The Muse Read online

  “The current owners . . .” I nod to the door. “Are they related to the woman in the painting?”

  Adaline shakes her head.

  I lower my voice in case the door opens suddenly. “Do you think it’s true that both artists were in love with her?”

  She shakes her head again. “That story arose well after the portrait disappeared. No contemporary sources mention it at all, let alone confirm it. And the newspapers of the day would have been all over a scandalous love triangle.”

  I don’t consider it a scandal. That’s just life and passion, the things that make art. Whether it’s this story or something else entirely, I know the woman in the painted garden has one, and I’ve found myself wondering about it ever since the portrait came to light. Who was she? Did she live in Montmartre? Was the portrait a commission, or did she model for other artists?

  “Hello.” The voice comes through the buzzer. “Come in, come in.”

  I push open the heavy green gate etched with curling ironwork panels and hold it for Adaline, then let the door fall behind us. A stone path funnels us into a courtyard ringed with yellow tulips. A young man comes from the other direction to meet us. He looks to be between Adaline and me in years—that’s a big spread, but if I had to guess, I’d say late twenties. His hair is super short, and his wardrobe is straight out of GQ—tailored trousers that I bet cost a month’s tuition, and a crisp maroon shirt that looks like it belongs on a runway.

  “Remy Bonheur,” he says, and holds out his hand to shake.

  “Such a pleasure to see you again,” Adaline says. “This is my brother, Julien.”

  I shake Remy’s offered hand. “Good to meet you.”

  He grins. “Enchanté.” He has a firm grip, and he doesn’t let go right away. Still smiling, he looks me over, as if comparing me to his expectations. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  I’m not sure what my sister would have said. But this doesn’t seem the time to push.

  “Thanks for the calf.” My gratitude is genuine, despite the strangeness of the gift. “I’ll definitely be the only person I know who has one.”

  I say it with straight-faced earnestness, and Remy laughs. “That is undoubtedly true. But do come inside.” We enter by an orange door at the end of the courtyard. The home is massive by Montmartre standards, and except for an elaborate security control screen on the wall in the foyer, the interior is like a trip back in time. Framed posters from the Moulin Rouge and a kaleidoscope of popular stage shows from the last century fill the walls. Old-fashioned carnival music plays on a phonograph in the living room, and in one corner is a two-animal vintage carousel with a tiger and a zebra to ride.

  It’s an astounding mélange of bohemian and beaux arts, and when Adaline catches my wide-eyed look, she grins at my reaction and mouths, Eccentric. See?

  Another male voice calls from the kitchen. “Ms. Garnier, I’ve just finished up the most divine clafoutis to share with you.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Clemenceau. And please, I hope you’ll call me Adaline.”

  “In that case, you can hardly call me Monsieur Clemenceau.” The owner of the voice pops in from around the door, smiling in a playful way. “Won’t you join me in the kitchen?”

  “I would be delighted, but first, let me introduce Julien,” she says.

  “Raphael sometimes forgets there is a world beyond the kitchen,” says Remy, then gestures from me to his partner and vice versa. “Julien, my more domestic half. Rafe, Julien Garnier.”

  His partner grins. “Yes, Remy and Rafe. Nauseatingly precious, isn’t it?” He rolls his eyes. “So matchy-matchy, I can hardly stand us sometimes.”

  I look again from one to the other, at the way they don’t touch, aren’t even on the same side of the room, but are tangibly connected on some level. “I don’t know,” I venture. “The names fit together, but I think maybe you both do too.”

  Remy gives a sharp burst of laughter, and Rafe and Adaline follow, though mostly Rafe. “I like this one.” To Adaline, he says, “Your brother has permanent entrée into Chez Clemenceau-Bonheur whenever he wishes to visit.”

  The tips of my ears burn with embarrassment, and I worry I’ve been too personal. I don’t look at Adaline but try to mitigate any damage I might have done. “That wasn’t meant to flatter you. I spoke without thinking.”

