Page 2 of Nantucket Reflections
The following morning, Julia woke up at the crack of dawn to get the ball rolling on the big day. She launched herself on a three-mile run and careened into the shower to scrub herself up before putting on a pair of slacks and a T-shirt and heading immediately to the venue to meet with Tina, the event planner, and go over the plan for the day ahead. Guests planned to arrive by four thirty, while CAT herself wouldn’t be introduced until seven o’clock.
Tina, the event planner, lived on Nantucket and was best friends with Hilary Salt, another local whose daughter was the celebrity actress Ingrid Helin. Miraculously, due to this connection, Ingrid had agreed to do the opening reading for CAT’s memoir, after which CAT herself would be introduced as the woman behind the artwork, the woman behind the captivating story. One of the most famous women in the world! Other friends of Ingrid’s were also going to attend, including celebrities excited about CAT’s contribution to the art world and Julia’s contribution to the publishing world. Julia knew that many journalists, both literary and artistic, as well as celebrity-obsessed, would be attending the party, which meant that nothing about the party would go unreported, especially anything bad that might happen.
Julia, Tina, Ella and Alana, who’d agreed to help out pre-party, and Tina’s staff members threw themselves through the morning rituals, paused for a brief lunch of salad and grilled salmon, and continued till three or so, when they broke to put on their evening dresses, drink a glass of wine, and wait for the first guests to appear. The venue itself, a hotel called Our Lady, had an expansive green lawn that bordered a beautiful white-sanded beach. Already, as they milled around in their dresses, photojournalists walked up to take pictures of Julia, the new arrival, Charlie, Alana and her husband Jeremy, and Will and Ella, the married partners in crime of their famous indie band. As the minutes ticked by, others in the Copperfield family arrived, including Bernard and Greta, who looked perfect: Bernard in his tuxedo and Greta in her sleek dark blue gown, her hair in a silvery-gray roll on her head.
In one corner of the party was an exhibition dedicated to CAT’s work over the previous ten years: photographs of her enormous murals and write-ups on how those murals had changed political spheres and the minds of politicians. Another area of the exhibition would be revealed only after CAT’s real name was said aloud to the public. Julia herself had seen to the making of that exhibition, ensuring that it linked up perfectly with what she’d read and edited herself ofA Journey into the Night. CAT had had a stupendous and inspiring life. It was time for the public to see and understand her. It was time for CAT to fully reckon with the fame she’d built for herself.
At six o’clock, Julia, Ella, Alana, and the event planner, Tina, went backstage to greet Ingrid Helin and Hilary Salt and prepare for the big reading. Ingrid, whose face was iconic and glowing, her hair bright blond, the details of her visage utterly Swedish, like her grandmother, had memorized the first chapter of CAT’s memoir and nothing else. She’d been sworn to secrecy. When Julia shook her hand, Ingrid cried out, “This is one of the most incredible stories I’ve ever read! I can’t wait to dig into the rest. Thank you for letting me be a part of it.”
“It’s you who’s making this party extra special,” Julia told her.
Ingrid waved her hand, apparently accustomed to hearing this about herself. “Can I meet her before everyone else?” she asked. “I know it’s a lot to ask. But I assume she’s somewhere around here? And I’m just dying to look her in the eye and thank her for her bravery.”
Julia laughed. “I haven’t even met her yet.”
Ingrid gasped. “You’re kidding. What about this book? What about the edits?”
“We did everything over email,” Julia said. “It’s been a big process for CAT. She’s been living in private for years and years.”
“But you know her story,” Ingrid said delicately.
“She’s one of the only people who knows,” Ella said proudly, her eyes shining.
Julia blushed.
“Well,” Ingrid said, clearly disappointed, “you’re lucky. Isn’t it remarkable that she knew to trust you? I wonder why she went to your publishing house rather than somewhere else.”
“Somewhere bigger,” Alana agreed. “I wondered the same thing.”
“Well, there won’t be a bigger publishing house than Julia’s after this,” Ella interjected, giving Alana a pointed look.
“That’s true,” Ingrid said, laughing and rubbing her hands together.
It was nearly time for Ingrid to go on stage and perform her reading. When she stood to go on stage, Julia was surprised to find that she was one of the tallest women she’d ever seen, sturdy and modelesque, and too beautiful to look at up close. It was like looking at the sun. Tina came and said, “I’ll guide you up there!” They disappeared through the side of the stage, leaving Julia, her sisters, and Hilary Salt to hurry out to the crowd to watch. Julia couldn’t breathe. She was too excited, too anxious.
Soon, she felt soft hands at her back and turned to find Charlie, smiling. Her heartbeat slowed. This was the man she loved, the very first man of her dreams, her high school sweetheart and second husband. Under her breath, she said, “Here goes nothing, right?”
“It’s going to be great,” he told her, kissing her nose.
With her shoulders swept back, Ingrid stepped out on stage. The crowd erupted, applauding wildly until she reached the center. Julia held Charlie’s hand and tried to calm her breathing down. The clapping quieted, and Ingrid prepared to say the first sentence of the memoir, which went like this: All my life, I have been a mystery to myself. Julia thought it was a provocative and beautiful line. When she’d first read it, tears had sprung to her eyes.
But as Ingrid drew a beautiful breath and prepared, someone from the crowd hollered out, “Wait! Wait just a second!”
Julia couldn’t believe her ears. With everyone else, she whipped around, glaring at the perpetrator. It was a journalist, a guy in his late twenties, waving his hand.
“She’s a fraud!” he cried out. “It’s all made up!”
Julia’s heart leaped into her throat. She turned, searching for the guards they’d hired for the event. Sure enough, three of them paraded through the journalist area. But they couldn’t grab him before he cried out, “The book is all made up! I have it on good authority! None of it is true! Is it, Ingrid Helin? Is it all true? Do you know? What do you think?”
In response, the crowd went wild. Ingrid seemed unsure of what to do. She dropped her arms to her side and waited, unaccustomed to not having every eye on her. But everyone was more fascinated with the so-called journalist, a journalist who’d spewed lies, being led out of the crowd and toward the back. Julia thought she was going to faint.
“It’s just some guy,” Charlie murmured into her ear, his eyes only slightly panicked. “These things happen. It won’t ruin the rest of your night.”
Tina appeared on stage, her arms raised as she tried to draw the attention of the crowd back to Ingrid Helin. The journalist was gone, and it was up to Tina to get their schedule back on track. It took nearly three minutes, a time during which Ingrid left the stage, so angry to have lost their attention. During that time, Julia didn’t know what to do. She hovered, remaining where she was, choosing to trust Tina, the expert. When Ingrid finally came back out onstage, her smile was sincere and genuine, but Julia was pretty sure she was acting.
“That was quite an introduction, wasn’t it?” Ingrid said when she had the stage again. “Conspiracy theories run rampant, don’t they? Especially when it comes to the work of a wonderful and truly singular and talented artist. Goodness me. Women can never be appreciated for what they’ve done, can they?”
The crowd murmured their empathy. Julia closed her eyes, willing time to press forward. Finally, Ingrid began the memoir that had consumed Julia’s time, effort, and mind for the past year-plus, a memoir that began, “All my life I have been a mystery to myself.”
