The copperfield house, p.1
The Copperfield House, page 1
The Copperfield House
By
Katie Winters
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © 2022 by Katie Winters
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Katie Winters holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
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Chapter One
October 17, 1996
IT WAS THE NIGHT BEFORE everything at The Copperfield House changed forever.
Julia would remember it for the rest of her life.
The Copperfield House, located between Dionis Beach and Jettis Beach on the northern coastline of Nantucket Island, was a feast for the senses. The old Victorian home was built in 1877. It was purchased by the Copperfields in 1974, right after their return from Paris, directly before the birth of their first child.
Over the next few years, Bernard and Greta Copperfield filled the home with promise, love, and the glorious aroma of Greta’s French cooking. They were often seen walking along the waterline as the waves frothed toward them, catching the last of the afternoon light.
It was a dream of a place. Maybe it was too good to be true.
“Let’s fill it with art, writing, children, music, and stories,” Greta had told Bernard early on, which had led them to establish The Copperfield House as an artist residency. Slowly but surely, artists from all fields and backgrounds filled the rooms of one-half of The Copperfield House, where they thrived in the creative environment that Nantucket Island offered, swapping stories at the dinner table and speaking intellectually with Bernard and Greta.
A filmmaker who’d spent time at The Copperfield House in the late eighties had made a documentary about the old house. He’d interview artists and writers who’d spent time there, illustrating the space as a “haven for creatives in a world of money-money-money.”
The other half of The Copperfield House was reserved only for the Copperfield family— where Bernard and Greta could nurture their children, dipping in and out of the creative world as they pleased. Greta had never thought of herself only as just an “artist” or just a “mother.” Her heart told her she could play both roles and do them well.
Bernard Copperfield was something of a revolutionary writer. He was renowned for his one-thousand-page masterpiece, a novel set in the future that was said to be a work of genius. Greta was a worthy writer in her own right, having published several short story collections and poems with an east-coast publisher. Bernard frequently cited Greta as his “greatest companion” and “a much better writer than me.” Greta loved him with a pure, honest, and true heart.
In October 1996, the Copperfields’ third child, Julia Copperfield, was only seventeen years old, a long-legged, whip-smart teenager with a propensity for daydreaming, growing lost in the chaos of a summer’s day, and running around with her boyfriend, Charlie Bellows. Her older brother, Quentin, was living out in Los Angeles, trying out a career as an actor, while her older sister Alana, was in New York City, modeling for small-time agencies and trying to make it big. The youngest daughter, Ella, was a bit of a mystery, but Ella liked it that way.
They were the gifted Copperfield children—the Copperfields who had it all.
ON THIS LAST NIGHT before everything changed forever, Charlie Bellows dropped Julia Copperfield off at The Copperfield House at thirty minutes past five. His dark chocolate eyes were only slits as he took in the full picture of Julia, who wore his big leather jacket and a little red dress and a pair of tights with holes in the knees.
“What’s that look for?” Julia asked him, her throat tightening.
Charlie shrugged, dropped a hand over the small of her back, and whispered in her ear so that the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up.
“You’ve got to be the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my life,” he told her.
Had Julia been older than seventeen, perhaps she’d have rolled her eyes at such a cheesy statement. But here and now, she took in the brevity of his words, closed her eyes, and kissed him deeply, her arms slung across his shoulders as the autumn wind howled around them.
Behind her, the front door of The Copperfield House screamed open. Julia and Charlie’s kiss broke as her older and only brother, Quentin, called out his greeting.
“Hey! Are you ever going to come inside to welcome your brother home?”
Julia cackled excitedly. She leaped forward, her jet-black hair in a stream behind her as she rushed toward Quentin, who was five years older than her and back for a visit from LA.
“There he is! Quentin Copperfield, the famous actor!” she cried.
Quentin had all the looks of an up-and-coming actor. His cheekbones were jagged, his jaw chiseled, his dark hair shaggy and fit for a hero. He was six-foot-three, just like their father, and his voice was deep and powerful, the kind of thing you wanted to hold onto as assurance during dark times.
Julia hugged him, then took stock of him, his California tan and large cartoonish-looking muscles. According to Alana, Julia’s elder sister, Quentin’s Los Angeles life outside of auditioning was a lot of hours at the gym and guzzling green smoothies. Apparently, this was what all the actors drank on their quest for beautiful skin, gorgeous hair, and cinched waistlines.
“Is that Julia?” Suddenly, Alana stepped out from the foyer, a knock-out beauty queen who stood five-foot-nine, with shocking green eyes and a moody pout.
“Oh my gosh!” Julia flung herself into her older sister’s arms, shivering with excitement. “I had no idea you both would be here tonight.”
“We decided to surprise Bernard and Greta,” Quintin said.