  “I know,” Remy says, still grinning widely. “That’s why I like you—both honest and extremely insightful.” Humor glints in his eyes at that last bit, and I exhale my tension.

  Adaline goes with Rafe into the kitchen, and as I look around again—the place is too big and amazing to take it all in at once—I notice a large oak table that’s home to dozens of miniature ceramic calves. Moving closer, I see that, like the one Remy gave me, each of these calves has a fifth leg. A brown calf has a meaty extra back leg jutting out of its shoulder. On a black-and-white calf, a skinny front leg hangs from its rear haunches. A trio of black calves have fifth legs that descend from their bellies. “You work in ceramics?”

  “I do.” Remy gives a “What can I say?” shrug. “I’ve never been terribly good with a paintbrush, but I do what I can.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. I like them.” I don’t touch without invitation, but bend for a closer look. “I dig the irony.”

  “How else would one make a five-legged calf but with irony?” Remy says, and I chuckle.

  “Good point.”

  He reaches across the table for a black calf with pink polka dots and a fifth leg where its tail should be. “This is my prize calf.” He glances toward the kitchen and lowers his voice to confide, “I’m giving it away at my surprise birthday party Thursday night.”

  I raise a brow. “How is it a surprise if you know about it?”

  “Because I’m throwing it.” He shushes me when I laugh, then explains, “I hate surprises. I’m that person who reads the last page of a book first. I want to know the movie spoilers, and I’ve never made it to Christmas morning with unopened gifts. Especially ones I order for myself,” he adds with a grin. “So, Rafe and I are throwing an un-surprise party for my twenty-ninth birthday. We all have to act surprised by anything anyone says, and whoever has the best look of shock or awe gets the prize calf.”

  “That does sound like fun.” It’s certainly more clever than the usual party games.

  Remy sets down the ceramic calf. “You should come. Bring friends if you want. The only requirement is to act surprised.”

  I gasp in melodramatic astonishment.

  “Brilliant.” He nods his approval. “A convincing look of surprise will serve you well in life.”

  “I can see where it would.”

  “So you’ll be here?”

  Before I can commit, Rafe and Adaline emerge from the kitchen with dessert and coffee, and we take seats around the table with the calves to enjoy them while talking shop.

  “I have the final paperwork,” Rafe says, opening a folder of paper documents.

  Remy gestures affectionately to his partner. “I’ve never enjoyed paperwork. Rafe is so much better at the details. Merci, mon chou!” he calls out.

  Rafe winks. “Someone must manage the humdrum things in life, like dinner and priceless pieces of art.”

  “And someone must be entertaining.”

  Rafe laughs. “And indeed you are.”

  Remy blows a kiss, and Rafe and Adaline begin to go over Remy’s family’s ownership of the Renoir through the years, the certification by independent authenticators, and reports on the tests of the canvas and pigment and all the other details that prove the painting is not fake.

  It would be much more interesting if I were involved instead of watching the tops of their heads as they skim the documents. After a bit, I ask the way to the restroom, and Remy directs me down the hallway to the second door on the left.

  “Be sure to have a look around at the art,” he says in his cheerfully hospitable way. “We have a Jasper Johns, a Monet, and a Valadon you might like to se
e.”

  “Will do,” I say as I slip out into the hallway.

  Since the trip to the loo is chiefly an excuse to get away from the table, I linger on the paintings Remy mentioned. I particularly admire the way Monet captured the cobalt-blue morning light on the pond near his home, his Japanese bridge arching over the dreamscape of water beneath it. What must it be like to craft such beauty with your own hands? To evoke so much wonder with a brush and pigment? I’m best at technical drawings—accurate, but nothing awe-inspiring. Want a map drawn? I’m your guy. But something this beautiful, this transcendent . . .? I wouldn’t know where to start.

  I wander a bit, looking for the Valadon Remy mentioned, but I don’t see one, so I finally make my way to the second door in the hallway. I open it, and then blink in surprise—genuine, not at all fake bewilderment—because it’s not the bathroom. It almost doesn’t look like it belongs in the same house at all.

