Page 9 of The Artist and the Muse

Before I could so much as protest or ask how she knew she’d see me again, she had slipped past the red curtain and vanished.

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“So how long have you been in Italy?” I asked Georgia as we made our way away from the museum toward an area with more restaurants and shops. I was glad she’d taken me up on my offer of a date.

She’d shown up outside the gallery just as it had closed and I was walking out. I’d asked the museum staff to wrap the painting up for her, in the secret hope I would encounter her again. The only problem was, I wasn’t sure where I would find her. I wasn’t about to stalk her—I’d already done enough creepy-ish watching from afar and wasn’t about to repeat it—so I was grateful to see her again. She’d given the hotel staff her address and they had arranged for it to be shipped to her home.

Now, we were walking away from the tourist areas and toward a quieter section of Rome. Crowds of visitors snapping pictures receded into the background, and were replaced by locals going about theirlives. The souvenir shops gave way to small restaurants, cafes, and some grocery and convenience stores.

“My cousin and I have been here a week and we’ll be staying for another two weeks,” said Georgia.

“Then where will you go?” Perhaps they’d continue their European travels, as many did. I was half-hoping they might; it might have enticed me to leave Italy and move on. “Paris? London?”

“No, home. To New York.”

My heart sank. I don’t know why I had thought this would be anything other than a vacation fling for her, as I’d regrettably had so many of those in the past as well. Perhaps God was mocking me for my past sins and tempting me with what I couldn’t have.

The longer I spent with her, the more I thought that Georgia wasn’t the kind of woman I could be satisfied with knowing for only a handful of days or weeks.

She turned the question on me as we walked toward a street filled with gelato shops and bakeries. “How long are you going to be in Italy? Do you live here?”

I had been here for the past few months, deciding to stay in Rome as my savings dwindled. It was expensive living in Italy, especially in more touristy areas, but I had felt called to remain in Rome for longer than I typically stayed in one place. Perhaps it was because there were no more highs for me to chase, or dreams to fulfill in the ever-expanding distance of my life. I was content to remain here, for once not running after the next shiny thing on the horizon..

Usually I would have gallivanted off somewhere else by now. Perhaps fate or even God had placed me here for a reason. Although Georgia’s presence in my life was temporary, she provided a much-needed respite from my routine of painting and not much else.

“I’ve been living in Rome since last Thanksgiving, so about five months.”

She frowned. “Thanksgiving is in November. It’s February now, so wouldn’t you have been here for four months?”

“My bad.CanadianThanksgiving.“ I chuckled at the minor difference between our countries. “I love Italy. The food, the people, the culture…”

I wasn’t just talking up the country to her. Aside from Montréal, it was the only place that had ever felt like home.

Although I’d taken off from my hometown at the age of eighteen and not looked back since, I still missed it at times. I missed my father, and my younger sister, Katerina. But the escape had been necessary. A reprieve from the monotone, mundane life of taking over my father’s manufacturing and shipping company, Devereaux Inc.

Then, after a few months, it had been less about escape and more about exploration. Now, I felt like I’d seen so much that going home would be foreign to me.

“I agree,” Georgia said, her hand brushing against mine as her arms swung by her sides. She wore a white linen dress that had puffy sleeves and a lace-up bodice; the outfit conjured up visions of romantic, idyllic picnics in the countryside. “There’s a beauty about this place that you just can’t find anywhere else.”

“Yes.” The gorgeous cathedrals and the faint glimmer of St Peter’s Basilica in the distance beckoned to me. My gaze scanned the cobblestoned streets and colourful signs in nearby shop windows. Finally, it landed on her, and I wondered how she would look in a painting, silhouetted against the late afternoon sun with the lively backdrop of the square. “There is.”

The tingle I’d felt when her hand brushed mine distracted me, and I almost missed her next words. “There’s the gelato shop!”

We walked inside. She ordered a pistachio ice cream while I got a caramel gelato, and we watched as the worker carefully scooped our desserts into the shapes of rose petals.

I pulled out my wallet to pay before she protested or reached for her purse. Despite my long-severed connection to the place of my upbringing, my mother’s admonitions to always be a gentleman still weighed heavily on my shoulders.

We sat in silence on a park bench and watched people go by as we finished the treats. I found it surprisingly easy to sit quietly next to her; there was no need to fill the silence with awkward conversation or forced laughter. A gentle evening breeze stirred my hair, wafting the faint aroma of her perfume toward me.

“Thanks for the ice cream,” she said. “Now, where to next?”

“I know a beautiful fountain where we can throw coins. It’ll be less crowded than the Trevi Fountain.”

“But how will our wishes come true?” She grinned and let me lead her toward the fountain anyway.

Mine already hassprang to my lips and I quashed it down. What was wrong with me, letting myself envision romantic fantasies with a woman who was leaving in two weeks? Especially one who was most likely never going to return or remember who I was?

“Don’t worry. I don’t believe in wishes.”

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