Page 56 of The Artist and the Muse

My heart knotted itself into a new shape behind my ribs.

“I love you, and I want to be the man who’s good enough for you. The man worthy of you. And for a long time, I didn’t believe I was that man. What could I possibly offer you?” He gave a sardonic laugh. “I was a wandering nomad and an artist with no real home. But now I have this job, and a somewhat stable life, and I’d like to give you whatever I can, everything I have. It won’t nearly be enough, it won’t nearly be what you deserve, but…” He sat in the chair next to mine, and reached for my hand. “I hope that you’ll be patient with me. Let me try to be a man worthy of you.”

A lump swelled in my throat. I swallowed and spoke. “It was never about being enough for me, George.”

“No?”

“No. It was about whether you wantedusto be enough for you. Whether, after all your travelling and restless wandering, you wanted to settle down. I thought you broke things off because you didn’t want to be tied down.”

He squeezed my hand, and somehow that gesture seemed to warm my entire body.

“You have always been enough for me, Georgia. You’re perfect for me.”

“I’m not perfect,” I protested.

Because even though I was no longer staring at my reflection in the mirror, I could still see all my flaws. Under my foundation, I recalled a scar I’d gotten once from falling off my bike on the left side of mychin. My hips were slightly crooked; one of my legs was slightly longer than the other. I had never liked how short and stubby my fingernails looked under my fake nails. My body was imperfect in dozens of minute ways that my agent, designers, magazine editors, and strangers on the internet had pointed out to me.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Georgia. I don’t want whatever made-up version of perfect you have in your head. I wantyou. I loveyou.”

Chapter Twenty-Five: George Devereaux

Ending the trip felt bittersweet. On one hand, I was looking forward to finishing out the semester of teaching at NYU, which I’d enjoyed more than I’d expected. Teaching others about art history encouraged me to learn more about my craft.

While I was excited to end the course, leaving Italy felt like leaving Georgia all over again. This was the place where I’d originally fallen in love with her. I made a mental note to have my paintings shipped from my studio in Italy to New York. Fortunately, no one had found out about our dinner date last night, though I was still feeling paranoid about the dean finding out. As we ate our final breakfast in the hotel’s dining room, the students were chattering away cheerfully. Georgia spoke to Jamie, one of the students I didn’t know that well. Hunter was talking with two American tourists also staying at the hotel about some video game I’d never played.

We stored our luggage at the hotel and then went out for one last tourist attraction: the Capitoline museum. Buoyed by the cappuccino I’d had at breakfast and the lively Italian music from buskers around us, I felt the constant stress and pessimism that had cloaked me for so long melting away. Perhaps it was because I’d spent my morning with Georgia, but I felt relaxed and at ease.

We walked through the heavy double doors. Then we strolled down a seemingly endless ramp to reach the museum’s displays and were rewarded with a dizzying array of exhibitions: Egyptian hieroglyphs and mummies; Roman marble busts; and Greek pottery. Tall, arched windows allowed the sunshine to dance across the signs and artwork, while frescoes of cherubs painted the walls and vaulted ceilings.

The museum was truly a work of beauty. It still took my breath away to think that pieces of such magnificent glory could have been made by mere human beings. I didn’t doubt for a moment that God had reached down to guide their hands while they painted or sculpted their creations. The artists had been co-creators with God, the Artist and Author of all. The thought made me smile more than it would have a decade ago.

We started with the Capitoline museum’s picture gallery. One of the first paintings I saw was Tiziano’sBaptism of Christ.In it, John the Baptist held a chalice over Christ’s head, while angelic cherubs watched from the crowds. Both men were clad in what looked like loincloths; John knelt on the riverbank while Jesus was standing in the river. Another grey-haired man was slightly in the foreground, his face turned toward Jesus.

A closer look at the placard beneath the painting told me the grey-haired man was the artist’s patron, Giovanni Ram. But that didn’t explain the curiosity the painting evoked in me.

“Why was Jesus baptized?” I mused aloud. In all my years of church attendance and errant study, I’d never learned the answer to that one. Didn’t sinners require baptism for their sins and impurities? Yet here was the supposedly sinless Messiah being baptized. And by John, who’d even stated thathewas the one who required baptism from Jesus.

Hunter was quick to respond. “Do you actually want an answer to that question?”

“I’m quite serious about it, yes.” I chuckled at his reply. “Do you get a lot of rhetorical questions about the baptism of Christ?”

“He was baptized not to repent of his sins, but to show those around him that he was beginning his ministry. Even though He himself never sinned, He identified with sinners. The Bible tells us we die and are crucified with Christ and are raised to life with Him. In the same way, He was baptized as we are, to symbolize us dying to sin and being raised to new life.”

I thought of my own baptism; there were pictures of both me and Katerina in white baptismal gowns as squirming babies. Though I’d been confirmed into the Catholic church, I’d never considered it my home. Staring at the painting of Christ’s baptism, I couldn’t help but wonder what that had been like for Him.

That He, without a single sin—neither needing to be baptized by our standards, nor to be washed clean of anything—had done it anyway. Had suffered for us, had undergone the punishments we should have.

And yet, after all that, He had still forgiven us. After suffering for our sins, He had still managed to forgive us for them and then to call us to forgive those who sinned against us.

That grace, that mercy, was unfathomable to me.

Yet somehow, it was real.

***

On the flight back, I sat next to Hunter, while Georgia was sitting with Jamie.

“What was your favourite part of the trip?” I asked Hunter.

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