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“Me too,” Julia rasped. “Since I got back in April, I’ve felt that her mental health has improved by leaps and bounds.”
“Her past came up to bite her,” Alana whispered as her eyes found Ella’s. “Yet again.”
“I wish the Copperfields weren’t continually slaves to our pasts,” Ella muttered, her eyes to the table. “It’s always one thing after another. With each new battle, I don’t necessarily feel stronger. I just feel exhausted.”
Julia placed her hand over Ella’s on the picnic table. For a long time, the Copperfield siblings held the silence. Ella stewed in memories from 1997 of the last dinner they’d ever had as a family. Quentin had returned from Los Angeles, where he’d been cutting his teeth as an actor. Alana had visited from New York City, where she’d moved with Asher to become a model. Only Julia and Ella had been at home, lost in the chaos of their separate teenage realities.
Marcia had been there, too. She’d been a youthful, blond spitfire, and she’d cast furtive looks at Bernard that made everyone believe that her love for him extended far beyond his mentorship.
Suddenly, a man in his sixties appeared at the table, gasping for breath. He held a little plate of tacos, and he looked at Quentin with watery yet childish eyes.
“Quentin Copperfield? Is that you?” the man asked.
The mood at the table couldn’t have been worse. Tension hovered around them like a cloud. Quentin took a split second to readjust his face before he said, “It is, indeed. Just spending a bit of time with my family. I hope you enjoy the rest of the Nantucket Jubilee!”
The words were meant to end the interaction immediately, but the man didn’t take the hint.
“I just loved that news segment you did the other night on the violence of New York City in the nineties,” the man continued, rubbing his palms together. “It’s like I always tell my wife; you don’t just tell a story. You seem to paint a picture, drawing the viewer back into the folds of history.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Quentin’s voice remained stilted. He gave the stranger another nod, then waited another second more before he added, “Again, it’s wonderful to hear from my viewers.”
When the man finally headed away, Alana’s nose shivered as she said, “I’d forgotten what it feels like to have your space invaded like that.”
“I’m sure it used to happen to you and Asher all the time,” Julia confirmed.
Alana nodded sadly. It wasn’t clear if she felt nostalgic for this past or if she resented it. Perhaps she carried a bit of both.
Suddenly, Ella’s posture stiffened. The non-stop approaching fans of Quentin Copperfield had given her an idea, one that burned through the back of her skull.
“Alana, did you bring the journal back with you?”
Alana nodded, lifting her purse onto the table. “And I have the handwriting analyst’s notes. A copy of them, anyway.”
“Incredible,” Ella breathed, filling her lungs.
“What is this about?” Quentin’s question was sharp yet edged with curiosity.
Julia arched her left eyebrow and then muttered, “Show him,” to Alana, who drew the leather book out of her purse and splayed it open to show Quentin, first, the terribly long list of Bernard’s attributes, including information that could be used for blackmail. As Quentin read the list, his lips parted with shock and intrigue. By the time he reached the other names in the book— twenty-seven, all-told, all the color had drained from his cheeks.
At the perfect time, Alana flipped the brand-new questionnaire that Marcia had only just filled out from the inside of her purse. Even from where Ella sat, it was clear that the handwriting was the same; the questionnaire’s handwriting just had a little less “youthful flair” to it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Quentin muttered, eyeing the name at the top of the questionnaire. Then, his eyes burning, he met first Alana’s, then Julia’s, then Ella’s gaze. He rapped his finger against the leather binding of the book with zealous energy that didn’t seem like it belonged to Quentin at all. “You’ve got her. You know that? You’ve really got her.”
Ella’s lips quivered into a smile. “I think I have an idea. Quentin, are you up for helping us?”
Quentin set his jaw. “Let me know what I can do.”
ChapterTwenty-Two
Stephanie was initially tentative about Ella’s plan. As she shuffled around the little office at the Nantucket Film Festival’s main cinema, the Dreamland Film, Theatre, and Cultural Center, hunting for her list of film critics who planned to be at Marcia’s premier that evening, she guffawed with worry. “So many people are coming here tonight to see this film, Ella,” she said. “So many people are coming to hear Marcia Conrad speak!”
Ella’s heart crackled at the edges. She crossed and uncrossed her arms as she said, “Stephanie, the Nantucket Jubilee has been such a tremendous success. You know that?”
Stephanie stopped short, lifting her eyes to Ella’s. After a dramatic pause, she said, “It really has been wonderful, hasn’t it?”
“But the thing about events like this is that the memories fade,” Ella continued. “Unless there’s a bit of drama. The kind of drama to write home about. The kind of drama that produces multiple think pieces, blog articles, and YouTube videos. If you go through with my plan, then I can almost guarantee that the Nantucket Jubilee will be the talk of not only Nantucket but also the entire United States of America.”
Stephanie’s lips parted with surprise. As a small-town islander girl who’d hardly spent a lick of time off the island, the concept of this “entire United States” stopped her in her tracks.