  The room is uncluttered, with bright-white walls, a long black leather couch, and a plasma TV screen hanging on the opposite wall. Nothing strange there, other than the jarring modernity and perhaps the latched door in the middle of the floor.

  A trapdoor to a basement, maybe? But how can there be a cellar or basement when they live on a steep hill?

  But the part that rates a second look is the chalk drawing that covers half the door.

  Only half.

  I glance furtively over my shoulder, feeling as if I’m snooping but unable to resist. Going in, I circle the door to view the design right side up.

  A woman in a pale-pink dress, pale as the inside of a seashell, dances with a partner, her face turned away from him. I know the original of this—Renoir’s Dance at Bougival—but here, the man hasn’t been included in this chalk rendering.

  Will someone add him later? It seems like such a deliberate exclusion, as if the woman is what matters. Since I’ve been studying up on Renoir for my independent study project, I know that the woman in the painting is Suzanne Valadon, an artist herself—the first woman, in fact, to be admitted into art school in France. When Remy suggested I would want to see the Valadon, I’d assumed he’d meant something she’d painted, not a drawing of her.

  This is just weird.

  The voices in the living room are still droning on about the detailed provenance of the painting. Adaline is good at this. History and authenticity—those are her bailiwicks.

  My strength is curiosity. I have a passion for exploring, for uncovering answers.

  And damn, if it isn’t going into overdrive.

  I crouch beside the door and unhook the latch, then I pull it open, expecting a creak or a moan of hinges.

  I obviously watch too many horror movies.

  The door opens without a sound. Below, a circular staircase winds down into darkness. Could it be a cellar far below, deep inside the hill the house sits atop? I imagine Rafe’s relatives hiding their art there to keep it safe during the Nazi occupation of Paris. Many families did the same.

  No chance to confirm it now, so I close the door and shut the latch, curiosity unsatisfied. Something is going on beneath the surface here, and I don’t just mean in the cellar.

  A chair scratches across the floor, likely coming from the table in the living room. Time to get out of here.

  I close the door behind me as I leave, then I take a wild guess and open the second door on the right to find, sure enough, it’s the bathroom. I duck in, do my business, then leave and close the door again just as Remy comes down the hall.

  “Did you lose your way?” he asks, teasing.

  I hook my thumb toward Monet’s painting of the Japanese bridge in his garden. “You said to take a look at the art.”

  He smiles with something like approval. “Good, good. And did you get a chance to look at all of it?”

  All of it? Including the chalk drawing?

  He wanted me to see the trapdoor. I’m certain of it. Was I supposed to find the stairs beneath it too? And why the hell not just say, “Mon ami, you should see the stairs in the media room. I promise they don’t lead to a dungeon or anything.”

  I suspect Remy would love a dungeon simply for the irony of there being one in bohemian Montmartre.

  The moment passes as Remy tilts his head toward the living room and rolls his eyes. “They’re still talking pigment and chemistry and blah, blah, blah. So I figured I’d leave them to it and just show you the painting.”

  Yes, the painting.

  I forget everything else. Adaline and basements and trapdoors and mysteries. All I can think is, Show me.

  Show me now.

  Nerves thrumming with anticipation, I follow Remy to the white door at the end of the hall. He removes a key from his pocket, unlocks the door, turns the brass handle, and it all takes forever. At last, he pushes open the door, and once inside, he gestures to the painting hanging behind an imposing oak desk.

  Time stops.

  The house goes silent.

  Forget trapdoors and five-legged calves. Forget black cats and painted peaches.

  Nothing in the world moves outside of my tingling skin, while inside I’m a riot of thoughts and feelings. It’s Christmas morning presents and a winning bet at Monte Carlo and free run of the Louvre and love at first sight all rolled into one.

  I’m all goosebumps and hammering pulse. Photo reproductions are to this painting what a music box is to a symphony.

  The woman stands in the garden.

