10. Zinnia
ZINNIA
“Get up,” she instructs. “I’m taking you to the Met, and then to lunch.”
“I know you have class later,” Gran says. “But we’ll be finished by then. Come on, you can’t spend all morning in bed, wasting the day away!” She gives my leg a firm pat, then rises. “I’ll be waiting downstairs.”
I laugh as she ambles from the room, sitting up to stretch in bed. Everyone is so worried about Gran, but I’ve never seen her more full of life. I could leave New York, and she’d be fine.
My mind drifts as I shower and dress, thinking back to last night.
I hadn’t wanted to go to life-drawing class, mainly because I’d been dreading seeing Nick.
By the time the evening rolled around, I wasn’t only hurt by the way he spoke to me, I was kind of pissed.
Maybe I was a little too informal after class on Monday, but he didn’t need to be so rude.
I only wanted to talk to him about the works he’d discussed in his lecture. Surely that’s not unreasonable?
But I also knew I couldn’t bail on June.
She’s sweet and reminds me of Gran in a way, with her love of the arts.
I kept picturing the relief on her face when I volunteered to model, and knew that if I was going to leave town, the least she deserved was a few days’ notice.
So I went to class, planning to tell June at the end of the night that I was grateful for her letting me model, but that I had to move on.
I figured that gave her a couple days to find someone new for the next class.
What I didn’t count on was Nick. Or rather, his…
energy. I don’t know how to describe it, but he felt different.
Outwardly, he was as rigid as always, issuing instructions in that detached way of his, but beneath his composed exterior, I sensed something else. Something I haven’t seen in him before.
Maybe it was the way I could feel his gaze, checking in on me throughout the class. Maybe it was the twenty-minute break where he stared out the window, lost in thought, as if there weren’t eighteen other people in the room.
Or maybe it was the moment he kneeled beside me, brushing a strand of hair from my eyes, as if he needed to… I don’t know what. Apologize? It wasn’t an apology, but it felt like one.
Or maybe we all went a little crazy in the heat.
I pull on a soft cotton dress, check my hair in the mirror, then head down the stairs to meet Gran.
“Ready?” she asks, reaching for her purse.
“Ready,” I echo, smiling. I can’t remember the last time Gran and I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and as we ride in the town car, there’s a fizzle of excitement in my chest. Even after only a few evenings of posing for June’s class, I have a new appreciation for the way artists capture the human form.
Thinking about the class beside Gran, I know I need to come clean. She signed me up in the hopes I’d fill a sketchbook and find my inner artist, but that’s not who I am. I can’t keep lying to her. I won’t.
“Gran, I have something to tell you,” I begin, stomach rippling nervously. “About life-drawing class.”
“Mm?” she replies, gazing wistfully out the window.
“I haven’t been drawing.”
Gran’s gaze comes back to me, shimmering with amusement. “You haven’t?”
“No. I’ve been… I’ve been modeling.”
She nods. “I know.”
“You know ?”
“Of course, darling. June and I are old friends.”
I exhale slowly. “So, you’re not mad?”
She laughs. “Why on earth would I be mad?”
“I thought…” I huff a laugh myself. “I thought you wanted me to draw.”
Gran turns to me, taking my hands into the bony velvet of her own. “I want you to be happy, my dear girl. That’s all I want.”
I gaze into my grandmother’s deep-brown eyes, warmth rushing through me.
Every summer spent with her—every time she made me feel like I belonged in New York, even when I knew it couldn’t last—rises in my memory at once, as if I’m living them all in this moment.
They surround me like a warm hug, secure and safe, until the driver shatters the moment by announcing our arrival.
“Thank you, Charlie,” Gran says, checking her fuchsia lipstick in her compact before we step from the cool air conditioning of the car into the hot summer air.
I pause outside the massive stone museum, taking in the ornate Corinthian pillars and huge arched entryways. Gran used to love explaining the style of architecture to me, so I learned to appreciate the building itself almost as much as the art inside.
She smiles as we enter the marble foyer, showing her volunteer staff ID badge at the front desk. The staff greet her like an old friend.
“It’s been far too long, Sylvia!” a middle-aged man says, rounding the desk to squeeze her. “How are you?”
I watch her as they exchange pleasantries, pondering his words. Too long ? I thought Gran volunteered here all the time? The thought plays through my mind as we cross the foyer, but before I can say anything, Gran motions to a huge poster suspended on the wall.
“Oh, look,” she says brightly. “The Titian exhibit will be here soon.”
I lean forward, interest piqued as I imagine Nick coming to that, spending hours analyzing the brush strokes up close, poring over the composition, the technique. I’m a little alarmed to realize part of me wishes I could be there.
Gran’s eyes twinkle as we enter the first hall, Greek and Roman Art. “Dr. Sweetman will be pleased.”
I freeze. I’d forgotten Gran knew Nick, or at least knew of him. What was it she said? Dr. Sweetman is a leading expert in the field .
“How do you know Professor Sweetman, Gran?”
“Oh, he’s given many guest lectures here over the years,” she says, pausing to examine a Greek vase in a glass display case. “We’ve crossed paths a few times when I’ve volunteered.” She turns to me, gaze lit with interest. “How are you finding his classes?”
“We’ve only had one,” I point out, strolling to a marble statue of the Three Graces. “But it was inspiring. He talked a lot about the Scrovegni Chapel.”
Gran smiles warmly. “We both know how magnificent that chapel is. Did you tell him you’d seen it?”
I shake my head, deciding not to mention the way Nick shut me down when I attempted to talk to him about it after class.
Even if he didn’t apologize for being rude, I want to forgive him.
The more I think about it, the more it feels like he didn’t mean to be so blunt; it was a reflex.
