Chapter Six Find Joy in the Little Things #2
A museum security guard watches us as we stroll past. Perhaps we look suspicious. Or perhaps the security guard is wondering what I’m doing with this much younger man.
“This way,” Hart says, directing me. When we reach the floor that contains the exhibit, I’m suddenly very glad that I agreed to come. It’s like getting an inside, intimate look at his family’s legacy.
The first piece we stop to admire is a postimpressionism landscape with thick, heavy brushstrokes in a sea of colors—blues, grays, greens, and browns. It’s lovely.
Next there’s a large charcoal sketch of an owl that’s very striking. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s hard to believe that all this art was in a private collection in someone’s home.
“Come on, I want to show you my favorite piece.” He takes my hand and tugs me along. He’s like a kid in a candy store, and I giggle.
“The Basquiat?”
He nods, grinning.
We head past the Chinese pottery, and he points out his mother’s favorite piece of the collection—a very small and simple sketch of a Victorian lady carrying an umbrella. Finally we stop in front of the Basquiat piece.
While Hart gazes at the large canvas with its bold, chaotic lines, I tilt my head, studying it.
“What do you like about it?” I ask.
He considers my question, shoving one hand into his pocket. “It’s real. It’s not perfect. And it’s not trying to be. There’s movement, but it’s also very grounding.”
I nod, agreeing with his assessment.
He’s quiet as he gazes at the canvas, allowing me to study his profile. He’s beautiful.
After a moment, we continue, and I pause to look at an oil painting of a boat on a turbulent sea.
Hart stands behind me. I can feel the heat of his body, sense his closeness. I try to put my finger on his scent. A mix of expensive shampoo, bodywash, and something that’s uniquely him.
After a moment, I feel the sweep of his fingertips along my spine, leaving tingles in their wake that I feel everywhere .
“What are we doing?” I breathe. He arranges my hair, lifting it off my neck.
“Admiring the art,” he whispers. I feel the press of his lips to my bare shoulder. “Why? What is it that you think we’re doing?”
My lips part, and I inhale. “Is this how you normally admire art?”
“Sometimes,” he admits sheepishly. “When the art stirs something inside of me.”
He makes me feel light as a feather, so far from any stress or worry. So far from my life in Nairobi and the pressure of my work. “Isn’t this piece from your great-aunt’s house?”
He chuckles darkly, knowing he’s been caught. “True. Okay maybe it’s not the art that’s inspiring me.”
“No?” I challenge.
“No.” His fingertip skates across my spine while my heart hammers out a wild, frantic rhythm. “It’s you.”
It’s in that moment that I know. My attraction to him isn’t just physical.
He’s smart, funny, and interesting. He makes me feel things that I haven’t felt in ages—maybe ever.
I like him. Yet my brain flashes to him with any number of suitable girls who come from well-respected families, girls who are age appropriate for him, and my stomach falls.
“I have to go,” I blurt, and my shaky legs begin moving before I even know where I’m headed.
I make a wrong turn, though, and end up in a small alcove with a bronze statue resting on a pedestal.
Hart appears, his expression troubled. “Why do you keep running away from me?”
I’m quiet and look down at the floor between our feet.
“It’s not the usual effect I have on women.”
I meet his eyes with a smirk. “You don’t date women . You date girls .”
“Exactly.”
He lifts my chin with the press of his fingers to my jaw. We kiss again—slowly, leisurely. The touch of his tongue to mine stirs something inside me. He places his hands on my hips and draws me a step closer.
“I need to get back,” I say, fighting to catch my breath. Kissing him is like being thrown in the deep end.
“Okay,” he says softly.
We walk through the gallery, back in the direction we came from.
“What else did you do today?”
He shrugs. “Besides piss off my father? Just the gallery.”
My brow creases. “How did you piss off your father?”
His voice drops lower, and he leans closer. “He’s having an affair. I found out last year. I keep pushing him to end it.”
“Oh.” I blink at him. “That sounds ... complicated.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “He and my mother are trying to work through it.”
“Will she leave him?” It’s not any of my business, but I am interested, curious.
He weighs the question, then shrugs. “I’m not sure. Winthrops don’t often get divorced.” He smirks ironically. “It’s too expensive ... and too newsworthy.”
Theirs is certainly a world I’m not familiar with. But it’s not lost on me the way we move with ease from topic to topic, laughing one minute and then sharing secrets the next.
When we reach my hotel, Hart opens the car door and steps out with me.
“Are you going to invite me in?” he asks, bemused.
Emotion swirls inside me.
It’s easy to be confused around him. When I was back in my hotel room, I was more clearheaded.
No, I could absolutely not, under any circumstances, date a twenty-five-year-old.
But here, in his presence, that feels shakier, like absolutes don’t matter and the only thing that does matter is the crackling chemistry between us.
Finding common sense, I shake my head.
He chuckles. “I didn’t think so.”
It’s funny to think he knows me already even though we haven’t spent that much time together.
“Where are you off to next?” he asks.
“My friend Scarlet that I told you about convinced me to come home and go to her baby shower.”
“Back to California?”
“Back to California,” I confirm.
“I had fun with you in London.”
“Me too.” I pause. But then I take two steps back so he doesn’t try to kiss me again. His kisses do nothing but confuse me. “See you around.”
“See you around.” He smirks, shaking his head.
Later that evening, I begin typing a new blog post for my website, just like I do every week.
I write about notable women in history and the things they achieved that at the time seemed somewhat inconsequential.
The idea being that one person can make a monumental difference.
It’s a subtle way to encourage others to donate their talents and resources, no matter how minimal they believe their contribution would be.
Florence Nightingale, born in 1820, is revered as the founder of modern nursing.
In the face of opposition, she organized care for wounded soldiers at Constantinople.
At the time people thought her efforts would be wasted.
Nicknamed “the lady with the lamp,” she visited her patients’ bedsides with a candle to complete her rounds.
She significantly reduced death rates by improving hygiene and living standards.
She didn’t believe she was doing anything to change the world when she instituted handwashing at the hospital where she worked, but the death rate dropped from 45% to just 2%.
Unbeknownst to her, she laid the foundation for modern nursing. International Nurses Day is still celebrated on her birthday around the world.
What would you begin today if you knew you could not fail?
I delete the last sentence and try again. I enjoy writing my blog and the hours of research that come with it, but it’s always tricky ending these things. I try to strike a balance of asking for donations without being obnoxious.
Deciding to leave the post in my drafts, I make a mental note to run it past Joslyn in the morning, see if she has a suggestion for me.
When I crawl into bed that night, my phone chimes with a text.
It’s Sean, just now replying to my message wondering how Murphy was doing.
Sean: About the same, but he’s eating a little better.
Some positive news, at least.
Sean: But ... I got the test results back. It’s cancer.
An ache in my chest grows. Poor Murphy.
Alessia: Send me a picture.
A moment later, a photo appears. It’s a picture of a very happy and muddy Murphy playing at the dog park near where we used to live. I smile, and tears spring to my eyes. Man, I love that crazy beast.
Another text comes through, but it’s not Sean.
Hart: When will I see you again?