Chapter 18
18
Clio gestures to the gardens where she lives, a sly look in her pretty eyes. “Touch my painting.”
I lift an eyebrow. “I thought you’d never ask.”
She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “Right. I’m sure you didn’t at all expect a little naughtiness.”
I lean in, brushing a kiss to her sweet mouth. “I never expect. I always hope.”
“Hope is good.”
I pull back, rubbing my palms together. “All right. Where am I touching this fantastic, gorgeous, sexy, stunning, brilliant, beautiful work of art?”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she says, a flirty tone in her voice. “Including in there.” She tips her forehead to the painting.
“Exactly where I want to be,” I say, running my fingertips down her arm, savoring the feel of her warm skin, the way she responds, the goosebumps that arise in my wake.
“This is what I want you to do. Touch the flowers first. The irises. So you know you can go through the painting without flipping out.”
“I’m not going to hurt the art?” I ask, shrinking away a bit, thinking of the other Renoirs. I don’t want to add to the list of art work that’s been damaged around me.
“You’re a muse. You can’t hurt a painting.” Her voice softens, and she takes my hand between both of hers. “Your hands are no ordinary hands. Your eyes are not like the eyes of others. You see things other people can’t see. You can touch things other people can’t touch.”
She uncurls my fingers one by one, kissing the tip of each one softly. I want to do so much more with her, like we did last night, and then more than that too. But I let myself exist in this one achingly magnificent moment, with her velvet-soft lips against my skin.
“Now,” she instructs. “Reach inside.”
I take a breath and stretch my hand out like I’m petting a nervous animal. The canvas feels crackly, the petals on the irises chipped.
“That’s it. Keep going. You can’t hurt it, Julien,” she whispers in my ear, her voice pure poetry. “Close your eyes and just feel.”
Clio makes me believe I can be better than I ever have been before. I listen to her and close my eyes. Everything is dark now, but I can touch. This time, the canvas yields as I press my fingers to it. The surface stretches and invites my hands in. Against the blurry black of my closed lids, I see a momentary flash of silver, and in my palm is the softest flutter of a petal, smooth and real. I open my eyes. I grasp, tenderly but firmly, a bouquet of irises.
My jaw drops. I blink several times, astonishment tripping through me.
“I told you so,” Clio teases.
“I never doubted you,” I say, meaning it.
She smiles. “Good. I like that you trust me.” She gestures to the canvas. “Now put them back.”
I do the reverse, much as I tuck things back into the paintings every night, and the flowers fold back into the frame.
“And now, perhaps you’d like to come on inside and see my house,” she says. “Just don’t take anything with you except the clothes on your back.”
I hold out my hands wide, almost in surrender, like I’m showing her how much I do trust her.
I stare at her painting again. It seems odd without her in it. The space where she resides is empty, but not blank white. It’s filled in by other colors, but as if the colors have spilled into the middle. I reach my hand through, and the midsection of the painting expands inward, creating a weird and warped sort of tunnel. There’s a rushing sound far away, like wind is whipping open a secret passageway.
“After you,” I say. “This is definitely a ladies-first situation.”
She drops a quick kiss onto my cheek. “Such a gentleman.”
She steps inside the painting, and even though this might be the most daring thing I’ve ever done, riskier than breaking into a shop, crazier than believing in ghosts of artists, and more mind-bending than talking to Degas’ dancers, since I don’t know how I’ll return, I follow the woman I’m crazy for.
Because I trust her.
I step into the frame, stealing away from the museum and into another realm.
As I go, the canvas closes up, and I am on the other side.