ChapterOne
April 1995 - Two Years Before Bernard Copperfield was Sent to Prison
“Darling, you’ve got to put your heart into it.” Greta Copperfield smacked the thick script across the desk of the downstairs study and glowered at Alana, her eldest daughter. “You’re the lead in the school play. All eyes will be upon you all night long. Dig deep into the emotional heart of this character. What does she feel? What are her memories? What does she think about before she falls asleep at night?”
Seventeen-year-old Alana Copperfield sat cross-legged, wrapped in her boyfriend’s sports letterman jacket. Her trim figure, full lips, and beautiful brunette locks could have been front-page ofTeen Vogue. Everyone said so, except her mother. Greta despised the beauty industry and goaded Alana to push herself beyond face-level beauty. She’d told Alana more often than she could count, “Beauty doesn’t last. You don’t learn that till it’s too late.”
“I’ll be fine, Mom,” Alana shot back, puffing out her lower lip.
“Adrenaline can only get you so far, my love.” Greta heaved a sigh and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Let’s run the lines one more time. But this time, I want you to envision yourself as heartbroken as you’ve ever been. I want you to find a memory and emulate it. Like the last time when you and Jeremy broke—”
“Okay, okay.” Alana cut her off, her heart surging with fear. She and Jeremy Farley’s numerous breakups weren’t high on her list of favorite conversation topics. “Let’s just run the lines.”
Suddenly, the wall on the righthand side of the study began to vibrate. Next came the crying shriek of Ella’s guitar as she tore her fingers over the strings. Alana rubbed her temples as Greta laughed good-naturedly. A painting on the wall fell toward the right, becoming crooked.
“It’s no use fixing that painting,” Greta joked. “Every time Ella returns to the garage for band practice, it just gets crooked again.”
Alana, suddenly obstinate and angry at herself, jumped to her feet.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Greta asked.
But before Alana could answer, she rushed through the Copperfield House, her brunette hair a dramatic flag behind her. She tugged the door open between the garage and the kitchen to reveal her youngest sister, Ella, along with three of her bandmates. Ella was a typical teenage rocker-type, with jet-black hair, smudged black eyeliner caked around her eyes, and fingerless gloves. Alana, the cheerleader and beauty queen of Nantucket High School, viewed her as a different species.
Fourteen-year-old Ella gestured to her drummer to stop playing. The song burst to a dramatic halt, the cymbals still ringing.
“Can you guys keep it down?” Alana demanded. “Opening night is literally tomorrow.”
“Opening night of what?” Ella shot back.
“Ella, you know I’m lead in the musical this year. You know this is important to me,” Alana expressed.
Ella wrinkled her nose. “Nothing is important to you, Alana. You’re only doing this because Mom and Dad think you should.”
Alana’s stomach curdled. She could feel the truth in Ella’s words, yet rebuked them. “That’s ridiculous. And it’s not like Mom and Dad respect your stupid music.”
Ella’s eyes widened as she began to strum her guitar playfully, growing louder and louder with each passing moment. Suddenly, she screeched, “One! Two! One, two, three—” and her band was off to the races again, tearing through another song.
Alana knew in her heart of hearts that Ella was incredibly talented in ways Alana could never comprehend. Beyond that, Ella had something else that Alana really didn’t. Ella didn’t care at all what anyone thought of her. She made music because she craved it. She heard melodies in her head and drove herself crazy until she could work them out on her guitar. Alana had never been driven to make art in that way. She’d simply mastered the art of doing her makeup, kissing boys, and having a good time.
Was she pathetic?
Alana tore out of the garage to discover her mother in the kitchen, flashing a knife through thick carrots. Greta’s smile was playful.
“I see that you got your sister to play even louder than before.”
Alana grabbed a carton of juice from the fridge and filled a glass. “I don’t know how I’m going to focus on my lines.”
“Why don’t you go for a walk, honey?” Greta suggested tenderly. “Back when I lived in Paris, my theater friends always took long walks through Luxembourg Gardens to clear their heads before big performances. They could shake off their ‘real’ personalities and mold themselves into the new ones they had to be.”
Alana half-rolled her eyes and sipped her tangy juice. Her mother had never let go of her life in Paris. She and Bernard had met there back in 1972 and had a whirlwind romance, one that had resulted in an accidental pregnancy and a move back to Nantucket Island, where Greta’s family lived. While Greta never overtly said she “regretted” the move to Nantucket, her stories always wove their way back to her brief days in Paris, as though a piece of her heart remained there. She’d never been back.
Alana did as she was told, though. She shoved her hands into Jeremy’s letterman jacket pockets and strutted down the beach outside their house. Spring winds howled against her ears and flashed coolly across her bare legs. Why had she gone out for the school musical? She was only a few weeks from her last day of high school forever. Most other classmates were winding down without a care in the world.
Unlike those classmates, of course, Alana Copperfield had absolutely no idea what was next for her. Alana’s friend Miranda had recently chatted with her new dorm roommate on the phone, deciding who would bring what furniture to their tiny, shared space. Another friend planned to head off to Chicago to intern for his uncle’s company. Another planned to follow Phish around the country— which wasn’t exactly a “plan” but still spoke of some urgent desire to do something with her life.
And then there was Jeremy Farley, whom Alana had pictured marrying and settling down with since their first date in early high school. Jeremy had plans of his own, all right. And Alana wasn’t entirely sure where she fit into them, especially given she had no imagination for her own future. When asked, her mind went blank.
Alana’s stomach twisted. She paused at the far end of the beach, watching a little girl, all bundled up in a Red Sox sweatshirt and an oversized pair of overalls. She dug through the sand with a bright pink plastic shovel while her mother kept watch nearby, seated on a fluttering blanket. It was almost too cold to be out like this, yet there they were: pretending the wind wasn’t like a sharp razor.