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CHAPTER1
Francesca
The painting of the young woman might seem plain compared with the other more colorful pieces of art at the Met, but it’s always stood out to me. Her young face, the small smile on her lips, the modesty she exudes, and the hope in her eyes.
“Study of a Young Woman” by Johannes Vermeer is the reason I come to the Met every month. I see myself in the girl in the painting. I could look at this painting for the rest of my life and never get bored.
People walk past me, taking in the more vibrant paintings nearby. Leaving me alone to study it, memorize its every detail. I don’t feel alone when I’m in a museum. You can’t be. Not when you’re surrounded by so much history and beauty. Compared with the chaos that is my home life, this is where I feel most at home.
Someone bumps into me, breaking me out of my concentration. I turn to see it’s a man in his thirties, fairly handsome by societal beauty standards. I expect him to apologize for bumping into me. After all, I’m the one standing here, keeping out of the way of the other patrons. But instead of a quick apology, he shoots me an annoyed look and says, “I didn’t see you there. You should really move so others can walk by.”
My mouth drops open. I’m not standing in the way. I’ve made sure of it. There’s plenty of space for people to walk behind and in front of me.He’sthe one who ran into me.
“You should really learn to say sorry,” he mutters before moving past me. I flush and look down at my feet. A part of me, a huge part, wants to shout after him that he needs to learn manners, but I remain silent. Speaking up for myself is not my strong suit.
I sit down on the bench directly across from the painting. At least this way, no one can claim I’m in their way. I refocus my breath and mind on the painting, trying to curb my sudden anxiety. It’s hard to not feel like a burden when people treat you like one.
I’ve just about found my quiet, safe place again when an older woman starts to sit down on the bench with me. Except she doesn’t sit down next to me. No. She ends up sittingonme. It happens so fast I can barely react before she gasps and stands up, looking at me like she’s only noticing me for the first time now. I guess she is.
She clutches her hand to her chest. “I didn’t see you there. You were so quiet. You blended right on in.”
I give her a tight smile. “It’s all right,” I manage to say as that creeping embarrassment hits me again.
“You should speak up more, dear.” She pats my shoulder before taking the seat next to me. I want to tell her it’s a museum, so there’s a reason I’m quiet. But, as always, I don’t. There’s never a point. I’m either ignored or treated like a problem when other people make the mistake. I’ve learned to let it slide; otherwise, it would eat me up inside. I’m here to find my happy place with my favorite painting, and that’s what I’m going to focus on.
Fortunately, no more embarrassing incidents happen during my visit. After checking my phone, I realize I’ve been here for several hours, and it’s time I head home, not that anyone will notice. My mother has a bad habit of forgetting I exist. With eight kids to think about, one of us has to slip through the cracks.
I motion for George, my personal guard that I’m ready to leave. Middle-aged with a potbelly, he walks away from the wall he had been leaning against and joins me in walking out of the museum. I didn’t grow up with a personal guard, but after one of my older sisters, Gemma, was kidnapped four years ago, my mom cracked down on our protection. Gemma ended up marrying the man who took her, Viktor, so it all worked out in the end for her. But the guards remained.
At least George notices me. He’s paid to, but I try to not think about that.
“Enjoy the museum, George?” I ask as we walk down the large steps at the museum’s entry. Their slippery with ice, and George has to grab my arm as I stumble.
“Yes, Miss, uh, Francesca,” he says. When he became my guard a few years ago, he kept calling me Miss, but I told him I preferred Francesca. Or Fran or Franny, but those are too intimate for George. So, he makes an effort to call me Francesca, and that’s all I can ask for.
“What was your favorite painting?”
“Well, I don’t really know anything about art. So, I don’t have a favorite.”
I frown. It’s hard to find people to talk to about art. My siblings aren’t interested, nor is my mom, and apparently, neither is my guard. I don’t really have anyone else I really talk to, seeing as I prefer looking at paintings or reading books about paintings or analyzing paintings. So, I’m a little obsessed.
“There wasn’t any you liked?” I prompt, hoping for something more. I shiver in my winter coat, the biting chill in the air stinging my eyes and nose.
“I mostly kept my eyes on you, Francesca. I’m your guard. I need to make sure you’re all right at all times.”
“Thank you for doing your job, then.” I drop the subject, not wanting George to be bored. “Are there any other hobbies you enjoy?” We walk over to the black sedan parked on the side of the road. George opens the passenger seat for me, and I get in.
“Not really,” he says, after getting into the driver’s seat. “I’m busy being your guard.”
I just nod and fall silent. So much for making conversation. It’s already hard enough for me, but it’s even harder when the other person doesn’t give me much to work on. At least with George, the silence is easy and not awkward.
He drives me home and drops me off at the door. George doesn’t need to keep an eye on me when I’m in my own home. That’s what the other guards milling around the place are there for. I wave goodnight, then head inside, where it’s warm and will either smell like a freshly cooked dinner or smelly socks. There’s no in between. When eight people live in a household, things can get out of hand. My mom tries her hardest to keep the house smelling nice, but it’s not always possible when she has no help cleaning. Which is why I help around the house to make things nicer, but I’m not sure my mom notices.
I’m not greeted by anyone when I step through the door. I take off my snowy boots, winter jacket, and hat before heading upstairs. I can hear the rest of my family in the kitchen having dinner, but I don’t join them. It’s easier this way.
I spend the next half hour reading my favorite book about Roman architecture when someone knocks on my door. It’s Gemma. “I didn’t know you came over,” I say, closing my book. My older sister is gorgeous, with blonde hair and stunning blue eyes. She looks so much like our mom. I got our father’s looks, with dark hair and slightly less pale skin; though it’s still easy for me to burn when out in the sun too long.
“Viktor wanted a home-cooked meal, so I suggested we come over here.” She rolls her eyes and plops down onto my bed. Even at twenty-two, she retains a teenage vibe. “It’s not as if we don’t have nice meals at home. But I know Viktor is trying his hardest to gain our mom’s trust, so I think that’s the real reason he likes to come over so often.”
