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“Wow…”
When I turn to look at him in the driver’s seat, he’s wearing a smug expression as if he’s intrigued by the story. And maybe that’s why I told him a little more than I normally do. I knew he wouldn’t judge me.
“Very sexy,” he remarks before turning toward the road. I bite my lip between my teeth as I stifle a grin.
“Itwassexy,” I reply.
When we reach the museum downtown, Dean parks on the top floor of the garage down the street, and we take a shifty elevator down to the ground level. Walking to the museum and passing by other people on the street, I feel an odd sense of mischief being out and alone with Dean.
These strangers probably think he and I are together. And something is alluring and exciting about that. Technically, I’m not doing anything wrong, but the prospect of beingbadexcites me.
He pays for our tickets when we reach the building and even opens the door for me when we enter. The moment we’re inside, I feel at ease. I’ve been to this museum more times than I can count. When I was pregnant with Abby, I would come all the time just to walk around and try to induce labor. People probably thought I was crazy, but if I had to get my steps in, I was going to do it around something that I loved.
I take Dean through the various permanent exhibits, showing him some of my favorite pieces. He shows interest and listens intently to every word I say. But when we make our way to the special exhibit, the one full of pieces I’ve only seen on computer screens and in textbooks, I can hardly contain my excitement.
“Oh my gosh.” I gasp. “This is a real Vestier. I haven’t seen this since college.”
Standing in front of the painting, the woman’s face staring back at me, I’m speechless. I can feel Dean’s eyes on me, so I turn his way, giving him a quizzical look.
“What?” I whisper.
“You really light up here,” he answers plainly as he leans in so close I get a whiff of his cologne.
Goose bumps erupt down the back of my neck. “I love it.”
“I can see that,” he replies, gazing into my eyes.
With a blush, I turn back toward the painting. That’s when I notice the one on the far wall. With a gasp, I move toward the piece. A man and a woman lie together, their bodies draped in fabric that is so intricate it looks as if it’s caught in time, swept up by the wind. Red blood drips from the wounds in each of their chests, and their lips are so close they nearly touch.
“Wow,” Dean mumbles from behind me.
“I love this one,” I reply as I swallow the emotion building in my throat.
“They’re dead,” he says in a low mutter, and I find myself smiling as I tear up.
“They’re lovers. This was a real couple,” I reply gently. “She was married to his brother, and when they were caught together, her husband killed them.”
“That’s depressing,” he says. I can feel his chest softly touching my back.
Turning my head to gaze up at him, I reply, “I think it’s beautiful.”
Looking back at the painting, I stare at it, feeling as if I could stand here forever. The way they look caught in a storm together. The longing on their faces, as if they loved each other until their dying breaths.
I love how art captures those feelings we often can’t describe. The pull on my heartstrings it evokes when, at its core, it’s nothing more than colorful paint someone applied to a canvas three hundred years ago.
Growing up, my family always made me feel as if expressing deep emotions was somehow beneath us. The only feelings to be shown were love, faith, and gratitude, and even those were best displayed modestly.
Art was my outlet, even if I wasn’t the one creating it. I couldfeelit. It’s like magic to me how something so simple could evoke something so visceral.
And when I look at the two lovers in this painting, it makes me feel…desire. Deep, yearning, obsessive desire.
“What are you thinking?” Dean whispers into my ear, and it jolts me from my thoughts. Turning toward him, I blink, and a tear slips over my cheek.
The corner of his mouth lifts into a coy smirk as he reaches forward and wipes it away with the pad of his thumb. Our faces are so close I can feel the warmth of his breath. Although there are people meandering around us, it feels as if he and I are alone in this room with this work of art in front of us.
“I was just thinking…” I whisper.
Then something happens. I can’t explain it, and I don’t understand it, but suddenly, time stretches on without us, and I feel caught in the same storm the couple in the painting is caught in.
