Page 103 of The Look of Love

Ina nodded quietly and allowed herself to be led through the gallery.

Christine glanced at the program in her hand and up at the corresponding number on the wall. “It should be the next room.”

If the previous room had been large, this one was massive. The butter-yellow walls with their delicate white plasterwork were the perfect backdrop for the cool grayish marbles that dotted the room. Huge windows let beams of natural light stream in and reflect off of several massive mirrors. All throughout the room, groups were clustered around sculptures. Ladies carrying folded-up parasols chatted amongst themselves as gentlemen, who looked decidedly uncomfortable even in their summer-weight suits, accompanied them. But rather than feeling slow and lethargic, the air had a charged, frantic atmosphere about it. It was as though everyone in attendance was drawing on the energy of such creativity in one place.

“I think that’s it,” said Anne, pointing toward the middle of the room.

Through the crowd, Ina glimpsed the foot of Leander. Her Leander.

Pride cut through her nerves and her feet went willingly to the sculpture. It was unreal seeing it in such a setting as this. Her work was being displayed alongside some of the best in Britain. She’d been shaking when she nailed down the top of the crate, refusing to let Norris do it because it was her work in there. Her talent. Her breath. Her life.

Her lovers were beautiful.

Whoever had placed the work had put it directly in front of a window, and the warm glow of the sun made the natural crystal in the marble sparkle. Her piece wasn’t tall like some of the more monumental statues, but the lifeless, almost languid pose of Leander and the bent sorrow of Hero were arresting nonetheless.

It was the best thing she’d ever done, and now she was here, sharing it with the people she cared for the most.

“He’s beautiful,” whispered Lana, squeezing her tight.

She nodded and murmured a thanks, not trusting herself to do anything more.

“You can almost hear her weeping and her gown looks soft to the touch,” said Christine. “How do you do that with a hammer and chisel?”

Ina gave a shaky laugh. “How do you flit around the notes of the Queen of the Night’s arias?”

Her friend inclined her head as though to say she understood.

“Who is it by?” a pretty, plump blond woman standing a few feet away asked.

Ina froze, feeling all at once exposed and yet curious.

“It says here the artist’s name is listed as ‘I.R.D.,’ ” said the woman’s companion, his tall beaver hat dipping over the program in his hand.

“It’s extraordinarily good,” said the woman.

“A little scandalous too,” said the man who cocked his head to the side. “Shouldn’t he be wearing something?”

The woman laughed and swatted the man on the arm with the familiarity of half of a long-married couple. “He’s just drowned in a river, darling. Surely you can’t expect him to be wearing a dinner jacket.”