Protective, almost. Nick’s had his guard up since day one, so it’s hardly surprising he pushed me away, especially given his shock at seeing me on campus.
I probably shouldn’t have approached him so casually, especially since he’s like a deer you don’t want to spook.
Gran and I move through to the Contemporary Art wing, and I pause in front of a Kandinsky, eyes tracing the color and movement as I think about last night.
In that moment when Nick brushed my hair from my eyes, I glimpsed the man behind the armor.
The same man who told me he loves Venus of Urbino without meaning to.
He’s so complicated, this beautiful man who loves art, who seems to hide that love behind the safety of scholarly analysis.
And despite myself, I’m drawn to him.
I check the time on my phone, wavering. Class starts in an hour and a half, but I’m still undecided on whether to go.
Pushing the thought from my mind, I follow Gran into the European Sculpture Court, an airy two-story section with high glass ceilings, where light filters through to reflect off the marble floor and dance across statues, shadows pooling at their feet.
It’s one of my favorite parts of the museum, and I take a moment to soak it in, feeling for a moment as if time has stood still.
Gran and I pause in front of Perseus with the Head of Medusa . “How are Mom and Dad?” she asks lightly.
I sigh, turning away. My parents are management consultants, hopping from city to city on short-term contracts, always chasing the next project, the next promotion.
While they’ve never discouraged me from having a relationship with Gran, I know Gran and Mom haven’t been close since she met my father, a man more interested in business than the arts, and not at all who Gran imagined for her only daughter.
I shrug. “Same as always.”
Gran focuses intently on the sculpture in front of us, and I think that’s the end of the conversation when she says, “I know it can’t have been easy for you, Z. Moving so much as a child.”
I pluck a map of the museum from a nearby stand and busy myself looking for Renaissance art.
“That’s why I always asked to have you stay for the summer,” Gran continues. “Provide some sense of stability.” She turns to me, fingers brushing my arm. “You know you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Not only for the summer.”
My throat tightens inexplicably, and I place my hand over hers, squeezing. “Thanks, Gran, I appreciate that, but you’ll be sick of me soon enough.”
“Nonsense!” She laughs as if this is the most ludicrous thing she’s ever heard. “I will never tire of you, my dear Zinnie, and no one can tire of New York. There’s always somewhere to go, someone to meet.”
I smile. She’s right about that. In all the summers I’ve come to the city, I’ve never once grown tired of it.
“Which reminds me,” Gran adds, “you have to meet Poppy. She lives next door, at Marty’s old place. Remember him?”
I do remember Marty. He was a lovely old man who grew vegetables in his yard and always brought plenty for Gran.
But that’s not what I’m thinking about right now. What I’m thinking about is Poppy sitting in Gran’s living room, drinking iced tea with us.
“Poppy?” I echo, studying Gran carefully. “I met Poppy yesterday with Violet and Iris, remember?”
“Oh,” Gran says, looking suddenly flustered. “Yes, of course.” She tugs at the Hermès scarf around her neck, glancing away. “Let’s go to the European Paintings wing.” Then she heads toward the stairs before I can say a word.
My heart pounds as I scurry after her, thinking of Poppy’s words yesterday— mixing up days of the week, leaving her front door open, forgetting her keys .
Things I’d written off as no big deal. We all make mistakes from time to time, and I can only imagine it’s normal for that to get a little worse with age. Nothing worth making a fuss about.
But forgetting three women had come for iced tea less than twenty-four hours ago? That doesn’t seem right.
“Gran?” I ask, taking her arm to help her up the steps, despite the frown she gives me. “Is everything… okay with you?” I think about what the guy said at the front desk, that it’s been far too long since Gran was here. “There’s nothing I should know about?”
“I’m as right as rain,” she says, smiling as we arrive on the second floor. “Now, follow me. There’s something I want you to see.” She weaves across the gallery with purpose, depositing us in front of a painting. “There. Look at it.”
But I’m still examining Gran, perplexed. How is it possible she can’t remember yesterday, but she knows the layout of the Met like the back of her hand? Worry tugs at me, and for the first time, I wonder if Poppy is right. If something is wrong, and I just haven’t wanted to see it.
“ Look , my darling,” Gran insists, nudging me toward the painting.
I force my gaze to the work on the wall, and my breath catches at what I see.
It’s a painting by Giotto, shimmering with gold leaf, showing the three wise men visiting baby Jesus while Mary looks on.
After seeing slides of the Scrovegni Chapel in class only two days ago, it feels almost surreal to be standing in front of a painting by Giotto again.
I cast my mind back to how Nick described Giotto’s work; the early attempts at perspective, the use of drapery, the overlapping figures.
He wasn’t passionate, exactly, but underneath that carefully controlled exterior, behind his dry, academic terminology, I could sense his real love for the work.
Maybe that’s why I tried to talk to him after class.
Why I still find myself thinking of him, even now.
“Thank you, Gran,” I murmur, leaning my head on her shoulder as we gaze at the painting. I’m not sure if I’m thanking her for taking me to the Met, for reigniting my love of art this summer, or for always being there for me, but I just know the words need to be said.
Thankfully, she doesn’t ask. She simply presses a kiss to my hair, whispering, “You’re welcome, Z.”
After that, we stop for lunch at The Balcony Lounge, and as Gran and I talk about our favorite pieces, I forget about class. It’s not until we’re in the gift shop and she mentions it that I remember.
I don’t want to go. It’s been so weird with Nick, it would be easier not to.
It would be easier to leave New York altogether.
But as Gran smiles at me across the museum shop, something inside me shifts, just a little. And even though I'd been thinking about leaving before the end of the summer, I buy a handful of art history books and head off to class.