Page 29 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
She gazes heavenward. “I dream of a day when our espresso is as good as our chocolate.”
“Keep dreaming.”
I gesture to the shop, where I saw no sign of Zola’s wife when I looked in on the snoozing pup in the window. “Where’s Celeste today?”
She waves airily. “She got called to consult on a suspicious painting. All very hush-hush,” she adds, leaning in like a conspirator.
“I hope that means you’ll tell me when you can.”
“Naturellement.” She winks. “And speaking of paintings, how is your Renoir doing?”
No need to ask which one she means—Celeste verified Woman Wandering in the Irises for us. It makes me feel related to her and Zola somehow. Two more people tied to Clio’s painting.
“She’s amazing.” And that feels amazing to say, as if I have a wonderful secret.
Which I do.
We exchange bonjours, and Zola heads into the store while I continue to the corner and turn onto the museum’s block. Greeting some of the staff taking their lunchtime smoke breaks, I dart into a side door to the offices and snag my name tag.
Adaline pops her head out of her office door as if she’s been waiting on me. “Hey, Julien. Got a minute?”
She looks worried. There’s tension between her brows that matches the tightness in her voice.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Gesturing for me to follow, she ducks back into her office and closes the door before she speaks. “The Boy with the Cat has sun damage now too.”
“It never even sees the sun.” That’s another one of our Renoirs here, and like the Young Girls at the Piano at the Louvre it’s always protected from damaging UV light.
“I saw it today when I was out on the floor. And the restorers are coming right after they visit the Louvre.” Adaline falls into her desk chair and rubs her hands over her face “Claire called me today. The sun damage is back on the Young Girls at the Piano too.”
Back.
I sort through the timeline in my head. The damage had been repaired before the painting went to the Louvre, but when I’d seen it there, the fading had returned, but Claire hadn’t been able to see the damage.
And now, a few weeks later, she can.
What does that mean, that other people can see what only I had been able to see before? Nothing good, I’m sure.
“I have no idea what is happening,” Adaline says.
From what I can tell, two vastly different things are happening to the art. There’s the simple fading of the Renoirs that appears like sun damage. Then there are the more drastic, more destructive changes to the others, like Bathsheba falling to pieces, like the flame in the La Tour.
I dread asking my next question, but I have to know. “What about Woman Wandering in the Irises though?”
Adaline breathes deep and her shoulders relax. “Perfect. Thank God.”
“That’s good.” I’m dizzy with relief. It seems selfish to worry more about one painting than all the others. But Clio is different, more than paint and canvas. She’s the woman I want to spend my nights with, and she’s alive in that painting. “And I’ll be sure to check the other Renoirs in the museum for sun damage,” I say, then I rush off for my scheduled tour.
I meet the group on the main floor and guide them through the galleries, stopping at the featured paintings. One of them is another Renoir, a portrait of a woman, Gabrielle with a Rose. She is half-dressed, wearing a shawl over her shoulders, holding a rose near her ear.
As I promised Adaline, I scan quickly for any sun damage, and my heart catches when I see that a tiny sliver of her painted shawl has turned pale.
If this follows the pattern, then in a few days, Adaline will be able to see the fading too. First things first—I force myself to focus on the tour group here in front of Gabrielle.
“Renoir painted until late in his life, and this is one of the last masterpieces he created,” I tell them. “By that time, he was crippled with arthritis.” Curling my fingers into claws, I demonstrate. “He strapped the paintbrushes to his wrists and painted like that because his fingers were too gnarled to hold the brushes anymore. And yet, even with his damaged hands, he still crafted such works of beauty.”
I take a step back and let them admire the painting before we move on to the next. One of the last on the tour is Van Gogh’s Portrait of Dr. Gachet.
“This is the physician who treated Van Gogh in the final months of his life. This is one of only two authenticated paintings of Dr. Gachet. The other sold for more than eighty-two million dollars at auction.”
That’s always a good note to end on, since the price of art at auction is a topic that baffles but intrigues people. It usually provokes some animated conversations after I thank everyone and wish them a good day.