“Since when are you calling Mom and Dad by their real names?” Alana asked, her smile crooked.
“Is New York City giving you an attitude these days?” Quintin asked her. “You know what LA people think of NYC people...”
Alana stuck out her tongue. With her face scrunched and her tongue flailing, she looked a lot more like the sister Julia remembered from their Nantucket days than the swanky model working her way up the food chain in the United States’ most cutthroat city.
“You coming in, Charles?” Alana called over Julia’s head teasingly. “Mom’s made yet another feast.”
Julia twisted around to spot Charlie, gangly and still tan from the summertime, his dark blonde hair scraggly from the strong autumn winds. He hated being called Charles. Everyone knew that. Her heart surged with love for him.
“Come on, Charles!” Quentin called.
“I gotta get back home,” Charlie returned, drawing his thumb back behind him to point in the direction of his place. “But Julia, I’ll pick you up for school tomorrow?”
“She’ll be waiting for you!” Alana cooed playfully as she drew her arm over Julia’s shoulder and tugged her in.
“Give her a break.” Greta Copperfield stood in the foyer with a spatula lifted in the air and a gorgeous smile plastered from ear to ear. “Nobody teased you about your high school boyfriends, Alana.”
“That’s such a lie. Quentin always made fun of me,” Alana shot back.
“Not that you could stick to any one boyfriend for long,” Quentin teased. “You made those high school boys crazy.”
“And then you abandoned them for that hot-shot artist,” Julia jumped in, finding her voice with her older siblings.
Alana’s cheeks burned red. She raised a hand, ruffling her textured hair with outstretched fingers.
“How is our Asher these days?” Greta asked, tilting her head. “He was one of the most promising painters The Copperfield House had ever seen.”
“I tried to get him to come back with me,” Alana explained timidly. “But it’s difficult to tear him from his work.”
“Once an artist finds their flow, it’s important to stay there.” Bernard Copperfield spoke this wisdom from the circular staircase just right of the foyer, where he stood in a tweed suit, his hands pressed against his hips as he surveyed his wife and three of his four children.
Alana, Quentin, Julia, and Greta beamed up at him, the renowned novelist, the sturdy father, the loyal husband, the intellectual. They loved him to pieces. At forty-five years old, he’d retained his handsome looks ye
“Dad!” Alana rushed forward to hug him, closing her eyes as she bent her forehead against his shoulder.
“You should have told me you’d arrived,” Bernard said.
“We didn’t want to bother you,” Quentin offered. “Mom says you’re working on a brand-new project.”
“When he finds the time, that is,” Greta said. “The artists and writers in the residency always want to bend his ear.”
“It’s part of the reason they come to The Copperfield House in the first place,” Bernard added with a shrug. “They want conversation and communion and guidance.”
Alana, Quentin, Greta, Julia, and Bernard headed to the kitchen, where Greta continued to bustle around, preparing a French-inspired feast for the night ahead. There were a number of reasons to celebrate. First off, Quentin and Alana had returned home for the first time since they’d moved to the big cities on either coast. Secondly, one of the writers-in-residence, who’d resided at The Copperfield House since January of 1996, had just signed an agreement with a Los Angeles production company. She planned to move out west within the month to start work on her first film.
This particular writer-in-residence, Marcia Conrad, was a twenty-five-year-old Tufts University graduate with sun-kissed locks, luscious lips, skillfully-drawn eyeliner, and a sharp writer’s voice. When Bernard had first accepted Marcia as a writer-in-residence, he’d told the rest of the Copperfields that he felt Marcia would “really be something one day.”
As the Copperfields chatted and snacked in the kitchen, Marcia appeared in the doorway dressed in a black turtleneck and baggy blue jeans. She greeted the rest of the Copperfields warmly and then cried, “Greta! I told you not to go all-out for tonight’s dinner.”
“Come now, Marcia,” Greta returned as she stirred through a large pot of potatoes au gratin. “You’ve worked hard the past ten months. Now that you’re about to leave the nest, we have to send you off with a proper meal. We don’t want you forgetting all about us once you jet off to Los Angeles.”
“I told you to look me up when you get there,” Quentin affirmed, a celery stick lifted toward his lips. “I can introduce you to some cool people. Los Angeles parties make you realize just how small Nantucket is.”
Marcia blushed timidly. “I don’t know if I have it in me to fit in with your cool Los Angeles types, Quentin.”
“She’s like me, Quentin,” Bernard said good-naturedly. “More willing to stay inside with a good book on a Friday evening than stay out all night with strangers.”
“You say that now,” Greta returned. “But the Bernard Copperfield I met back in Paris in the seventies was more than willing to stay out all night and into the next morning, given the chance and enough cash in his pockets.”
