Page 16 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
He gives me an arch “I thought so” look. It’s the look of a successful matchmaker, and I don’t care. He asks for my phone and programs his number into it. “I will be your go-between. Like the priest in Romeo and Juliet.”
He might be joking, but I’m too distracted to interpret sarcasm. “Things didn’t end well for that pair. Maybe you could just be my friend.”
As serious as I’ve yet seen him, he nods decisively. “That I will do for you. And for her.”
We’re no longer calling it Woman Wandering in the Irises. It’s a she. She’s a woman. I want her to step from her painting so I can learn the texture of her dress and the smell of her hair.
So I can look into her eyes. Talk to her. Learn all about her.
Perhaps this is madness, but I’m terribly certain she doesn’t exist only in my mind.
6
The following week I have a video conference with my academic advisor for my individual studies class, where he goes over the proposal for my term project, stroking his beard and nodding and muttering as I talk in my living room. Since the proposal is on his screen just below his camera, it gives the impression he’s staring right into my psyche.
Finally, he nods. “You seem to have a feel for the subject. Woman Wandering in the Irises, with its storied history, is bound to be intellectually engaging, but you bring a personal insight to the topic.”
“Thank you, Professor.”
“It should make for a compelling read.”
“I hope so. I really want to bring the subject to life.” If he only knew.
“Hmm,” says my advisor, stroking his beard again. “It almost seems as though you’ve seen the painting in person. I didn’t think it arrives at the Musée d’Orsay for another month.”
“It’s not on public display until then, no, sir.”
“Ah. You have seen it, then? Through your internship?”
There is nothing odd about his interest—art is meant to be seen in person, and the lost Renoir is a sensation. But my previews have been a secret, and I want to keep it that way, like a clandestine affair.
I say truthfully, “No one is allowed to see the painting until the debut. But I do have access to reproductions that you can hardly tell apart from the real thing.”
“That should suffice for this stage of your project. We’ll meet again next week to talk about your research.”
We wrap up our call, and as soon as I disconnect, I grab my bag, making sure I have everything I need for my afternoon at the museum. Adaline is long gone already—our schedules, between work and school, mean that we run into each other more often at the Musée than at the flat.
I’m almost at the Metro when my phone rings—there are only a few people who would call rather than text, and my sister is one of them, especially for anything to do with work, so I never let it go to voicemail during opening hours.
“Oh, excellent,” she says when I answer. “I caught you. You haven’t left for work yet, have you?”
“I’m on my way now,” I reply, hanging back from the entrance to the train so the noise doesn’t drown out her voice.
“Would you mind terribly making a detour to meet Claire at the Louvre and have a look at the painting on loan there? It’s the Renoir piano girls, the one with the sun damage. It’s back from restoration and has already been shipped to the Louvre, but I would feel better if you could give it one final look now that it’s been installed.”
I’m already detouring to a different Metro stop. “Happy to. But is there a problem?”
“No problem,” she answers. But I picture her frowning. “This restorer is the best. I simply want your sharp eyes on it in its new setting. If there’s anything we’ve missed, I’d rather you find it than their people.”
“In other words, you’re fussing.”
She scoffs. “I’m double-checking. Wouldn’t you?”
“Of course I would. It’s the Louvre.”
“Thank you, Julien. Claire is aware the painting has had minor restoration, but not the specifics. If it’s been repaired properly, the fix will be undetectable.”
“Of course.” Sun damage, and its repair, are somewhat routine, but I know what she’s saying. Don’t draw Claire’s attention to something otherwise unnoticeable.
On my way to the Metro stop, I see the usual assortment of street artists who’ve set up shop along the river to draw caricatures of tourists. I spot Max, one of the regulars, and swing past to say hello. He’s one of the best here, and at the moment he’s sketching a gangly English boy, who’d clearly rather be anywhere else, as the parents look on, oblivious to his fidgeting. Does it even need saying that this was their idea?
The boy’s too-long limbs remind me of a baby horse, and I say this to Max in French as I watch over his shoulder.
