As we take our time browsing through the museum, he asks questions about Mom and Dad. He’s the first person to have taken an interest in them since their deaths—aside from prosecutors and reporters. The setting is perfect, and for the first time in so long, it’s nice to remember our happy times. We have so many memories here and all around Philadelphia. I could kick myself for forgetting them. I owe Rafe so much more than he’ll ever know.
After walking through halls of Asian and African art, we make our way to the European section. My breath catches as we finally come to the French Impressionism Era. Years ago, this would’ve been the first gallery I’d have visited, but today, I wasn’t sure I was ready. With Rafe, however, I find that I am.
I drop his hand and wander closer, taking my time to study each and every one even though I’ve seen them plenty of times. I get lost in Pissarro, Sisley, and Renoir, among others, but it isn’t until I come upon Monet that my heart falters.
My nose burns as tears threaten. Monet’s The Railbridge at Argenteuil was always Mom’s favorite.
Rafe comes up behind me and places his arms on my shoulders. “You okay, baby?” he asks.
I nod my head even though I sniffle. The truth is, I really am okay. “It was the first painting I ever laid eyes on, before I even knew it. Even before my birth, my mom was planning on introducing me to the art world. She was determined that it was going to be our thing. A reproduction of this painting was in my nursery as a baby. It hung on the wall of every room I ever lived in until I went to college,” I explain, not taking my eyes off the work of art.
He listens in silence and gives my shoulders an encouraging squeeze, so I continue.
“When I once asked her why that painting, she told me that it gave her a sense of calm. Of tranquility. Even though Monet didn’t paint the sun, the reflection off the water was evidence that it was there.” I pause, tilting my head as I wonder if he sees it, too. “I remember the way she playfully tapped my nose. ‘Like when you were just a tiny baby, growing in my womb. I’d sit in the rocking chair of your nursery and the painting brought me joy. I couldn’t see you, but I knew you were there. It’s a good life lesson. Always remember that, Brie,’ she said. ‘Even if you can’t see me, I’ll always be with you’.”
“That’s a good lesson to learn,” he whispers.
A tear trickles down my cheek at the memory. “From that moment on, I wanted to study art, to be able to look at something so seemingly simple yet let it touch my soul so profoundly. God, what I wouldn’t do to have that painting back again.”
“What happened to it?” he asks.
I shake my head. “After my parents . . . After the funeral, I couldn’t stand to go back into the house. Most of my things were in the dorm anyway. It had to be put on the market, however, because I obviously couldn’t pay the mortgage. I packed up what I wanted to keep and placed it all in a storage unit. A local church came and got everything else for donations. It’s possible it’s still there. At the time, it was too painful to even look at. I kind of blocked all of that out. That entire day was a blur. Hell, that whole year was.”
“We’ll get it back,” he tells me, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “I promise.”
My hand comes up and squeezes his. “Thank you.”
I wipe my eyes and move along to the next one—another Monet, the gorgeous Morning at Antibes. It doesn’t evoke such sad emotions, and I take my time studying the beauty of it.
“French Impressionism has always been a favorite of mine. That would be thanks to my mom, of course. Every museum we ever went to, that was the first exhibit she’d visit. I fell in love with the radical technique and sobering colors. The way the artists painted a masterpiece using a different technique of their brushstrokes, creating shadows with concentrated shades of color. They’re incredible, how effortless the paintings look, when in reality they were so carefully composed. Where does one come up with the creativity to paint a landscape this way? It gives it a classic beauty, yet there’s still such mystique and intrigue to it, you know?”
He’s silent behind me, and I tilt my head as I study the painting.
“Rafe?”
“I am not a Renaissance man,” he jokes, and I laugh as I continue to gaze upon the Monet in front of me. “Although I have always had a fond appreciation for things of beauty. Especially mysterious ones.”
His voice has softened, and the emotion in it causes me to turn from the painting to look back at him. His eyes are on me and not the wall behind me. My cheeks flush, and I bow my head slightly, not meeting his gaze as I wonder when I last felt truly beautiful. Long before him. That much I know.
As his fingers brush my bangs out of my face, I raise my eyes and look up into his. I’ll never tire of looking at this man. More than that, I’ll never tire of the way he looks at me. Ever since that first day, he’s seen me, and each day that passes, I see myself more, too.
“Brie, ever since I met you, all I’ve wanted was to take away all your pain. You were—are—this beautiful, mysterious creature who was caged up. I wanted to set you free, yet I want to keep you as mine. It’s fucking conflicting as hell, but above all else, it’s your pain I want.”
His words flow over me and settle in a deep place in my heart, which was previously closed off from anyone. His sincerity, his protectiveness, the gentle ease and tender way with which he treats me. It’s all suddenly overwhelming yet liberating at the same time. I swallow hard, wanting to say so much but unable to do so. It’s too fast, too soon. Still, as I look into his eyes, I give him complete honestly.
“What pain?”