. But all of them seemed worthy, exciting.
“I can’t wait to be out on that stage,” Aurora finished. “It’s beyond my wildest dreams.”
ChapterEleven
And just like that, Aurora was back to a semi-regular sleep schedule. Brooks’ attention and adoration were like fuel for her, a reminder that she was worthy of being alive, and on the evening after dinner along the beach of The Copperfield House, Aurora went home with Brooks and slept till the next morning, wrapped in his arms. She felt it was the most blissful sleep of her life and told him so while he made her coffee and breakfast, then nuzzled her face in his chest and told herself not to weep with relief.Was it possible that love really was this easy?
That morning, Brooks drove Aurora back to The Copperfield House, where, to her surprise, a large truck with “CHANNEL 7 NEWS” written on it hummed in the driveway.
“Woah. I hope nothing bad happened?” Aurora was breathless as a film crew clambered from the back of the truck, adjusting sound equipment and video cameras.
“I heard about this last night at dinner,” Brooks said. “Since The Copperfield House has just reopened, the news wants to do a little feature on Greta, Bernard, and the artists. Including you, I guess.” He wagged his eyebrows playfully, and a shiver of terror raced up and down Aurora’s spine.
“What?” she shrieked, thinking of two ways she could play this: on the one hand, she wanted to order Brooks to drive her back to his house so she could hide out. On the other: she ached to be on camera, to discuss her art and her music, and to have her face on the screens of thousands and thousands of televisions. It was a way of being immortal.
“You don’t want to?” Brooks asked.
“No? I mean…” Aurora stalled as Brooks’ smile widened.
“You want it,” he said. “I can see it written all over your face.”
Aurora smacked Brooks gently on the arm, and he tugged her to his side of the truck to shower her with kisses. Her giggles burst from the open windows and rolled along the beach.
“I’d come with you, but I have to get to the docks,” Brooks explained with sorrow.
Aurora stood out on the front porch of the residency, waving as Brooks drove away. Her stomach tightened into a ball of nerves, one that urged her to run up to her bedroom, pull the curtains over the windows, and hide out till night. But as she turned to enter the house, she nearly stumbled into Greta, who wore stunning rose lipstick and had her silver hair styled like a movie starlet from the 1940s.
“There you are!” Greta wrapped her arm around Aurora’s shoulders and guided her into the house. “I realized I forgot to mention the news segment to you last night. And I couldn’t find you all morning! Everyone’s saying you don’t have a cell phone?”
Heat rolled up Aurora’s chest, neck, and cheeks. “I don’t.”
“That’s understandable, of course,” Greta said. “I hate mine. Who wants to be reachable at all times? Not me.” Greta walked Aurora up the circular staircase toward the library, where they found the other artists and Bernard seated in conversation with the news anchor— a woman with black hair a little too shiny to look at for long.
“I tracked down our last artist,” Greta said triumphantly.
“Wonderful,” the anchor said, standing and adjusting her suit. “Aurora, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Aurora felt as though her grin was sloppy.
“That hair is going to look fantastic on camera,” the anchor said, then raised her chin. Aurora thought it was funny she didn’t introduce herself, although she had a hunch that everyone knew her name already. She evoked sophistication and fame.
After a brief introduction, the news anchor (who was named DeeDee Jenkins) said she would begin her interviews with the men, as they’d already been in and out of hair and makeup. An intern approached to lead Barbie and Aurora to another room for their own round of hair and makeup, where Aurora and Barbie sat side-by-side.
