“And we have ingredients for s’mores!” Greta announced brightly.
Greta and Bernard were seated on opposite sides of the fire. Ella wondered who, between them, had decided upon the fire.Had they spoken as they’d put the firewood together? Was there any romance between them at all? Or did they consider their long-ago marriage someone else’s memories?
As Danny explained the ins-and-outs of the football game to his grandfather, Alana, Julia, Greta, and Ella sat close and watched the fire. Julia reported who they’d seen up at the football stadium, including old friends of Greta’s, most of whom Greta hadn’t spoken to in decades. Greta reacted kindly and said, “Oh, I’ve often wondered how they’ve been. How do they look?”
To this, Julia said simply, “Not as good as you, Mom. But you know that.”
Greta cackled good-naturedly. As she slid a marshmallow onto the sharp edge of a stick, she adjusted her face, captivating her daughters. It was clear that she had something to say.
With the marshmallow at the outer edge of the flickering flame, Greta said under her breath, “I was in the study today, girls, and I came across all that silly paperwork from a court case that happened a long, long time ago.”
Julia, Alana, and Greta all sent one another worried glances. It was almost as though their mother had caught them doing something illegal as teenagers.
Greta’s face was stoic, her eyes catching the light of the fire ominously. Under her breath, she said, “We need to get past this. As a family.”
“We’re just trying…” Alana began.
But Greta spoke sharply. “Our family has been through enough, Alana. Now that Danny is here and the book has been released, the Copperfields are back on track. Let’s not dig any deeper into that mess, all right?”
Unsure of what else to do, Alana, Julia, and Ella nodded their heads, reached for marshmallows of their own, and began to toast them to perfection. All the while, however, Ella’s thoughts burned with a desire to take Marcia Conrad down. She’d come for Will, and that was inexcusable. Period.
ChapterTwelve
The Nantucket Jubilee Organizational Meeting ended at one-thirty on a Wednesday in Mid-September. As the other Nantucketers weaved out of the Nantucket Community Musical Center, their Nantucket Jubilee tasks written in their planners and their mouths ready for whatever gossip the afternoon would bring, Stephanie dropped her face into her hands and said, “Oh my gosh, Ella. I’m in over my head.”
Ella rubbed her shoulder, just as she’d done back in the old days when Stephanie had said, “I can’t drum a second longer! It hurts too much!”
“You’re killing it,” Ella said now. “The Jubilee is coming together. Plus, we have three more weeks.”
“I know!” Stephanie cried. “But when I dismissed the meeting, I realized that I’d completely forgotten to talk about selecting the venues for the films that are coming to the film festival. The film people are set to arrive several days before each viewing to make sure the cinemas are all set up. That means it’s like an immediate priority!”
Stephanie dropped her hands from her eyes to show the early signs of a breakdown.
“Okay! Okay. It’s okay.” Ella was surprised at how optimistic she sounded. “You know what I do when I get this freaked out?”
Stephanie shook her head, wrinkling her brows together in confusion.
“I go and get something to eat,” Ella said. “Why don’t we take all this work to Black-Eyed Susan’s, order some eggs and French toast, and make a to-do list?”
“Are you sure? Don’t you have enough on your plate?” Stephanie asked.
Ella did, in fact, have a number of other tasks to complete for the Nantucket Jubilee. That said, she couldn’t leave Stephanie in a lurch like this.
“I’m sure,” Ella said. “Plus, I’m starving. Don’t make me beg you to go.”
Fifteen minutes later, Stephanie and Ella sat across from each other at Black-Eyed Susan’s, watching through the window as September tourists attempted to cling to what was left of summer. They were wrapped in cardigans, eating ice cream cones, and pretending that winter wouldn’t come.
Ella and Stephanie ordered French toast, cheese grits, and the largest cups of coffee the place had. Then, Stephanie began to talk very quickly about Nantucket venues, the “pop-up” cinemas they planned to arrange for, and the multiple directors, writers, and actors they planned to host. It was all a lot, especially for such a small island.
“I told the mayor that we hoped to compete with modern festivals like the Tribeca Film Festival and Venice Film Festival,” Stephanie explained. “But I’m beginning to feel that that was naive?”
“No,” Ella assured her, although she believed that it had been naive, very much so, especially given what she knew about music festivals in general. “I don’t see why we can’t make this work.”
Stephanie began to make stacks of paperwork across the table, labeling each with a separate post-it note. “This stack includes paperwork we still need to fill out to officially rent out the venues. This stack involves insurance that we still need to secure. This stack is a list of the filmmakers, actors, and writers who plan to come, which hotels we’ve lined up for them, when and if we’ve asked them to speak to festival guests. and a list of their demands.”
Ella laughed. “Demands?”
Stephanie nodded. “I figured you would understand that. When you were on tour, didn’t each venue ask you for your demands? Like, I read that Madonna requested a brand-new toilet seat at every venue.”