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Marcia began to speak into the microphone. “What is going on?” But midway through, someone cut her microphone. (Ella had a hunch that Stephanie had done it. She thanked her lucky stars for that.)
“My name is Quentin Copperfield. Perhaps you recognize me from my nightly news segment on Channel Four, where I’ve been delivering both local and national news for the better part of twenty years. Tonight, I’m streaming directly to the Nantucket Dreamland Theatre, which is a cinema that is very near and dear to my heart. You see, I was born and raised on Nantucket Island, where I was a part of the well-respected and much-adored Copperfield Family. As many of you— and certainly everyone in the Nantucket community— know, my father, renowned novelist Bernard Copperfield, was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison for stealing, swindling, and conning millions of dollars from his dearest friends and literary colleagues. Just last spring, he was released— but he did not return to a world he’d once known. In fact, since his sentencing, myself and my three siblings have held the belief that he was very much guilty of his crimes. It seemed clear to us. Until now.”
On stage, Marcia swung her arms wildly over her head and screeched without the microphone’s help. “Someone! Turn this off! What is going on!”
But the thing of it was, Quentin Copperfield was one of the most respected TV journalists across the United States. When Quentin started to speak, the world shut up to listen. This was no different. They were eating out of his hand.
On the screen, Quentin began to outline everything that Alana, Julia, and Ella had discovered since their return to The Copperfield House that spring. He discussed Alana’s painting, Marcia’s purchasing of Ella and Will’s music for her film, and the emails that Bernard had supposedly sent to the friends he’d conned, which Marcia had seemingly echoed in a book she’d published much later.
“But on top of all of this evidence,” Quentin continued. “The Copperfield Family discovered a leather-bound journal that seems to have been instrumental in manipulating and stealing from up to twenty-seven people.” On-screen, Quentin procured the journal and opened it to read. “For example, midway through the journal, the owner has created a list for one Gregory Puck, a well-respected writer and philanthropist on the Island of Nantucket, and a man who my father cared for deeply.
“The journal says this. ‘Remember, Gregory Puck, LOVES when you flirt with him in front of his wife. His favorite things to talk about include his literary achievements and the many girls he dated back in college.’” Quentin lifted his eyes back to the camera; his face tightened angrily. He then went on to read tidbits of lists from the rest of the journal, creating a portrait of a person who was borderline sociopathic.
“Is Marcia still here?” Ella whispered, eyeing the stage.
“I think she ran out!” Julia cried.
Ella’s heart banged around in her chest. “I guess I wouldn’t have expected her to hang around.”
“There are so many journalists here,” Julia murmured. “Marcia’s name will be smeared through the mud by Monday morning.”
“Gosh, I hope so,” Ella breathed.
Quentin’s video finished soon after, with Quentin saying, “Thank you for your attention this evening. This matter is of utmost importance not only to my family and I but also to the literary and film communities. If we allow such a person to lie and scheme her way to the top, then what else are we, as a society, capable of? We must protect ourselves from such attacks— and we must honor a great man who was terribly wronged. This is Quentin Copperfield with the nightly news. Thank you, and goodnight.”
“You killed it, Quentin,” Alana muttered.
As the lights turned back on below, the Nantucket Dreamland Theatre roared with gossip. Several people stood and began to take as many photographs of Stephanie, the stage, and the newly illuminated crowd as they could. Marcia was nowhere to be found, although many people howled, “Where is Marcia? We need a comment from Ms. Conrad herself!”
Ella continued to peer down at the cinema from on high, her ears roaring with the success of what they’d done. There was no telling what would happen next, yet it seemed clear that they were well on their way to righting the wrongs that had occurred more than twenty-five years ago.
ChapterTwenty-Three
That night at nine o’clock sharp, only one hour after Quentin Copperfield’s news segment was broadcasted to a room of only a couple of hundred viewers, a film critic named Thomas Winston posted his own video of Quentin’s speech, along with his own take on the matter. To finish, Thomas said, “It’s this film critic and journalist’s opinion that another set of eyes should be drawn to the 1997 issue of Massachusetts versus Bernard Copperfield. Perhaps justice was not served correctly. And perhaps we now have reason to believe that feminist film legend Marcia Conrad is to blame for millions of dollars in stolen funds.”
“This is fantastic,” Alana muttered as the Copperfield children watched the segment, which was well on its way to trending on social media. “How many followers does he have?”
“Almost a million,” Julia said, her eyes flashing. “Gosh, journalists move quickly these days.”
“We have to,” Quentin affirmed, pouring himself a glass of wine as he shook his head in disbelief. “If this thing has the traction that I believe it to have, it should reach the entire United States by Monday.”
The Copperfield children had returned to The Copperfield House immediately after the failed premier at the Nantucket Film Festival, brimming with expectation for what was to come. As a contrast, The Copperfield House was very quiet and dark, proof that both Greta and Bernard no longer lived in the world they’d once loved. It was up to the Copperfield children to bring them back.
“We should show this to Dad,” Ella said softly. “He needs to know that the world’s opinion of him is turning on a dime.”
Julia’s eyes traced toward the circular staircase that led up to his side of the house. “I’m sure he’s still awake. Let me go see if he’ll come downstairs for a little while.”
It was best that Julia went to retrieve him, as they’d built up a more powerful father-daughter relationship since her return in April. This, Ella knew, was due to the fact that Julia had helped edit and restructure Bernard’s book, which was a very intimate process that had united their hearts and minds. In any case, if anyone would convince him to come downstairs, it was Julia.
Next came the sounds of bombs. Ella leaped from her chair in surprise, watching out the window as the first of what would be a forty-five-minute firework show exploded across the water in a flurry of reds, blues, pinks, and yellows. Ella pressed her hand over her heart, enthralled with their beauty and their danger. Stephanie had said of this moment, “I need a ‘wow’ factor that shows the people of Nantucket just how important this Jubilee really is.”
Alana suggested that they head out to the back porch so that they could see the fireworks display better. Quentin collected the bottle of wine while Alana and Ella grabbed blankets and sweaters from a little trunk in the living room. A moment later, they were bundled up on the back porch, watching the display. It was just as though they were children, sitting out on the back porch of The Copperfield House while their mother made them hot chocolate in the kitchen. How Ella yearned for those long-lost years. How strange to know that, in actuality, that family hadn’t been her real family— and yet it was the only one she’d ever known.
“Quite a show out there.” Bernard’s voice boomed across the porch and echoed out across the beach. Ella whipped around to see him in his full glory: broad shoulders, scraggly beard, and somber eyes that seemed to carry the weight of all the horrible things he’d seen since 1997. Julia stepped in behind Bernard, looking anxious. Maybe she’d had to beg him to come.
“Dad.” Alana rushed to her feet, allowing the blanket to fall. “We have something to show you.”
Bernard sat between Alana and Ella while Julia and Quentin peered at them anxiously from the other side of the porch table. Out across the water, the fireworks continued to explode, producing a strange and volatile soundtrack. Alana played the video that they’d recorded of Quentin, along with the analysis from the famous film critic with nearly a million social media followers.
