Page 9 of Nantucket Reflections
“That’s from 2016,” Julia said, shaking her head. “It was CAT’s third mural and her first outside of Italy. Some argue it’s the one that made her truly famous.” She turned to head back to Charlie, eager to get back home.
But Alana wasn’t done. “No! You’re wrong! Look at it closer!”
Julia flared her nostrils and turned around. She wanted to tell Alana that she was wrong, that over the past year, Julia had scoured through the history of CAT and her murals and knew everything there was.
“It was taken fifty minutes ago,” Alana shot, standing to her feet to show the mural again. “And it’s different from the Paris one from 2016. Sure, it’s similar, but it’s like it’s an echo.”
Like Ella, Julia didn’t like to admit when Alana was right, since Alana could be such a know-it-all sometimes. But Alana had actually lived in Paris and had probably walked past the original CAT mural many times. She was right about this fresh version of the CAT mural. For one, it was in a different place than the original. For another, it was marginally different but made in the same style. The timing was crazy, as well.
The first post read—in translated English: paint still wet! Long live CAT! The Nantucket CAT is a fraud!
Julia’s heart nearly exploded.
“It means that the real CAT saw what happened here tonight,” Alana whispered, “and wanted to claim her title.”
“She wanted to make it clear that Lucia isn’t the real thing!” Ella cried, having found the mural on her phone.
Julia’s ears rang. She thought she was going to collapse.
“If this is the real CAT,” Julia whispered, “then who is Lucia Colombo? And why is she pretending to be CAT?”
“Money. Fame,” Alana recited. “Because she’s bored?”
Julia put her head in her hands. Tomorrow would be a real doozy, facing a terrible slew of canceled preorders and backlash against the publishing house. But if this muralist meant Lucia wasn’t the real deal, maybe that meant Julia and the publishing house had rights. Maybe it meant they could sue Lucia Colombo and get at least some of that money back.
ChapterSix
January 2016
Positano and Paris
By Christmas, the new scans were in: Alessandra was cancer-free, for now. Federico was overjoyed, covering her with kisses, carrying her frail form to the car, and turning on their favorite songs and throwing his hands in the air. Alessandra was weeping, too, but mostly due to exhaustion. Rain spat from the swirling sky above them, a rain that told them the cerulean skies of summertime were deep in the past. When they returned home, they found a celebratory feast waiting for them, every delicacy meant for a Christmas in Italy, and Alessandra found herself tossed from one family member to the next until she pleaded fatigue and sat with a glass of white wine and watched the children play with toys next to the Christmas tree. On her head, she wore a thick scarf meant to keep her head warm, and she joked that she looked like Mother Mary, headed across the desert to find a place to give birth. Federico didn’t like that joke. He kissed her and reminded her that her hair would grow back. It always did. Alessandra didn’t want to say, it always does until the next chemotherapy round. But she didn’t want to ruin Christmas.
At Christmas dinner a few days later, Alessandra was surprised to hear talk of CAT, the muralist. In the throes of chemotherapy, she’d let herself forget about her alter ego, and now, hearing about her was like hearing about a friend she’d once known but had lost track of.
“I wonder if he moved on elsewhere,” her father was saying, spooning more pasta onto his plate. “Italy in winter isn’t for the weak. And an artist making such bold claims like him must be weak.”
“I disagree with you,” Alessandra’s grandfather scolded him. “CAT is brave!”
“He always says this,” Alessandra’s grandmother said with a smile.
“Who says CAT is a man?” Federico said, his tone passive.
Alessandra’s heart seized. There was quiet over the table, and everyone was thinking about this.
“A woman is usually at home with the children,” Alessandra’s father said.
“Not everyone is a mother,” her mother said.
Alessandra’s father grumbled about “this new generation of Italians” for a little while before the conversation shifted elsewhere. But for a split second, Alessandra let herself look at her husband, Federico, wondering what was going on in his head. Did he suspect her of being CAT? Did he remember that she’d snuck out of the house both nights the murals had appeared?
Alessandra and Federico had been married for ten years at this point, which meant that they spent many days only half remembering their glittering origins. The story of their past was that they’d grown up together in Positano but never been friends, not till they’d run into one another at art school in London, of all places. London! It had seemed like the brightest and most insane possibility for a small-town Italian girl. She’d wanted to date Londoners and had had grand schemes of staying in England forever and becoming an English artist, featuring her work in the Tate Modern. But one afternoon after a painting class, Alessandra and Federico had spotted one another in a square and were drawn to one another like magnets. The sound of Italian, the language of her life and her youth, had sounded like the most wonderful music. They’d gone for drinks and laughed all night about their upbringing, about English people, about how terrible the food in London was. They hadn’t managed to go out with anyone else after that.
Like many people before them, they hadn’t managed to think of anywhere else to go to build their life but back home.
But as Alessandra fell asleep that night, she began to stew with questions. Federico was the man of her life, her partner. Why had she kept him out of the most important secret she’d ever had? Why didn’t she want him to know that she was CAT?
A few mornings later, Federico surprised Alessandra with her “free from chemo” gift: two plane tickets to Paris for a three-night stay. Alessandra was overjoyed. She threw her arms around him and immediately began making plans of where she wanted to eat and where she wanted to shop for antiques (most of which, of course, she wouldn’t be able to afford).