Bernard laughed, scrunching his eyes closed, so that little wrinkles inched toward his hairline. Greta stood on her tippy toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. Quentin, Alana, and Julia rolled their eyes instinctively. They’d always been privy to the enormous amount of love their parents still had for one another, even after all these years.
“Ah! Before I forget,” Marcia said suddenly, rubbing her palms together mischievously. “Julia, remember that poem you showed me the other day?”
Julia’s eyes widened with surprise as she cursed inwardly. Hadn’t she told Marcia she wanted to keep her writing to herself? Hadn’t she told her that she wanted to keep her parents out of it for once?
“A poem?” Bernard asked. His eyes widened, then moved toward his third child excitedly. “Julia, I thought you’d given up writing years ago.”
“She hasn’t,” Marcia affirmed. “And she’s so good, Bernard. Maybe even as good as you.”
All eyes were suddenly upon Julia. Julia twirled the black strands of her hair into a tight coil around her finger. Marcia gave her a coaxing smile.
“I thought you could read for us tonight after dinner,” Marcia continued. “I plan to do a little reading of my script, and a few of the other writers here at The Copperfield House have agreed to read portions of their works in progress. It would be a treat to have another generation of Copperfield writers read during my going-away party.”
“Julia, you really should. You know that if you never share your work with the world, it’s almost like it never existed,” Bernard informed her, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
“You’re just nosy, Daddy,” Alana told him playfully. “If Julia wants to keep her work to herself, that’s her business.”
“I’ll do it,” Julia offered suddenly, her voice quivering and unsure.
“Apparently, Julia’s a Copperfield, after all...” Quentin teased. “The rest of us are so hungry for attention all the time.”
“Don’t tease your sister,” Greta snapped a kitchen towel in Quentin’s direction. “And get out to the dining room to set the table. There’s thirteen of us for dinner tonight.”
“Lucky number thirteen,” Quentin groaned, tugging Alana to grab the fine china from the armoire. They would use their best set tonight.
Bernard leaned tenderly toward Julia, his brown eyes soft and coaxing. “Julia, why didn’t you tell me that you were hard at work on your poetry again?”
Julia could have given her father fifteen different answers.
She could have told him she resented that everyone “expected” her to be a writer, artist, actor, or musician because she was a Copperfield.
She could have told him she’d felt she wasn’t half as good as her genes should have allowed.
She could have told him she wasn’t sure of herself or her voice or the direction her poems had taken her.
But instead, she shrugged and answered, “Don’t you ever like to keep a secret? All for yourself?”
Bernard’s smile was crooked and knowing. For years afterward, Julia remembered this smile, marveled at it and wondered if this was some sort of clue, proof that Bernard Copperfield, who was beloved across Nantucket Island, was really up to no good. But at this moment, Julia felt only her father’s love— and drummed up the courage to recite her poem to the Copperfield family and the others at The Copperfield House. Perhaps this would be a crowning moment, proof that she wasn’t half-bad at the whole poetry thing. Perhaps this would give her the confidence to keep going.
WHEN GRETA WANTED TO demonstrate her love for Bernard, she’d pore over her old French recipe books to remind him of their lost days in Paris. Armed with her love and endless creativity, she cooked up mouth-watering and inventive French-inspired five-course meals, such as fig and goat cheese tarts, duck breasts with cherry sauce, smoked salmon canapes, and thick layered chocolate mousses or cheesecakes. In the artist residency pamphlets, The Copperfield House was cited for its numerous benefits for creativity, “The lady of the house cooks fantastic French-inspired meals. I gained ten pounds in my three-month stay, but I don’t regret a thing,” one ex-resident had written.
That night was no different. Julia was overly-stuffed after course five, so much so that she stretched out her legs under the table, closed her eyes halfway, and fell into the sleepy haze of post-dinner. One of the musicians had a guitar positioned gently across his lap and strummed it delicately, gazing out the window at the gray haze of the early evening. Marcia sat alongside Bernard Copperfield, speaking about the nuances of one of the scenes in her recent manuscript. Alana bragged to Quentin about a party she and her boyfriend, Asher, had attended on the Upper West Side at an apartment that had sold for four million dollars. Julia hadn’t a clue how anyone made money in their lives; she hadn’t a clue how she would ever survive. What was life like outside The Copperfield House, anyway? This was all she’d ever known.
Ella, the youngest Copperfield, sat beside Julia, smearing her fork through her potatoes au gratin distractedly. She was the music-obsessed member of the family who had recently formed a band with a few other high school students. Julia had witnessed her all-out scream-singing at a recent garage concert, where her black fingernails had wrapped pointedly around a microphone as she’d howled out the lyrics.
“Are you okay?” Julia muttered to Ella, as she’d hardly heard her speak during dinner.
