Page 60 of Nantucket Gala

How had she discovered where Francis was buried? It was all publicly listed. She’d had a French friend look into it. He’d told her exactly where to look—which row, which stone.

It was here that Francis Bianchi lay forever at rest.

Recently, it had snowed in Paris, and Francis’s stone was lined with white. Sophia bent down to trace his name with the tip of her finger. In her mind’s eye were flashing images of the day she’d met him, the day he’d asked her to run away with him, the day he’d told her he loved her, the day he’d asked her to marry him. For better or for worse, Francis was the only husband she’d ever had. And for better or for worse, he’d never divorced her. The reason for it had never been clear. Maybe it never would be.

Sophia let herself cry. Her shoulders shook and shook.

But then, just as quickly as the emotions had come, they were gone. She righted herself and exited the cemetery, getting into the same cab and asking to be taken back to the hotel. Once there, she slept for five hours, then woke up to eat the most buttery and divine croissant she’d ever had.

“Okay,” she said to nobody in her hotel room. “I’m in Paris. Now what?”

It was not difficult to figure that out. Sophia spent her days in cafés, reading and writing. She ate at wonderful restaurants and flirted with servers. She went to the many small cinemas, watching old movies with old Hollywood stars who’d died long ago. On New Year’s Eve, she celebrated with a glass of champagne in the hotel restaurant and clapped when a youngcouple got engaged two tables over. Everything was happening around her. Even her own life kept going.

It wasn’t till she’d been in Paris for two weeks that she got up the nerve to contact Francis’s daughter. Based on a bit of light snooping, she’d learned that Francesca Bianchi was a professor at the Sorbonne—the same university where Greta and Bernard had met—and that she taught history and religious studies classes. Unsurprisingly, she was beautiful. Surprisingly, she wrote back.

Sophia Bianchi and Francesca Bianchi met at a wine bar on the Left Bank. It was immediately after one of Francesca’s university classes, and she came in with a briefcase full of class papers and a look on her face that meant she was panicked and didn’t know how to feel. Sophia tried her best to smile, to make the girl feel easy in her presence, but she knew this was no small thing.

Francesca put her briefcase on the table and looked at Sophia. Sophia was speechless.

“I’m sorry,” Francesca said in perfect English. “I don’t know what to say.”

Sophia stood and put out her hand. Francesca shook it.

After a very long pause, Francesca said, “My father was not a good man. But I think sometimes he wanted to be.”

Sophia laughed abruptly. Tears welled in her eyes. “I loved him.”

“I loved him, too,” Francesca admitted. “Shall we sit?”

They did.

Francesca ordered a bottle of wine from a region near Toulouse and folded her hands under her chin. “You’re the woman my father refused to divorce.”

“And you’re the only child he ever had,” Sophia said, smiling. She felt as though she were floating above the table, looking down.

“Why did he never divorce you?” Francesca asked. “My mother tore her hair out over it. She said that woman is not a part of our lives! You left your past in America! End it! But he refused. I never understood it. Did he still love you? Is that it?”

Sophia laughed. “I doubt it. I don’t know if he ever really loved me. I don’t know what that man ever thought.”

“He thought he was a genius. That’s clear,” Francesca said. “He thought he was five steps ahead of everybody.”

Again, Sophia chuckled. “I think he felt guilty.”

Francesca’s eyes were shadowed. “Do you think he murdered that woman?”

Sophia shook her head. “He didn’t.”

She considered telling her about Dean Chatterly, about her suspicions. But the woman she saw before her was clearly reeling from the death of a father she’d never fully understood.

All we have are our memories, Sophia reminded herself. Let this young woman cherish her memories with Francis.

“Tell me,” Sophia urged. “What was it like for Francis in Paris? Who is your mother? What was your life like growing up?”

Francesca hesitated. “Do you really want to know?”

Sophia considered this. For years, she’d avoided the truth, so certain that staring at it too closely would mean her doom. But now? Now she felt she understood herself, Francis, Natalie, and everyone around her with a sense of clarity that only brought beauty to the world.

“Don’t leave out any detail,” Sophia urged Francesca. “I want to know how his story really ended.”

But when Francesca took a breath and began, Sophia realized that Francis’s story had never really finished. His daughter was an extension of his story. Sophia’s memoir was a part of it, too.

Maybe in that way everyone is immortal, she thought. Our stories lived on.