Page 8 of Nantucket Reflections
“Yes. And all of our records indicate that Lucia Colombo is from Positano, which is where the first mural was painted,” Julia said. “She even went to art school for a little while. In London. We confirmed that Lucia Colombo was there, too. During the same years, she said.”
Alana sniffed and went on her phone, probably looking for Lucia Colombo. “She doesn’t have much of an internet presence.”
“I mean, that tracks,” Ella said. “She wanted to be anonymous.”
“Till now,” Alana said, flipping around her phone to show the first several official posts from Lucia Colombo, who was officially calling herself CAT online now, claiming what she, apparently, always was. “A lot of people are brutalizing her in the comments. They’re calling her a fraud.”
“Is it really just because of that video?” Greta asked, furrowing her brow. She was ever conscious of internet cancellations due to the brief yet horrifying events back in 1997, when Bernard was accused of crimes he didn’t commit and sent to prison.
“There are other details people find alarming,” Alana said.
“Read me some of them,” Julia said. “I can’t bring myself to look at my phone anymore. It’s making me sick.” She’d already thrown up three times that evening, due to stress.
“Mostly, they’re fixated on how arrogant she seemed on stage tonight,” Alana said, her nostrils flaring. “It doesn’t seem to align with CAT’s murals.”
“I agree with that,” Ella said under her breath.
Julia gave her a pained look, and Ella shrugged. “I’m sorry. But don’t you want the truth to rise to the surface?”
“We don’t want Julia’s publishing house to go under,” Alana said.
“But you’re right. I don’t want to be a liar either.” Julia hung her head. Charlie rubbed her shoulders and kissed her neck.
“We’re going to get through this,” Charlie said.
“There have been loads of people thought to be CAT over the years,” Alana went on.
“I looked at all those lists,” Julia said.
“Monica Sia,” Alana read. “Teresa Accata. A guy called Frank Abinale.”
“They’re not all from Positano,” Julia said meekly.
Alana gave her a look that made her feel very small.
“Maybe you should call those people and ask them who they think CAT really is?” Ella asked, trying to perk up. “Maybe the art community has a better understanding?”
“Did you know that CAT hasn’t done a mural since 2022?” Alana asked then.
This sent the family into stunned silence. Julia blinked and nodded. “Yes. But it isn’t the first time CAT has taken a break.”
“It’s the longest break she’s ever done,” Alana said.
“But she came to me with this ‘mural’ last year,” Julia reminded her, using air quotes. “So it had only been two years. I assumed it meant she’d had a change of heart, or she felt too tired to keep the game going.”
“That makes sense,” Greta said. “Artists are allowed to change their destinies.”
The family was quiet, listening to the patter of the rain across the sand and Nantucket Sound. Julia filled her mouth with wine. She hadn’t eaten enough and was bound to have a bad headache.
“I can’t thank you all enough for your support,” she began, pressing her palms against the wooden porch floor to bring herself up. “I think my bed’s calling me. If I can sleep.”
“You should get some rest, honey,” Bernard said gently. “It’s all you can do. Tomorrow, you can face this head-on.”
Greta smiled in a way that told Julia: everything will be okay. We’ve been through worse, as a family. Which was true, of course. But Julia couldn’t help but think that she had to bear this on her own.
That was when Alana gasped and said, “Julia! Look at this!”
Julia’s heart leaped into her throat. Terrified, she got up and hurried over to Alana’s phone to see a photograph of a mural in Paris. But just as quickly, Julia’s excitement dimmed.
