Page 1 of The Artist and the Muse

Prologue: George Devereaux

“Daddy, can you tell us the story of the painting on top of the fireplace?” Sadie, my seven-year-old daughter, bounced up and down on the rug as she pointed toward the artwork. Her light brown hair—which I was in the middle of braiding—flew out of my hands as she leaned toward the painting. I yawned, stretching my arms out on the leather couch.

“Please, please, please?” added my five-year-old daughter, Savannah, jumping up from her spot on the couch, where she had been petting our cat, Linguine. “I wanna hear the story! You neverever,ever,evertold us about that painting before.”

She widened her electric blue eyes for effect, the colour so much like her mother’s. Both of my daughters had me wrapped around their fingers as much as their mom did. Sadie and Savannah were sprawled on the couch next to me, wearing fuzzy sweaters, leggings, and fluffy socks to combat the November chill outside our apartment. Two wingback chairs and a loveseat flanked the couch, which faced our roaring fireplace.

“Fine, fine.” I sighed dramatically, although I had told them this story at least twelve times before. They just insisted on hearing it again. Maybe this time, though, I would go into more detail. “I'll tell you the story.”

“Yay!” Savannah clapped. Both girls scrambled to sit next to me on the sofa, and tucked themselves under my outstretched arms.

“Is it story time already?” Georgia asked, entering the living room with a knowing smile and a glance toward the painting that hung above our mantel, in place of a TV. Neither of us watched enough television to warrant having one—she sometimes binged true crime shows on her laptop, or reality TV if she was having a really bad day. Our house was cluttered with my artwork instead. Well,Isaid it was cluttered. Georgia claimed having an artist for a husband was her decorating hack.

“Yes, Mommy!” Our daughters’ elbows dug into my ribs as they leapt from the couch, launching themselves at their mother.

Sadie hugged Georgia around the waist, just barely tall enough to do so on tiptoe. When had Sadie gotten so big? It seemed like just yesterday I was holding her as a newborn in the hospital. “Are you going to join us for story time?”

I'd been abandoned by my children in favour of their mom. At least Linguine came over, purring, to rub his tawny head against my legs before settling down on top of my feet with a contented purr. He left tufts of golden fur on my jeans, fur that the girls always called the colour of toasted marshmallows.

“Hm… I don't know. You guys still haven’t gotten ready for bed yet. We can’t have story time until you're both in your PJs, at least,” said Georgia.

“But, Mommy…” Savannah pouted, “we wanna hear the story.”

“And you can do so after you change into your PJs. Maybe if you do it really fast, Mommy will make hot chocolate,” Georgia promised.

With that, the two of them ran upstairs to their shared bedroom, each of them clearly excited by the prospect of Georgia’scioccolata calda.

“I think we have a few minutes before they'll finish getting ready for bed. Why don't you come join me on this cold, lonely couch?” I patted the leather seat next to me as my wife padded across the living room, wearing the same long, white nightgown that always reminded me of Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. Her bunny slippers silently padded across the rug before she plopped down next to me, curling up and resting her head on my shoulder.

Georgia was tall at five-ten, but she fit perfectly nestled into my side. “I've always loved that painting.”

“I'll send my compliments to the artist,” I teased, knowing without looking that she was rolling her eyes.

“After all these years of being married to me, shouldn’t your ego be slightly deflated?”

“Getting a woman like you to marry me was no easy feat, soau contraire, my ego is inflated by you walking into the same room as me,” I said.

We fell into a comfortable silence as we listened to the girls scramble to get ready for bed.

I studied my painting. With most art pieces I’d made, I always looked at them critically, seeing sloppy brushstrokes or improperly blended colours. With this piece, though, there was nothing I would change. Perhaps it was because the painting had taken me months to complete, much longer than I usually spent on a piece. But I thought it was because it contained my favourite subject: my wife.

It was a picture compiled of the numerous times we'd been to the fountain, and we’d never gone at sunset, like it showed in the painting, or while holding ice cream. But I loved that painting all the more for what it represented: a summary of how our life together had begun.

In it, the two of us were in front of theFontana della Tartarughein Rome, laughing as each of us held colourful scoops of ice cream in waffle cones. The sky glowed in perfect dusky shades of peach and pink and blue, with a few fluffy clouds blanketing the sun as it dipped lower in the sky. A motorcycle was parked to the side, gleaming green in the evening light reflecting off the fountain. No tourists clouded the view, but we wouldn't have noticed them anyway, as we only had eyes for each other.

She wore the dress she had donned on our wedding day, and I had on a suit with the necktie undone and hanging around my neck. There could have been no one in the world but us at that moment.

“Mommy! Daddy! We're ready for hot chocolate and story time!“ Sadie yelled as she skipped down the stairs. She and Savannah were now clad in cozy Christmas-themed flannel pyjamas and slippers with pompoms on them.

“Okay!” Georgia yelled back as she got up, kissed me on the cheek, and then went to the kitchen to start making the drinks.

Knowing her, she’d probably prepped all the ingredients already and only had to throw them in a saucepan. Italian hot chocolate was one of our family staples, and on cold winter nights like this one, she usually made it at least once a week. It was thick and rich and creamy enough that adding marshmallows would be an insult. The staff at the local Italian grocery store loved seeing us walk in, knowing we were always about to buy up their stock of chocolate. And cheese.

Sadie and Savannah settled onto the tufted emerald green loveseat next to the couch, both of their feet barely able to skim the carpetedground as they swung their legs back and forth. Seeing my daughters never failed to make me smile.

“Now tell us the story!” Sadie pleaded.

“Okay, okay.” I chuckled at their eagerness. “It all started in Italy, when we were at an art museum.”

---