Page 25 of The Artist and the Muse

“George! Thank you for making the time to see me,” Pastor Tony said when I sat across from him in the same diner we’d gone to before. It felt odd to sit across from him like a friend, as though he hadn’t just given a sermon that had shaken me to my core.

“It’s always good to talk to you, Pastor Tony,” I said. My coffee and a Reuben sat in front of me, untouched.

“Yes, I wanted to tell you about a new job we have opening up soon at the church. I’m looking for someone to run the local arts programat the community centre for disadvantaged kids. And I think you’d be perfect for the job.”

“Me?” My eyes widened.

“Yes. I think the pay might be a little less than you make in your current position, but you might also find the job more rewarding.”

“But, why me?” There must have been so many more qualified people in his congregation. “I hardly have any teaching experience, much less with kids.”

“The program is for youth from the ages of twelve to seventeen. You would teach them how to paint and keep them out of trouble.” Pastor Tony’s knowing look said he knew I’d seen my fair share of trouble as an adolescent. “I think you should apply. You wouldn’t have to do it by yourself—there would be another person watching the youth—and you’d need a police security check, but—”

A police security check. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can do it.”

There was no way the NYPD wouldn’t discover my background in Italy. Right?

I mean, sure, I’d never been arrested—only the guys Sebastian had set up to take the fall for our crimes had been—but surely somehow they would discover my involvement. What kind of role model could I be anyway?

“George, I’m not asking you to say yes right now. Think about it. Pray about it.”

I sighed. “The truth is, Pastor…” Was I about to tell him about my sordid past committing money laundering with a notorious gangster? If I knew anything, I knew that was probably a terrible idea. “The truth is, I’ve never worked with kids before, like I said. Even teenagers. I’m not sure I’d be any good at teaching them how to paint.”

“Everyone has to start somewhere, George. At least think about it. Please.” His brown eyes were sincere and pleading.

“I’m not sure why you’re asking me this, Pastor. I mean, surely there must be someone in your church who has artistic skills, right?”

“There are, and they will volunteer for the community centre. With your background, though, I think you could be a real asset—”

“A great example of what not to do, huh?” I scoffed.

“George, your background and history may not be the most squeaky clean. But that’s why they could relate to you. They need to know that you’re not perfect. They can’t learn from someone who is.”

I shook my head. “You’ve got the wrong guy, Pastor.”

He sighed. “Well, thank you for hearing me out anyways.”

The conversation moved on to a safe topic: Michelangelo’sPieta.

Despite my protests, I couldn’t help but feel regretful over declining his job offer. Maybe it would be something that I would’ve enjoyed, if I didn’t have past involvement with Sergio’s schemes. What if I could’ve been someone different?

No, don’t get your hopes up,I reminded myself.You’ll only let yourself down as always.

Chapter Thirteen: Georgia Philips

Picking at my salad, I absentmindedly rubbed the spot on my shoulder that still ached in cold weather. After Sergio dumped me over text, I’d been crying and had slipped on a patch of ice while getting onto my motorcycle and bruised my shoulder. It had ached for weeks, and caused me to learn the art of applying body makeup.

“Georgia?” Katerina glanced over at me as I separated a dried cranberry from a piece of kale. “Want to try my sandwich?”

She was eating grilled cheese with a side of French onion soup, both of which smelled delicious.

“I’m good.” I held my breath and tried to ignore the delicious aroma of melted cheddar and brie wafting towards me. I had a shoot on Tuesday and I had to do a good job. My agent had heard about my last shoot from Rachelle Stevens, who had accused me of reacting ‘unprofessionally’ to Sergio’s sudden reappearance, so I couldn’t let Claire give me any more reasons to suspect my work ethic was less than stellar. That included remaining a size two.

Next to me at a round table in the hole-in-the-wall brunch spot, Allie ate a steak-topped eggs Benedict, the smell of which made my stomach growl. I shifted in my seat; even though it was eighty degrees outside, I wrapped my shawl more tightly around my frame. I was only cold because of the air conditioning. Not because a pile of rabbit food was my first meal of the day.

Never mind that Katerina was sweating next to me in a linen shift dress, Allie wore a tank top and shorts, and Abigail was clad in a sleeveless blue slip dress that ended at her knee. Their summery outfits contrasted sharply with the scarf I had draped around my shoulders. However, I was probably just cold because I happened to be seated under the fan.

I took a sip of my coffee and shivered. Why had I ordered an iced Americano? It wasn’t like I enjoyed the taste of coffee by itself anyway—I preferred caramel macchiatos to black coffee.

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