Page 5 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
“Julien!”
That’s her voice. When I turn, she’s seated at a café, enjoying the evening with a glass of red wine and reading an article on her tablet.
“We need to stop meeting like this, sis,” I say as I park myself at her table, pulling my messenger bag over my head and setting it down. “First, you follow me to Paris . . .”
She rolls her eyes. “Right, of course. That’s why I invited you to share a flat in one of the nicest areas of the city. Because it takes so much work out of stalking you.”
The flat belongs to the family, and it’s a nicer place in a better neighborhood than I could ever afford on my own. But there’s also the fact that I like my sister. Convenient.
“Anything interesting?” I ask, nodding to the article from The Guardian on her tablet, pretending I don’t see the words “art forger” in headline-size type.
“Oh, it’s just background on that father and daughter with the fake Gauguin last year. Kind of a ‘Where Are They Now’ piece.”
“So . . . where are they now?”
She grins. “Still under the radar. Maybe coming so close to being convicted made them rethink their life choices.”
I snort. “Maybe they made enough money to buy a small island.”
“Somewhere without an extradition arrangement with the UK.”
The waiter swings by and asks if I want a glass of wine too.
“Just coffee,” I say, and when he leaves, my sister grins at me like she’s got a big secret. It’s not that different than Simon’s grin, actually.
She closes her tablet and sets her laced hands on top of it, eyes dancing. “Do you want to know why I was so excited to see you?”
“Because I’m an utter delight?”
She rolls her eyes, waves a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, and because we have a meeting.” She leans in and lowers her voice to a hushed whisper. “It’s about the Renoir.”
I go absolutely still, afraid some motion, some expression will give away how much those words thrill me.
She looks vibrant, almost aglow. Art has never been simply her field of study. She lives and breathes it. It’s her passion. I recognize it because I feel the same way. “Do you want to see Woman Wandering in the Irises? Like, say, tomorrow?”
I’m wary this is too good to be true, that she’s putting me on. “I thought it wasn’t coming to the museum for a few weeks.”
“It won’t move yet,” Adaline answers. “But I need to meet with the owners to review some final documents, and I thought you might like to come. I want to be able to talk about it with you.” She places her palm against her chest, as if the memory of the painting is too much. “It’s the most beautiful Renoir I’ve ever seen. You will be in love. I know you. You’re just like me. You fall hard.”
Her choice of words is a coincidence, but I can’t stop a grimace. Fortunately, she’s rooting around in her purse and misses it. But it’s not a bad way to describe how it feels to be smitten with a piece of art.
Adaline finds what she’s looking for and pulls it out. “This is for you. I almost forgot.” She slides a small white ceramic creature with brown spots across the table. It’s a calf, but it has an extra leg growing from its back. Renoir once said the idea of women painters was as ridiculous as five-legged calves. I sort of wish I didn’t know that about him. Such an amazing artist but not, apparently, what you’d call an equal opportunist. “From the couple who are giving us the painting. It’s a gift for you.”
I frown at the calf in confusion as I pick it up from the table. “For me? Why? Do they know me from somewhere?”
My sister shrugs as she takes out her wallet. “No clue. But when I asked them if I could bring you to see the painting, they agreed and asked me to give this to you first. But I need to get to bed. It’s nearly ten, and my first meeting is painfully early. The restoration people are coming to look at that sun-damaged portrait. I need to get it fixed before it goes to the joint exhibit at the Louvre,” she says.
That painting is another Renoir, a picture of two young girls playing a piano. It had started to fade a few weeks ago, and I’d alerted her when I noticed the damage, and catching the damage before it spread went a long way toward proving I was at the museum on my own merit and not because of my sister.
Adaline pays for her wine and my coffee. “I’ll see you tomorrow—I’ll probably have turned in when you get home.”
I say good night and thank her for the coffee, enjoying a leisurely sip as I examine the calf curiously. The fifth leg—a shrunken baby leg hanging from its back—has a small cap for a hoof. When I take the cap off, a bit of silvery powder with the consistency of confectionary sugar sprinkles loose.
