Page 25 of Nantucket Reflections
Barbara grinned wider and kept up the tour for a little while longer, until she led Julia and Charlie to a collection of paintings done by Lucia herself. The paintings depicted the Italian coastline, including the Amalfi Coast, its gorgeous buildings perched on the cliffs, and the nearby beaches. Just like the server had said, they looked like every other painting Julia had seen for sale around Positano. She took a breath. From the intensity in the room and the way Barbara was now looking at them, it was clear that she wanted them to buy one of the paintings. Julia leafed through her wallet to draw out the requisite cash of eighty euros each. It was too much, given that they were prints. And they were prints of subpar paintings, at that. But she wanted something that belonged to Lucia, because she wanted Gregor to analyze it. The only way forward was to debunk Lucia and perhaps remain at peace with never finding CAT.
As Julia paid, she managed to snap another few shots of the other prints of Lucia’s paintings, all lined up in a row. Too anxious to get the eighty euros into her wallet, Barbara didn’t notice. She wrapped up the print in dark brown paper and handed it over. With her hands clasped, she raised her chin and said in Italian, “Lucia will surely be home soon. You should stay in Positano. I’ll tell you when she comes.”
Julia’s heart lurched. Was Lucia off the island and perhaps headed home to Italy? Did her mother know something that the Nantucket cops didn’t?
Unable to resist, Julia spoke into her phone, “Does your daughter have any friends from Eastern Europe?”
At this, Barbara’s face darkened. She muttered in a way that didn’t allow the phone to pick up what she was saying, then switched her face to a sunnier smile, almost as though she wanted to trick Julia into thinking she hadn’t said it. It gave Julia pause. Was Barbara hiding something? Did she know about the Eastern European men? Did she not approve of them?
“I didn’t understand that,” Julia told her. “Can you repeat yourself?”
But Barbara was already ushering them out the door, drawing them back into the startlingly warm late afternoon. Sweat dripped down Julia’s back and dampened the waist of her pants. In Italian, her mother continued to ramble, as though she were putting on a play and it was time for her character to leave the stage.
Just before Barbara slammed the door behind them, she called out in English, “She is brilliant.” Her eyes echoed her sentiment. She wanted to believe that Lucia was everything Lucia claimed to be. She needed to. Maybe Barbara clung to the prints and her own loving feelings toward her daughter because Lucia refused to come home anymore. Or what if someone was keeping her from coming home?
“When will she be back?” Charlie piped up, asking a question Julia should have remembered to.
“Soon!” Barbara said, waving her hand to suggest they move farther from the house, farther away. “Soon!”
But there was so much emptiness in what she said.
As Julia and Charlie left the stucco house and snapped around the nearest stone pine tree, Julia felt her feet shift into a run. Beneath the harsh Italian sun, she raced back to the road, her heart pounding. Something about that place was off, something she felt she had to get away from. It was only when she reached the street and clung to the sign near the turn-off that she gasped and realized she’d felt Barbara’s sorrow and loneliness back there. It felt so powerful and oppressive, like a blanket drawn over sunlight.
Charlie reached the road, his eyes wide with panic. “Are you okay?”
How could Julia explain what she’d just felt? She parted her lips, searching Charlie’s face.
He took her hand. “That woman isn’t happy. Something’s off,” he said finally.
“It felt really off, right?” she asked, grateful to hear her own crazy ideas echoed back.
Charlie touched Julia’s ear gently. They held the softness of the moment, listening to the spooky Italian wind through the even spookier Italian trees. Julia yearned to hop back on the ferry boat, hurry to the airport, and get out of town. But she felt something was keeping them here, some urgent fact about CAT that they were missing.
Why had Barbara’s face taken on so many shadows at the mention of the Eastern European men? What did she know that she wasn’t telling them?
They returned to their hotel to rest up before dinner. As Charlie slept,the air conditioner rattled on, Julia sent the photographs of Lucia’s coastline paintings to Gregor for his assessment. In her message, she wrote: These were painted by the woman who claims to be CAT, the woman who wrote the memoir, the woman everyone is ridiculing online. What do you think? I know that the murals and these coastline paintings couldn’t be more different, but are there any similarities between the use of color, tone, or line? Any insight would be much appreciated. Thanks, Julia.
Gregor wrote back that he’d be happy to help, that he’d head back home in a half hour and assess. Julia’s chest felt tight. Again, she checked her messages for signs from the Nantucket police and spent some time texting Henry, Anna, and Rachel, all of whom were busy with summer plans, business meetings, and socializing with friends and partners. Henry reported that he was already heading back to Nantucket from Los Angeles tomorrow, and he couldn’t stay away. There were no fewer than sixteen photographs of Anna’s baby, and Julia spent a long time looking at them, analyzing the subtle shifts in the chubby cheeks, wondering what she’d missed during her brief time away.
When Charlie got up, they showered and dressed for a pre-drink dinner. At a luxurious hotel that overlooked the entire city, they ordered cocktails, ate olives, and watched the sun drop lower in the sky. The veranda was full and crowded with people who all seemed to be celebrating something: engagements, marriages, or maybe even recent divorces; everyone was eager to take their next steps forward.
But when the server returned to Julia and Charlie’s table to ask them if they had any additional needs, Julia took the opportunity to ask him what he thought about CAT. The server didn’t skip a beat, probably because he was used to answering questions about the elusive artist. “It was ironic when she first began,” he said, “because her first mural hated tourism so much and brought attention to the problems we have with excess tourism, but it seemed to attract even more tourists! Funny how that happens, no?” He smiled handsomely and wagged his eyebrows. It felt like a challenge, as if he wanted to hear Julia's thoughts on the matter.
But Julia had already thought about that. Plenty. “I thought it was brave that she called attention to it, regardless of what happened next,” she said.
“Ah! So you’re a CAT lover,” the server said.
“Isn’t everyone?”
The server chuckled. “Not everyone loves Lucia Colombo. That’s for sure.”
Julia’s heart seized. “So you think Lucia is definitely CAT?”
“I don’t know if it matters,” the server said. “She’s out there saying that she’s CAT, and nobody else has come forward. Actually, my friend says he thinks there are many different CATs, all working together. Maybe Lucia is the face of them.”
“If that theory is correct, do you think all of those CATs are from Positano?” she asked.
“I don’t care!” the server said. “The tourists come, they see the murals, they take photographs, and they buy cocktails at this hotel. It’s the circle of life. You go to Pompeii, and you see the old murals there, and then you buy food at the restaurant next door. We’re still profiting from the art of our ancestors, dating back two thousand years! Maybe my great-great-great-granddaughter will know about CAT, but only because of what CAT can do for the people of Positano.”