  Her back is mostly to the painter, but she’s twisting around, looking over her shoulder with a fierce stare, sharp longing in her eyes. Her gaze is defiant, and her eyes are etched in pools of radiant blue. Long brown hair cascades down her back, and one hand is raised as if she’s reaching for something or someone. And all around her, there are flowers hemming her in—irises in shades of violet, royal purple, and a plum so dark it’s nearly the color of chocolate.

  A chocolate-plum iris.

  And the woman. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

  “Shall we return to the others?” Remy asks, jerking me out of the moment.

  Maybe I need to be yanked away. I’m not sure I’d leave this room otherwise.

  Because I’m enrapt. More than I expected.

  “Yes, of course,” I say, catching another glimpse of her as I go.

  I can’t wait a few weeks to see her again at the Musée d’Orsay.

  But, I don’t have to wait that long.

  Without planning it at all, I turn to Remy. “About that invitation. I’ll definitely be at your party.”

  4

  Simon and I have zero classes together, as studies in history and studies in art history share only a word and not a department. But my last lecture on Thursday afternoon coincides with his in the same building, so it’s our routine to grab a coffee after.

  Coffee will be the perfect time to tell him my plan. My mind is still fixated on the painting, but also the staircase, the sounds that came from below. Which means the party is a perfect solution for everyone. As I emerge into the sunshine, he’s waiting on the front steps, scrolling through his phone. He looks up at my “Hey,” and pockets his cell.

  “Hey. My lecture was a snoozefest. I think I’m going to ask for my espresso intravenously.”

  “That’s one way to do it.”

  The café is hardly a walk at all, and we order our usual and luck into a table.

  "So, you asked for my most excellent date planning services for tonight,” I remark.

  He sits up straighter. “I did indeed. Lay it on me. Lucy’s bringing Emilie along, so the answer to this question may determine the future of our friendship.”

  “As it happens, I’m invited to a party tonight, but I can bring friends. Which I suppose you are. Technically.” I tell Simon about Remy’s un-surprise party and his house full of oddities, and he rubs his head thoughtfully, leaving his hair sticking up in all directions.

  “Well,” he says, “Lucy is kind of arty, and it’s something no one else could take h
er to.”

  I shrug, casually. “You wanted something unique, didn’t you?”

  That’s why he asked me—he didn’t need my help to plan a date to a café and a movie. And he really seems to like this woman.

  Plus, I quite like the idea of the party. The idea of being in Remy’s home again.

  For two very powerful reasons.

  “All right, I’m in,” he says, taking out his phone. “Since technically I suppose you’re a mate.”

  I roll my eyes. “Thanks.”

  He laughs deeply. “I’ll text Lucy to meet us in Montmartre.”

  And I count down the hours.

  Lucy is indeed arty, with enough personality to hold her own with Simon. Her friend Emilie is unmistakably a dancer, from her posture to the way she walks with her toes pointed out. She’s also sweet and sort of shy.

  We sit outside a crowded café near Remy’s home, a place with sleek metal tables and creaky wooden chairs, the perfect mix of old Paris and new Paris. Nearby in the square, an a cappella group performs, upbeat tunes directed by a pristinely put-together older woman, as passersby drop coins into a hat. Lucy and Simon are down the street, checking out Lucy’s favorite American retro shop.

  “Do you ever go to the ballet?” Emilie asks me, leaning closer as Lucy and Simon laugh loudly at a mime artist performing nearby.

  * * *

  “Sometimes,” I say. “My parents were total fanatics—still are. Season tickets, the whole works.”

  “That’s marvelous,” she says. “What was the last ballet you saw?”

  I answer without thinking. “Swan Lake, just the other night.”

  She tilts her head, her frown puzzled. “Here in Paris? I didn’t know it was being staged anywhere nearby.”

  Of course she doesn’t, because I’m an idiot. The impromptu Swan Lake hadn’t been staged anywhere but at the museum for an audience of one.

  “It was just a little indie company,” I improvise.