Page 36 of A Nantucket Season
“But after she left, Delilah and I became pen pals. And she wrote me some truly exquisite letters. I have them here— lines and lines of poetry and philosophy and dreams she had. There are plenty, of course, about her darling daughter, Aurora. Do you want to see them?”
Aurora leaned back in her chair, overwhelmed. It felt as though memories of her mother slammed into her, torrential wave after torrential wave. But in truth, after her mother’s diagnosis, Aurora hadn’t been able to have many coherent conversations with her. She hadn’t truly known the woman behind the illness.
And the woman behind that illness existed in Greta’s letters.
Aurora’s hands shook as she reached out to take them. Even the first few lines of the letter on the top, which said simply: “My darling Greta,” filled her with shock. That was her mother’s handwriting, yet cleaner and more artistic than the scrawl it became later.
“She stopped making art after the diagnosis,” Aurora said. “She burned several canvases in the backyard and threw out all her paints. It was like she wanted to make a permanent barrier between her new life and her old one.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Greta assured her. “You’re a wonderful artist— different than she was, but no less talented.”
“We were just so alone,” Aurora breathed. “She had nobody else but me. And I couldn’t make her do art again. And I certainly couldn’t save her.”
“It shouldn’t have been all on you,” Greta said. “You were just a kid.”
“You can have a different life,” Ella said. “We can help you.”
Greta nodded.
Aurora continued to cling to the stack of letters, unsure when she would find the strength to read them.
“Aurora, this is a little embarrassing,” Ella said just before they had to go, glancing at Greta nervously, “but my wedding to Will is this Saturday. And I was wondering if you’d consider leaving the facility for one day— both to be my guest and to sing a song.”
Aurora gaped at Ella, genuinely surprised that Ella wanted to give her chance after chance, even as Aurora proved what a mess she was.
“Brooks can come, too, of course,” Ella hurried to add. “And you’ll get dinner and cake and all that jazz. I have a hunch you’ll like some of my friends from the city. They’re all musicians and artists like you. And I know they’ll just adore your songs.”
“We’ve already asked the doctor if it’s all right,” Greta said. “And he said that as long as you’re comfortable, he’s happy to allow it.”
“We’ll bring you back the next morning,” Ella assured her.
“And come pick you back up the minute you’re ready to come home,” Greta finished.
Aurora swallowed the lump in her throat. Although the medicine had left her groggy, and her heart had shattered into eight thousand pieces, images of a beautiful Nantucket wedding had begun to filter through her mind— everyone smiling across a sun-dappled garden, music playing, and Ella and Will celebrating their twenty-year romance with, finally, a certificate of marriage. Aurora had never been a guest at such an occasion.
“Say you will,” Ella said.
Aurora dropped her head. “Since I got here, I’ve missed my guitar so much. There has been a lot of sitting in rooms quietly, thinking. And maybe because it’s so quiet here, my brain has run away with itself, writing songs.”
One of those songs had been inspired by Brooks’ steadfast kindness— and the love that glowed from his eyes. It was perfect for a wedding.
“I think I might have just the song for your wedding,” Aurora finished.
Ella shook her head. “It’s a difficult thing to write a song in your head.”
“I couldn’t help it,” Aurora said. “It sort of wrote itself.”
Aurora watched as Ella and Greta floated from the visitation room, walking arm-in-arm, back to the vehicle they’d driven in together, back to the house they shared. A part of Aurora felt alienated by her own jealousy of them, but most of her felt grateful that they’d decided to shine some of their love on Aurora. It gave her the strength to go on.
ChapterTwenty
On the Friday night before the wedding, the Copperfields were idealistic enough to hold the rehearsal dinner on the manicured grounds and glowing sands outside of The Copperfield House. By four p.m.— only two hours before guests were set to arrive— the house had descended to madness.
“Ella! Where are you?” Alana called from the kitchen as Ella vacuumed the living room, still in a tank top and a pair of shorts, desperate for a shower and unsure when she would squeeze it in.
“What?” Ella snapped off the vacuum and hurried into the kitchen, where Alana and Greta hovered over the hors d’oeuvres, endless rows of crostinis with caviar, salmon dumplings, canapés, miniature kebabs, and very small burgers. Although the rest of the dinner was being catered, Greta had set about making light snacks for the “cocktail hour” of the evening— and roped Alana, Julia, Ella, and anyone else who floated into the kitchen into helping.
“The caterers just called,” Alana explained. “They’re going to be thirty minutes late.”