Page 16 of Nantucket Reflections
Summer 2025
Nantucket Island and Paris
Julia, Henry, and Madeline had seen Lucia and the Eastern European guys at The Rusty Nail several days ago. Julia was up to her ears in chaos and had absolutely zero clues about how to move forward. In the office of the home she shared with Charlie, the home she’d moved into when they’d gotten “re-serious” and before they’d gotten married, she sat with her PR person, Nicole, as well as their publishing accountant Steve, going over bank statements and trying to find a way through the next months, now that so many people had canceled their preorders forA Journey into the Night. Julia had forgotten to eat breakfast, and she was jittery, getting up and sitting back down so much that Nicole finally went downstairs to make them all sandwiches. When she returned, she said, “We have to release another statement. Too many people are angry. We have to keep facing them, again and again. We have to keep the conversation open. Otherwise, they’ll accuse us of hiding.”
“But the problem, for me, is that we don’t really know what’s going on with Lucia,” Julia said. “We don’t know where she disappeared to, or where she came from, or what her deal is. And like I said, I think she might be a puppet. Those Russian guys, or whatever, were scary.” She shivered, remembering how Henry had nearly gotten hurt. She cursed herself for getting him involved.
“We can’t speculate on any of that without proof,” Nicole reminded her.
Steve returned his attention to the spreadsheets. His face was pale. He looked like he thought he was going to lose his job. Julia thought he was maybe right, that she’d probably have to start making cuts in the next six months. Perhaps the publishing house was dead in the water.
Again, they called attorney Susan Sheridan, but she said it was impossible to press charges against Lucia without solid evidence that she wasn’t who she claimed to be. It was at this moment that Julia realized she had to take matters into her own hands. She had to retrace CAT’s steps.
She didn’t clue Nicole in on that yet, though. She didn’t want Nicole to lecture her on being rash. But as she said goodbye to Nicole and Steve, seeing them out the door, she saw them exchange a nervous glance that, Julia thought, meant they were going to reconvene later and look at each other’s résumés. This was serious. People’s lives were at stake.
That night at The Copperfield House, Julia announced to her family that she was going to Paris to dig around. It sounded loosey-goosey, especially in her own ears, but Greta looked immediately overjoyed. Every time anyone went to Paris, she would slip back into her own blissful memories of having lived there as a college student and was eager to offer a thousand recommendations. But Julia interrupted her before she could. “Remember that my business might be going under. We probably can’t afford any of those restaurants you want us to go to.” In saying that, Julia felt even more defeated. How she longed to dine at beautiful Parisian restaurants!
Greta waved her hand. “Paris in the summertime is for all price ranges. Pick a grocery store and a park and have a picnic. Even the wines on the second-lowest shelf are divine.”
Julia offered her mother a soft smile and shifted her eyes over to Charlie, who was grinning at her in the way he once had, so many decades ago, when they’d decided to flee Nantucket and move to New York City. They’d been children on an adventure. Their relationship hadn’t made it back then, hadn’t survived the pressures of being so young and naive. But now, nothing would pull them apart.
Julia went on to explain that she wanted to meet with an art historian and a professional to go over the details of the brand-new CAT mural. “He can tell me for sure that the real CAT made this new mural,” Julia said. “I’ll need that evidence when we take Lucia to court since we have official records saying where she was at the time of the mural’s painting. She couldn’t possibly have made it herself.”
“If you ever find Lucia to press charges,” Alana said.
Julia grimaced and gave her older sister a face.
There on the other side of the roasted chicken, Alana threw her hands up and said, “I know. It’s a lot. But let me know if you want someone to give you a room in Paris. I have loads of friends with apartments there, and most of them only live there part-time. I’m sure there’s a beautiful apartment just sitting there empty, waiting for you.”
Julia was surprised at the generous offer. Her heart softened. “That would be fantastic, Alana. Really.”
Alana raced off, eager to call her famous and high-roller friends, the friends she’d shared with her ex-husband, Asher, the famous artist who’d ruined her life. When she returned, she had an apartment lined up for Charlie and Julia—thousands of square feet in the Marais, one of the most expensive areas of Paris and certainly one of the most artistic. It also happened to be just a few blocks from the brand-new mural by CAT. It was perfect. Julia couldn’t help but throw her arms around her sister and squeal. “You’re the best!”
“I don’t think you’ve ever said that to me before,” Alana said, laughing. “Just get through this in one piece, okay? We love you.” In her voice, there was fear that Julia was getting herself involved in something slightly dangerous.
Again, Julia remembered the punch thrown by that Eastern European at The Rusty Nail and shivered. “I’ll be safe,” she promised.
“I’ll be there all the time,” Charlie reminded the Copperfields.
“Don’t let her get carried away!” Bernard joked.
Because they were cutting costs and fearful about the future of the publishing house, Julia used a brand-new airfare website that operated somewhat like eBay. You could “bid” on other people’s flights, flights that, for one reason or another, they were unable to board and couldn’t get refunds on. Because of this, she and Charlie were able to nab two flights from Boston to Paris for two hundred dollars each, one way. It was ridiculous. Within three days, they were boarding, throwing their carry-on suitcases abroad, and flying across the Atlantic. Charlie slept the entire way, but Julia couldn’t close her eyes. Her adrenaline was too high.
When they reached Charles de Gaulle, they took a train into the city and an additional train to the Marais area, where they met with one of Alana’s friends’ maids. The maid gave them keys and a list of English instructions regarding the apartment. Already, they’d broken one: they were still wearing their shoes in the living room. They took them off and put them gently by the door. They didn’t want to tarnish Alana's reputation.
“So, this is how Alana used to live?” Charlie asked, wandering in his socks through the apartment, clearly too frightened to touch anything. Everything that wasn’t mahogany felt breakable and very expensive, especially that sharp gold and glass chandelier hanging above them.
“I guess so? I didn’t really know her then,” Julia said.
“Do you think she secretly hates her life back in Nantucket?” Charlie asked.
“I think she secretly loves it more than she’s ever loved anything,” Julia said with a smile. “But she’ll never admit that she’d rather have a burger in the backyard with Jeremy.”
What she didn’t tell Charlie was that, back in Chicago, she and Jackson Crawford, her first husband and the father of her children, had had a great deal of money as well. It hadn’t been like this, not Parisian luxury, but they’d been high-up on the social food chain. She’d been expected to dress a certain way and throw parties that she’d hated. At the time, she’d been battling publishing house expenses, as well, trying her hand at being a career woman, even when Jackson made enough money to support them. Gosh, she was glad to have left that life behind. She couldn’t fathom how she’d let it get so out of control.
It was midmorning, so she and Charlie went for a walk through the Marais and ate pastries on the Seine. Despite it being this late in June, it was only seventy-two and breezy, and they were enraptured with Parisian fashion and Parisian dogs. Charlie admitted that he wished they could do more touristy stuff, and Julia promised they could make a day of it tomorrow, after they met with the art historian and expert Gregor.
Gregor, the German art historian, had lived in Paris for the better part of thirty years, he explained when they met later that afternoon near their apartment. “I was on the scene long before CAT started her paintings,” he explained. “I was front row, culturally, when Banksy started his whole thing. I know enough about this entire scene to write perhaps twenty books. But CAT is a fascinating example. And this new mural brings to light a number of questions.”
