This title is printed to order. This book may have been self-published. If so, we cannot guarantee the quality of the content. In the main most books will have gone through the editing process however some may not. We therefore suggest that you be aware of this before ordering this book. If in doubt check either the author or publisher’s details as we are unable to accept any returns unless they are faulty. Please contact us if you have any questions.
Hollywood's Nantucket Gala. A mysterious death. A screenwriter whose secrets just might point to the truth -- if only she'll share them.
What really happened that night?
It was the summer of 1985 when an up-and-coming actress lost her life at The Nantucket Gala.
In attendance that night were Greta and Bernard Copperfield, a famous director named Francis Bianchi, his wife, and a rising actress set to star in Francis' next film: Natalie Masterson.
But Natalie never starred in Francis' production. She left Nantucket in a body bag.
Rumors circulated that Francis was the one who killed Natalie. But why would he take out his rising star? For some, it didn't add up.
But that night, Francis left the United States for Paris and never returned. Supposedly, there wasn't enough evidence to drag him back.
Time went on. Until now.
Henry Crawford is the grandson of Greta and Bernard Copperfield and a wanna-be screenwriter eager to prove himself in Hollywood. Like many others his age, his problems are numerous. He's broke, unsuccessful, and incredibly lonely -- until his Grandmother Greta asks that he meet the sophisticated hermit, Sophia Bianchi. She's an old friend, living not far from him.
Imagine Henry's surprise that Greta's "old friend" is the wife of his favorite American director, Francis Bianchi.
But Sophia tells him things about Francis that make him question his allegiance to the filmmaker --- and what really happened that night at The Nantucket Gala.
As Henry and Sophia fight for meaning in their creative endeavors and their unlikely friendship, they're forced to reckon with the facts of that night forty years ago, and ask themselves pertinent questions: is a good story always true? Or should you fudge the facts a little to make it sing?
