“No,” I said. “But I have every confidence that it will be beautiful.”
Marco’s face softened slightly then. “And how could a painting of you be anything but?” he asked tenderly.
I smiled, though the gesture felt somewhat forced. It was at moments like this that I felt most guilty for how much I had come to look forward to the time I spent with Sandro, for how I enjoyed the feel of his eyes on me, for the free and easy conversations that we shared when we would rise and take a break from the work. I would return home to my husband and feel ashamed each time that I had not thought of him once while posing for the portrait that day.
Oh, what nonsense I worry myself over, I told myself sternly. When I spend a day with Clarice, I do not pine for and think constantly of my husband, do I? And yet I feel no guilt for that. But this felt somehow different, in a way that I could not quite articulate.
Pulling myself out of my thoughts, I leaned forward and rewarded Marco with a kiss for his sweet words, hoping all the time that he could not taste the guilt on my lips.
*
Once, as the portrait neared completion, Sandro painted on into the evening, lighting a plethora of candles about us so that he might keep working. I did not mind; I remained perfectly still and watched the deepening twilight cast shadows across the part of his face that was visible around the canvas.
He had barely spoken to me that day; simply positioned me upon his arrival and gotten to work, with only the briefest of pleasantries. Though usually I did not mind the silence in the least, I missed our usual conversation between sittings. So, though I had never done so while he was working before, I spoke. “You have been very quiet today, Sandro,” I said, my voice low, though his apprentices had left for the evening. His eyes flicked to me. “I take it the muse is speaking to you most eloquently?”
His eyes never left my face. “You are the muse, Simonetta,” he said, his voice raspy. “There is no other.”
*
Summer had long since faded into fall as Sandro worked on my portrait, and one day in early October I arrived at his workshop to find him in a flurry of excitement such as I had never seen before. “It is done,” he said when I entered, in lieu of a greeting.
“It is?” I asked, somewhat surprised. “Why, you do not need me today at all, then.”
He took my hand and kissed it. “I always need you here, Simonetta,” he said, his voice low. But then he released my hand and led me to a room in the back of the workshop. “I finished it yesterday; I could not stop working. And so it is good that you are here now, for you must be the first to see it.”
He gestured toward the easel where it was situated, and I gasped.
It was like looking into a mirror. He had captured me, absolutely: the fabric and design of the pale gown I wore when I sat for him; the line of my long neck; the pale shade of my skin; the exact shape of my nose, my lips, my chin; the exact texture of my wavy hair, though in the portrait he had painted it into an elaborate, Grecian style. The look in my eyes was a serious one, almost studious, and I realized that this was how I had looked all along, staring back at him, studying him even as he studied me.
I was partially in profile, as he had positioned me in the chair each day, and the background was plain and dark, causing the colors of the painting to shine in sharp relief.
I must have stared at it for so long that he grew nervous. I heard him clear his throat behind me, then shuffle his feet a bit, before he finally spoke. “And so?” he asked. “What do you think?”
I turned to him, and the look on my face must have answered his question, for a relieved smile spread across his face. “It is beautiful,” I said. “It is me—exactly. I do not think a better likeness could have been captured!” I turned to look at it—at myself—again. “I was here the entire time you painted it,” I said softly. “I watched you do it, and yet I cannot fathom how such a thing is possible.”
He moved closer to me, so that I could feel the whisper of his shirt against my back. “I am so glad you like it,” he said. “I do not know how I would have borne it if you did not.”
I turned to look at him, and the expression on his face was earnest. “It is beautiful, perfect,” I said, glancing at his mouth. My breath caught, and I shifted, looking away. “Perhaps I sound immodest, praising a painting of myself so, but it is only your skill I mean to compliment.”
“But you and your beauty have everything to do with it,” he said. “I have never painted better, I do not think, for I have never had such a model.”
I began to protest, but he cut me off with a shake of his head. “I mean it, Simonetta.” He moved ever so slightly closer to me and placed his hands lightly on my shoulders. “You have inspired me as no one else has. Ever.”
I felt myself swaying slightly where I stood. The urge to let myself fall against him, to feel him take me in his arms, was, suddenly, almost overwhelming.
And he would, I knew. He would crush me to him so that there was no space left between us, no room to breathe, to speak nor protest nor question. Yet I sensed that he would not come toward me any further. If someone was to take the step that would push us over the edge, it would have to be me.
And I could not do it. I was afraid, afraid of the things I was feeling. I am a married woman, and I love my husband. What wickedness now overtakes me? I wondered.
I stepped back quickly. It took a moment for me to collect myself, and a part of me cursed him for remaining silent, for not saying something that would take us back from this strange, frightening brink and back into the world in which we both belonged. “I thank you for showing it to me,” I managed at last. “I … it is everything I dreamed it would be, and more.”
He nodded, his eyes dropping from mine. “Of course,” he replied. “As I said, it is only right that you should be the first to lay eyes on it.” He cleared his throat. “Will Marco—Signor Vespucci, that is—like it as well, do you suppose?”
I took another step back, as though Marco’s name in the space between us was a reprimand of some sort. “I am certain he will,” I said.
“I am glad,” Sandro said. “I was thinking of perhaps unveiling it at the Medici palazzo—I know Lorenzo is most eager to see it, and I am sure I can convince him to give a dinner in honor of my new work, and of its subject.”
“That would be lovely,” I said. “It is a nice thought.”
He nodded. “Very good. I shall arrange it with Lorenzo and Clarice.”
“And I shall await my invitation.”
We both stood there in silence for a moment.