Page 66 of Nantucket Dreams
Afterward, Aisha instructed each of them to stand and discuss the purpose behind their application. As the others discussed their newly founded literary magazines, their ideas for sculptures along the boardwalk, their documentary about sailing, or their belief that the grant money should help them go to New York City’s iconic art school, Alana tore at the edges of the paper she’d prepared, terrified.
When they did finally come to her, Alana stood and greeted them timidly.
“Hi. My name is Alana Copperfield.”
She half-expected everyone in the room to begin whispering. She was a Copperfield, after all— the most-hated family of all of Nantucket Island. But everyone remained silent, respectful.
Alana swallowed. “During the first era of my life, half of my family home was an artist residency. For every breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I was surrounded by artists, writers, filmmakers, and musicians, all eager to create, to converse about their passions, and to further their hearts and minds. Growing up in that house transformed me. And with this grant money, I’d like to uphold my family’s vision, yet pour that vision out to the teenage girls of Nantucket Island with the creation of a thespian troupe. There is something so transformative about getting on stage, abandoning yourself and your own reckless thoughts and becoming someone else. I recently staged a production for the Fourth of July Festival, and I saw firsthand the benefits it brought to the young women involved. Thank you.”
Alana’s legs shivered beneath her. She fell to the plastic chair and blinked toward the wall as the woman in charge discussed the potential for Alana’s grant to go through.
“You have a sound idea, Alana,” the woman said with a smile. “I just have a few ideas for your process.”
Alana jotted down diligent notes, nodding along as the woman gave her instructions and tips of the trade. Afterward, bleary-eyed, Alana thanked her, hardly able to believe that she was already well on her way to achieving this newfound dream.
After the meeting concluded for the evening, Alana wandered through the bookstore, greeting artists and writers who also wanted grants and nodding along as they continued to discuss their projects. It was often difficult to differentiate one project from the next, but Alana played along, grateful to feel included in a community. It had been a long time since she’d even heard from Bianca, her supposedly only friend in Paris. It was nearly time to forge new bonds. It was nearly time to fully commit to Nantucket, whatever that meant.
A glass of sparkling juice in hand, Alana began to scan the bookshelves, noting the ones she was pretty sure Julia had published with her once-successful publishing house. It was difficult to imagine Julia at such a high-powered job on one of the floors of the tallest building in Chicago. Alana ached with sorrow that she’d missed out on that version of Julia. There was just so much time they’d never get back.
Suddenly, Alana found herself in front of the Cs in the fiction section. Her head cocked, Alana scanned through the Cs to discover that, yes, the bookstore had three of Marcia Conrad’s books. Beneath one of them, a bookstore employee had written:
MARCIA CONRAD writes an iconic story set on Nantucket Island, where she spent nearly one year in her twenties.
Alana hadn’t known that one of Marcia’s books had taken place on the island. She leafed it out and read the back, which described a story about a woman working on the Nantucket docks who falls in love with a sailor— with a caveat. She begins to mold him into the film she’s creating, soon losing track of fact or fiction and ultimately drowning him at the end of the book.
The story was morbid, to say the least. Alana shook her head as she finished reading.This woman looks at the painting of my face every day of her life.
Alana flipped through the book, reading through the dialogue and the description. Marcia was truly an inspired writer, someone who probably deserved all of the accolades she’d received.
During her flip-through, something on page seventy-seven made her pause. Alana arched her brow as she read through a dialogue scene between the main character, Valerie, and the sailor, her “greatest love.”
Valerie lifted her fists to Jefferson’s chest and pounded. Her soul’s volatility called for violence, for demands. On high, a storm brewed across the Nantucket Sound; lightning splintered the dark blue sky.
“I just want to push boundaries, Jeff,” Valerie cried. “I want to...” She stuttered, searching for the right words before continuing, “to follow the proverbial rabbit hole to its inevitable conclusion. My heart guides me there, Jeff. You have to follow it with me.”
Alana felt she’d been stabbed. She read and reread the words, aghast. After a full ten minutes, she rushed to the front desk and purchased the book.
“It’s so good,” the woman behind the counter moaned. “She weaves a gorgeous story. We had her in here a few months back to sign books. Unfortunately, we ran out of signed copies.”
“That’s too bad,” Alana chirped before ducking out into the dark July night.
Alana’s thoughts raced, bouncing from ear to ear as she traced the route back to The Copperfield House. She was grateful to find it mostly dark, with only lights from Bernard’s upstairs study and Greta’s upstairs bedroom still burning. She tip-toed through the living room and hunkered down in front of the court files again, piecing through them carefully to find the emails from Bernard to Margaret, Gregory Puck, and others.
Just as she’d suspected, Bernard’s words had been:
Being me (and don’t you know that, given our history!), I always want to push boundaries, to follow the proverbial rabbit hole down one of my artist’s thought processes.
And Marcia’s book, written about seventeen years after the trial that had put Bernard Copperfield away for twenty-five years, said:
“I just want to push boundaries, Jeff,” Valerie cried. “I want to...” She stuttered, searching for the right words before continuing, “to follow the proverbial rabbit hole to its inevitable conclusion. My heart guides me there, Jeff. You have to follow it with me.”
Alana leaned back, her heart thumping as she read and reread the words.
She had no idea if this was proof of anything.
But given the circumstances, it was too much of a coincidence.
“I told you before, Marcia,” Alana whispered to herself, there in the shadows of the study as the Atlantic winds howled outside. “This means war.”