Page 62 of The Artist and the Muse

He sighed, raking a hand through his already-dishevelled hair. “It’s the family business, George. It was never personal.”

Katerina’s conversation drifted back into my mind.Closure…I’d dismissed her idea of closure. But perhaps God had put me back into Sebastian’s path in order to show me something. In order for me to rid myself of the incessant guilt I’d carried for so long.

The taxi pulled up outside a restaurant that read CAVALLI’s in gold script.

“Are you coming?” he asked. A line of people snaked outside the restaurant.

“No. I already told you, I have a work meeting to get to.”

“Suit yourself, then. Don’t be a stranger, George.”

Sebastian slid out, leaving only a stack of bills that he thrust at the driver and a white business card on the seat.

SEBASTIAN CAVALLI

OWNER OF CAVALLI’S RESTAURANT

His phone number was printed beneath it in a plain serif font on heavy cardstock, with his family’s logo embossed in gold on the back.

I shook my head and stuffed the card in my pocket.

The day had certainly taken an unexpected turn. But maybe I had God to thank for that.

***

After taking a quick shower to wash off the travel grime, I hopped in another cab to get to the university for my meeting, which I would definitely be late for.

I arrived at the humanities building and sprinted up the stairs to the room where the staff meeting was. I bit back a curse as I checked my watch. I was seventeen minutes late.

“Ah, Mr. Devereaux, you’re here. Excellent.” The Dean’s voice held no trace of biting sarcasm, which I had expected from him. I’d thought he would admonish me for my lateness. His tone seemed cordial, even genuine, as I walked into the room. “Take a seat.”

I took the last empty seat to the right of the Dean. “I apologize for my lateness. I had some, ah, travel delays on my way here.”

That wasn’t a lie. I didn’t have to specify who had delayed me.

“There’s been a new opening in the faculty of Art and Classics,” Dean McCallum said. “Our sessional instructor of modern art, Professor Finch, is retiring this semester, and we have yet to find areplacement for him. How would you like to be our new sessional instructor?”

I blinked, unsure of what I had thought would happen in this meeting. It certainly hadn’t been this. The meeting had been arranged weeks ago as a simple way for me to recap what my students had learned and how my class was going. It wasn’t supposed to give me a job offer.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” I said, glad I was sitting so I wouldn’t fall over.

A wave of shock and warm pride flushed my cheeks. Was someone really recognizing my skills and talents? I started picturing my office, a plaque with my name on it inside the hallowed halls of the art department. Something more permanent than my current temporary office—a sign that I’d really made it. Even if it was a job teaching modern art, I’d still make the most of it.

“Why modern art?” I asked. I wasn’t the biggest fan of contemporary art. If I could be completely honest, things like the Art Basel stunt where someone had taped a banana to the wall, or a Jackson Pollock painting, made me agree with the general public that most contemporary art was garbage. Still, becoming a more permanent fixture in the NYU faculty wasn’t anything to scoff at.

The Dean arched an eyebrow. “Positions in the art department do not become available often, Mr. Devereaux. Are you wishing for a subject more to your liking?”

I straightened in my chair. “No, not at all. I was only curious.”

Dean McCallum chuckled. It was the first time I’d ever heard him laugh, but it felt fake somehow. Not a real expression of his humour or good mood. “Well, given the generous donation that Aaron Steele promised us to fund our arts department here, I couldn’t think of a better man for the job.”

My stomach sank, my shoulders slumping. Everything in me seemed to slope downwards, sinking toward the floor, which I wished could swallow me whole. So it wasn’t about my skills as a teacher. It wasn’t about me at all. It was about my connections, my family.

I should have wanted this, shouldn’t I? It was a stable position, regular income. It would tie me to New York—perhaps to Georgia. Would she tell me to take it? Why couldn’t I bring it in me to be as excited as I was about teaching this Christian art course?

Taking my silence for agreement, the Dean continued. “Of course, our strict anti-fraternization policy would still be in place if you took this role.”

Georgia wouldn’t be a student anymore. But what we’d done in Italy weighed heavily on my conscience. Not that I could ever regret what had happened between us, but if I took this job, I’d always be watching over my shoulder. Waiting for us to be found out.

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