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While Jorge and Noah chowed down on the empanadas, then played on the grass, Rosie and Gideon ate their lunches in silence. When they were done, Gideon collected the picnic remains and carried them over to the trash.
“Mom, can we go back to look at the paintings before going home?” Jorge asked. “I want to show Noah the one where they’re all looking at the monk, except the lady who’s looking straight out of the painting and right into you.”
It was one of her favorite paintings too. “It’s called Holy Day in Monterrey, 1759 by Miguel Fernando Correa. And yes, we can go back inside for a bit.” She glanced at a stone-faced Gideon. “Unless Gideon and Noah need to head home now?”
“Uncle Gideon, please say we can stay longer,” Noah urged.
Once Gideon nodded, Jorge turned to Noah. “The painting I want to show you is like the Mona Lisa’s eyes following you.”
“Who’s the Mona Lisa?” Noah asked.
Jorge told him about the painting in the Louvre and the glass pyramid that was like the pyramid in the Legion of Honor’s courtyard, but way bigger.
“Someday Mom’s gonna take me there,” he boasted.
And she swore she would. Someday soon.
“I want to go too,” Noah exclaimed as they raced back up the concrete walkway to the courtyard.
They followed the boys back into the museum, and sh
e explained everything she knew about the paintings, relishing their interest even if Gideon was in shutdown mode.
As Jorge ran back, pointing to a new painting that hadn’t been there the last time they’d visited, she decided to have a normal conversation with Gideon, even if it was only one-sided. “They’re little sponges, soaking it all up. Jorge is getting better at remembering the names of artists and paintings too.”
“I saw his drawing. It was very good.”
She almost tripped, the sound of his voice shocking in its unexpectedness. It was a little rough, as though he hadn’t used it for a while. Which, to be fair, he hadn’t.
“Yes,” she said, trying to appear as if nothing special had happened. She was almost afraid to say more, in case it set him off like the painting had. But now that he’d had some time to process what he’d painted, she didn’t want to start walking on eggshells with him all over again. Not when it seemed that doing exactly the opposite might be a far better way to reach him. “I’d like to get him art lessons.” She was saving. Rosie was always saving. Her accounting job was good, but with a cottage in Willow Glen and a little boy who grew like a weed, the money leaked out as though it were sitting in a colander instead of a bank.
“Art lessons would be good,” he agreed as he watched the boys crowd up to the new painting. “What is it they’re looking at?”
“I’m not sure. The Legion of Honor rotates its collection regularly, especially if any restoration work needs to be done. Sometimes, the paintings are sent out for other exhibitions, like Water Lilies, which was included in a Paris show. Plus, they switch artwork back and forth with the de Young Museum in Golden Gate Park. They also store a bunch of stuff down in the basement. Once—” In her excitement, she reached out to put her hand on his arm. “Cherise took us down there. If you think it’s fabulous up here, the basement is a treasure trove. Everything’s packed up to keep it from deteriorating, but still, to be in the presence of all that magnificence…”
Suddenly, she realized she was touching him. But though it was likely the last thing she should have done when he was only just starting to thaw again, she couldn’t bring herself to pull away.
And despite everything—or maybe because of it all—heat flared between them. A blaze even hotter than the one that had ignited at the wedding. At last, she drew back her hand.
The boys speed-walked—it was the closest they could get to not running—to the Correa painting. “See, she’s watching you.” Jorge pointed at the beautiful woman, dressed in black, a black lace mantilla on her head. “While all the other people are listening to the monk.”
“Cool,” Noah said, his voice soft with the awe of a child who was seeing something extraordinary even if he didn’t know why it was so.
As for Gideon, Rosie was surprised by how closely he examined the painting. It wasn’t that he seemed to be a philistine when it came to art—he had definitely appreciated Van Gogh and Degas and Rubens. It was more that this particular painting was connecting with him on a deeper level than anything else in the museum had, even the incredible Monet.
“Every time I look at this painting,” she said, “I swear I see something new. The detail in the faces, the clothes, even the trees around the square—it’s phenomenal.”
He took a step closer, his brow furrowed. “I haven’t seen this painting before. I would have remembered if I had.” It was almost as though he was speaking to himself. “But I swear, it’s familiar to me.”
“Maybe,” she guessed, “you’ve seen other Miguel Fernando Correa paintings? He’s widely collected throughout the world.”
Gideon continued to stare at the painting. “Maybe. Although I’ve never heard his name before today.” At last, he took a step back, gave the painting one final glance, then looked at Noah and Jorge as they admired a Cellini bust of Cosimo I de’ Medici. “There’s so much wonder. So much amazement. In absolutely everything around them.” He said it as though remembering his own long-ago past.
Then he amazed her by giving the smallest of smiles, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, pulling her heart up with it.
With the boys filled with astonishing images, and Gideon only half stone instead of full stone, they finally made their way back down the Peninsula toward home.
“Uncle Gideon, can we go back to Rosie’s house? She’s gonna have a barbecue with hot dogs and sweet potato fries.”
