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And then I turned off my phone.
Am I being a coward? Probably.
But it’s all I can manage right now.
When I shuffle my way into the kitchen to brew up some coffee, pounding knocks to my front door stop my path.
“Delivery!” a female voice shouts from the other side.
“Just a minute,” I mutter and drag myself to the front of my apartment.
The instant I open the door, a pretty woman with full lips, an ample amount of cleavage, and wearing sky-high stilettos greets me on the other side.
She doesn’t look like someone who delivers packages for a living…
“This is for you,” she says, and I scrunch up my nose.
“What is it?”
She looks down at the wrapped package in her hands and back at me, and her eyes seem to be questioning my intelligence. “Pretty sure it’s obvious.”
I blink and she sighs.
“It’s a painting.”
“A painting?”
I blink again.
“You know, like a painting. It’s something artists create.” She huffs an annoyed breath. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t that hard to understand.”
“Who are you again?”
“I’m Lucy. Ansel’s assistant,” she answers like I’m the biggest moron on the planet, and before I can even wrap my brain around that revelation, she adds, “So…are you going to take it or not?”
Holy shit. Why is Ansel’s assistant here?
She blows a pink bubble from her lips, and I try to regain my ability for speech.
“Oh…uh…” I mutter and reach out to take the package from her hand. “Of course. Sorry.”
But she doesn’t leave right away.
Instead, she stands there, scrutinizing my face.
“He’s a mess, you know,” she says matter-of-factly.
I don’t know what to say to that. But it doesn’t matter because she appears content to hold a one-sided conversation.
“And whenever Ansel is a real fucking mess, he becomes an intolerable bastard,” she continues. “So, thanks for that.”
“Thanks?”
“I’m assuming you’re the reason.”
“I…I…” I stutter and shake my head.
“Well, enjoy the painting, I guess.” She shrugs, flips her hair over her shoulder, and leaves. Just up and walks away without a goodbye or anything.
I stand in my doorway for a long moment, just watching her stilettos eat up the walkway while I grip the package in my hands.
I’m not sure what urges me to go back inside, but eventually, I do. And I stride straight to my kitchen and set the package on the center of the island.
I stare down at it, unsure of what to do with it.
Do I open it?
Do I ignore it?
Do I try to forget it exists?
Curiosity gets the best of me, and I take the small white card off the top of the package and work to see what lies beneath the brown wrapping.
I slide my fingers under the rigid paper and tear. One, two, three, four, I tear until it’s revealed to me in its entirety.
A hand goes to my mouth and tears fill my eyes, and I gaze down at the painting, Ansel’s painting. I don’t know how long I stand there, still as a statue, trying to make sense of it.
It’s me, but in this painting, there is a violin in my hands.
And I’m playing it.
My face is so serene, so calm, so at peace.
And there is a soft, tiny smile on my lips.
And my eyes are so bright and burning and just…happy.
I don’t even know I’m crying, but I am. Tears drip down my cheeks in steady waves, and when I read the small gold plaque at the bottom of the frame, a sob jumps from my throat.
Venus and the Violin.
Memories flood my mind.
Ansel and me. The Met. His words.
“She’s the feminine image of love,” he’d said. “Da Vinci, Picasso, Monet… Every great artist has a Venus. Their Venus is their muse. The woman who consumes their mind and inspires them to paint or sculpt until they either die or their fucking fingers fall off.”
My hands shake. Tears drip onto my kitchen counter. And I look down to see that the small white card is now on the floor.
I pick it up, and I see my name is written on top. Indy.
I open it, and my eyes latch on to Ansel’s familiar and messy but beautiful scrawl.
I don’t know why I feel like I need to tell you to play again, but I do.
Play again, Indy.
I don’t know why I know that music—the violin—makes you thrive. That music brings you inner peace. But I do.
Let music inside of your soul again.
But one thing I do know.
One thing that is an infinite certainty.
I love you, Indy.
More than I have ever loved anyone or anything.
I painted this over a year ago, and it belongs with you.
This is you, my Venus, with your violin.
-Ansel
This is the most painfully beautiful gift anyone has ever sent me, and so many emotions flood my veins that I don’t even know what or how I’m feeling.
And questions, so many questions race through my brain.
