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“You’re not!” Julia assured him. “Really.” She chewed her lower lip. “Have I ever told you about where I live?”
“Uh? No.”
Julia told him as much as she could. She told him about Bernard and Greta’s idea to form half of their home into an artist residency, where they welcomed artists, writers, musicians, and filmmakers from around the world. There, they communed, swapped ideas, and created. Julia wanted Smith to come work on his memoir there. That way, he wouldn’t get distracted.
“I don’t know,” Smith said, sounding depleted. “I don’t have money for an artist residency.”
“We wouldn’t charge you,” Julia explained. “And you can leave any time you want.”
Smith paused for a moment. The barking subsided, and Julia imagined him roaming the frigid streets of Brooklyn, guiding Luka back home.
“Can I bring my dog?” he asked.
“The more, the merrier.”
Julia’s secretary back in Chicago arranged everything for Smith’s trip. She bought bus and ferry tickets, sent documents to Smith’s email, and pinged him with several reminder messages to ensure he left on time. Julia thanked her endlessly, reminding her, “This publishing house would have failed a long time ago without you!”
To Julia’s surprise, Smith had requested traveling to The Copperfield House on Christmas Day “to avoid crowded buses.” He was worried Luka would freak out with too many people around. Having never owned a dog herself, Julia had to take his word for it.
Smith was set to arrive at eight o’clock on Christmas evening. Julia watched the skies with rapt attention throughout the day. Violent-looking gray and black clouds simmered overhead, spitting so much snow on the island that the announcer on Greta’s kitchen radio warned the ferries might close down. Julia winced.
“I don’t know what we’ll do if Smith can’t make it,” she said.
“It’ll work out,” Greta assured her, smearing a rag over the kitchen counter and giving Julia a soft smile.
In the living room, the entire Copperfield clan was gathered around the Christmas tree as a fire blared in the fireplace, crackling and popping against the stones. Bernard was at the baby grand piano, playing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” quietly as the family sipped wine, exchanged stories, or read quietly. Julia’s heart filled at the sight of so many people she loved in one place.
Her son, Henry, appeared at the bottom of the staircase, smiling abashedly. He’d been on the phone with his father, Jackson, who was back in Beijing, working as a traveling newscaster. It surprised everyone that Julia and Jackson were on good terms these days. Jackson even sent her a “congratulations” card after she and Charlie had officially gotten engaged.
Julia thought she should have always been with Charlie. But Jackson had given her children. They’d built and shared an entire life together for decades. She would never forget it.
Charlie was seated at the far end of the couch next to his two daughters, both of whom Julia had gotten to know well since she and Charlie had rekindled their relationship a year and a half ago. It bruised her heart to think about their mother, who’d died. Julia would never fill the hole she’d left behind.
“Have you heard from Smith?” Charlie caught her eye.
“I’m worried,” Julia admitted, palming the back of her neck. “The snow’s picking up, and he isn’t responding to my texts.”
Anna sat on the plush green chair near the window. Her emerald gown highlighted her baby bump beautifully, and her hair cascaded down her shoulders and back. The look on her face was just the same as it always was—dreamy, edged with sorrow. Julia still couldn’t believe that Anna had gone through so much by the age of twenty-four. She’d made up her mind to protect her. But Julia knew what Anna really needed was love. And Dean had passed away, taking her love with him.
For Christmas, everyone had given Anna even more baby gifts. Julia knew that was what Anna wanted. She wanted preparation for the next few months of her life. But Julia couldn’t help but remember the little girl she’d raised, who’d been given books and dolls and colored pencils. She’d once been allowed to dream only for herself.
“Let’s go down and pick him up,” Charlie said.
“I don’t want to interrupt your Christmas,” Julia offered. “I don’t mind going alone.”
“You aren’t going by yourself. Not on Christmas,” Charlie said. “The girls want to head home anyway. Don’t they?”
Charlie, Julia, and Charlie’s girls bundled up for the snowy evening and piled into Charlie’s truck. The radio played “Jingle Bells,” but a sadder, slower version than the childish, jangly version. It tugged at Julia’s heartstrings.
After they dropped Charlie’s daughters off at the home where he and his wife had raised them, Charlie drove slowly through the snowstorm toward the harbor. Julia clenched her fists, her eyes on the inky water as they approached. A single ferry grew closer and closer, becoming a large, glowing object on the black water.
“I can’t wait to meet your latest genius,” Charlie teased as he cut the engine.
Julia chuckled into her hands. “You think I’m crazy, putting all my hope into a twenty-six-year-old memoirist?”
Charlie placed his hand around Julia’s head and gazed into her eyes. “I’ve never thought you were crazy,” he said.
“Hold your judgment till after he gets here.” Julia chuckled.
