Page 15 of The Artist and the Muse

“Georgia, this is incredible. You’re an amazing cook.”

I shrugged. “It’s just a hobby.”

“Well, if your day job doesn’t work out for you, at least you’ll have cooking to fall back on.”

“You helped.”

A twinge of guilt still thrummed through me at the thought that I hadn’t told him what my day job was—but I didn’t want to think about that right now. Modelling felt like a lifetime away, something another girl did for a living.

He snorted. “I’m helping toeatit. Give yourself some credit, Georgia. It’s delicious.”

As I twirled a forkful of noodles and took my first bite, I thought he might be onto something. “Wow. That is good.”

He pointed his fork at me. “See. You, Georgia, are a culinary genius.”

We spent the rest of the evening eating pasta, laughing, and talking like we’d known each other for years, not days.

By the end of the night, as he drove me home on his motorbike, I rested my hands against his torso and held on, realizing I never wanted to let go of George Devereaux.

But I knew I had no choice. I would have to leave Italy behind, along with a piece of my heart, soon enough.

Chapter Seven: George Devereaux

Present Day

Pastor Tony was not the buttoned-up, uptight researcher I had assumed most academics were.

Then again, his demeanour—a Southern accent and jeans with a bolo tie instead of a suit jacket or blazer—didn’t give off the air of a typical academic. Despite his unpretentious appearance, he had a Master’s of Divinity and a bachelor’s degree in Renaissance Art.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me here, George,” Pastor Tony said as we walked into the MOMA’s exhibition on Christian art. I had originally suggested we meet in his office, but he’d suggested the Met instead. It was a welcome change, since I’d been cooped up in my office too much. Responding to emails from two hundred students and grading papers was more laborious than I’d previously thought.

“I should be thanking you,” I said. “You’re the one who took time out of your schedule to come help me when I’m not even a member of your church.”

His brown eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at me. “I don’t only work with members of the church. Though you’ll always be welcome to join us on Sunday, I’m happy to make time for you.”

“Because of Katerina?” I had met Pastor Tony a few times through my younger sister and her husband, Alexander Steele, who were members of his church.

“No, George, I think you might find that people enjoy your company outside any obligations to your sister.” With that, he walked toward the Caravaggio hanging on the wall, the one depicting Paul on the road to Damascus.

I followed him, trying to focus on the painting. His words needled my thoughts, bringing up my frequent doubts. What if people reallydidtolerate me because of Katerina? I was sure Aaron Steele, my sister’s father-in-law, only arranged for me to have my job begrudgingly, as a favour to her. Katerina was selfless and kind and charmed everyone she met. Me? I was the tag-along older brother, and I was sure many people in her life wished I would go back to Montréal.

“Did you know Caravaggio’s work was often deemed too vulgar and scandalous by the conservative clergy?” Pastor Tony asked as we studied the shadowy painting. “His own life was rather scandalous as well.”

My brows rose. While I had studied art history extensively, Caravaggio wasn’t one of the artists whose work and life I was most familiar with. Another reason that teaching this class would challenge me. “No. Tell me more.”

“Caravaggio was both incredibly creative and extremely violent. In fact, he died of a fever, after being wanted for murder when hekilled someone in a brawl.” Pastor Tony gave a dry chuckle. “He used everyday people as models for his paintings, and took inspiration from the common people around him, placing their faces into his depictions of iconic Biblical scenes.”

I fixed my eyes onConversion on the Way to Damascus.The massive brown horse took up most of the frame, and Saint Paul’s face and arms were the only glowing objects set against the murky edges of the painting. That play of light and shadow took on new meaning to me as Tony talked.

I’d always thought of the saints as idealized versions of themselves, scrubbed clean of human foibles. By extension, those who painted them were like polished statues of purity that no mere mortal could match. Yet even Caravaggio, the creator of such incredible artwork—who had been one of the first to work with chiaroscuro so dramatically—had flaws. Larger than life ones, too.

Unbidden, my thoughts turned to my own use of models in my art. Though it was a specific woman, a specific muse, who came to mind now.Georgia. But I couldn’t say she came to mind any more than I could say that oxygen came to my lungs. “That seems like the most practical approach to painting.”

“Practical, perhaps, but certainly vulgar when you think of how his painting of the Virgin Mary was reportedly modelled on a prostitute.”

I shouldn’t have choked on air when I heard Pastor Tony say the last word. Prostitutes were mentioned in the Bible, after all.

“Did I scandalize you?” Pastor Tony was proving to be a better conversation partner and a more interesting art lecturer than I could have ever hoped to be.

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