Page 67 of The Artist and the Muse

I picked it up. “Hello, Pastor Tony. I’m surprised to hear from you.”

I heard a smile in his voice as he said, “There are no surprises, George. Only Providence.”

Sometimes I got the feeling he would have made a great extra in a kung fu movie starring a wise sage and a foolish young prodigy, but I kept that to myself. I hailed another cab to Georgia’s apartment, inwardly groaning at the amount of traffic in front of us as I held the phone to my ear.

“How have you been? Is there a reason you’re calling?”

“I wanted to hear about your trip to Italy. How was that?”

“Oh, you know…” I was unsure of how to label my time in Italy. Life-changing sounded too cheesy. Nice was too weak a word for how I felt about it. “It was an experience I won’t forget any time soon.”

“Travel often is.”

I launched into a description of the trip, telling him about the art and architecture we had seen, but glossed over the parts with Georgia. Those felt too personal to share with anyone but her.

“How lovely. It sounds like you and your students all had a wonderful time.”

“That, we did. I even got to chat with my teaching assistant, Hunter. He told me he wants to be a priest.”

Being a Baptist, he probably didn’t approve of Catholics, but he surprised me as he often did with his next words. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. What else did you and Hunter talk about?”

I told him all the fascinating stories and topics of conversation we had discussed—leaving out Hunter’s advice on love—and he listened attentively.

“I have to say, George. You seem different from how you were when you left. Less burdened by life’s troubles.”

“I did have the academic equivalent of an Italian holiday.”

“I don’t think that’s it. I think you sound like I did after I’d met my wife for the first time. At peace. Like all is right with the world because you’re in love.”

“Pastor Tony—” I started but didn’t know how to finish that sentence.

“I think you either fell in love in Italy, or you’ve finally told the woman youwerein love with how you really feel about her. Am I wrong?”

I sighed. “Pastor, I’m beginning to think you’re never wrong.”

He chuckled. “May I never think so! I pray the Lord always keeps me too humble to believe that.”

“There is a woman, whom I’ve wanted to be with for a long time, but the timing was never right for us.”

He chuckled. “If God has brought the two of you together only now, then He must not have wanted you together before.”

I pondered his words. Perhaps I had never been right for her before. Deserving of her before. Not that I was now, but I hoped I could attempt to be.

“That’s enough romantic advice for today. Did you give any more thought to the job I was telling you about before you left?”

“I did.”

“And are you reconsidering?”

I took a deep breath. Was I only interested in applying because I’d turned down the promotion from Dean McCallum—his offer that had felt too much like nepotism and less like I’d earned it on my own merits? And because I knew the police check wouldn’t be a problem anymore?

Or was I interested because I truly wanted to make a difference in the lives of teenagers who needed it—teens for whom art could be both an escape and a tool for channeling their impulses and emotions into beauty?

“Yes,” I said. “I think I’d like to apply, if you’d still have me.”

***

I showed up at Georgia and her mom’s apartment, carrying a bouquet I’d hastily picked up from a florist next to their building. I vaguelyremembered Georgia telling me if she had to choose a favourite flower, it would be calla lilies, so I’d gotten a bunch of them in various colours.

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