The Muse

by Lauren Blakely

  With him gone, I turn to Clio to ask her what she thinks about the lemon at the Louvre. But she’s grinning at me—absolutely beaming—and words slip away from me.

  But not from her.

  “You’re the muse,” she says, wonder in her voice.

  Her smile grows, spreading wider and etched with awe.

  Not just that—happiness, excitement . . . and relief, like something long-expected has arrived.

  You’re the muse.

  She’s been waiting on the muse.

  My world does another seismic shift. “You know about that?”

  “That there would be a human muse someday?” She nods slowly, her eyes alight with happiness. “But I didn’t know until you helped the guard just now that it would be you.”

  I run my hand through my hair, smiling ruefully. “It’s new information to me. I don’t entirely know what to make of it. But the whole thing doesn’t seem as ridiculous when you say it.”

  She gasps. “There is nothing ridiculous about inspiring people to create things of beauty. Just think of a world without—”

  “Slow down,” I say, smiling at her passion for art. “I meant, ‘human muse’ sounds either pretentious or silly, except from you.”

  Clio makes it sound like something I want to be.

  “Well, obviously,” she says.

  “What’s obvious about it?”

  She seems flustered for a moment, but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “Obviously it seems much more reasonable coming from the woman from the painting.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Good point.”

  Gesturing to all the art I’ve interacted with, she admits, “Truthfully, I feel like a bit of a fool for not realizing it sooner.” Her tone shifts to mischievous as she strolls closer.

  “Do you now?” I match her playful turn.

  One shoulder lifts in a shrug. “Well, I mean, how else would you be the only one to see me and the other paintings?”

  “What about the guy Gustave mentioned? The lemon at the Louvre.”

  She shakes her head. “Forget the Louvre right now. Forget lemons.” She trails a finger down my arm, sending heat to every point in my body, returning my thoughts to more than kissing, and only more than kissing. If a lemon fell from the sky or shot up through the earth to land in my hand, I’d toss it over my shoulder without a second thought.

  “What lemons?” I ask, my eyes locked on her, as I take her hand, leading her to Starry Night, to the little nook away from the guards, away from everyone.

  Where it can be just us.

  Once we’re there, her eyes swing behind us, checking for anyone, and then she smiles, all cat-that-got-the-cream. She backs up to the wall between two Monets—The Artist’s Garden at Giverny on one side and Regattas at Argenteuil on the other. The way she leans her shoulders against the wall pushes her hips forward, hip bones jutting slightly beneath the gauzy fabric of her dress.

  And she waits, expectantly, for me.

  This is a dream. She is a dream. I have imagined this expectant, pulse-racing temptation since I first saw her on the wall at Remy’s carnival of a home.

  I’ve wanted her, all of her: lips, hands, mind, mouth, body.

  Now I’ve gotten to know her, and my desire has intensified. Multiplied.

  I step closer. “You know what you said a few minutes ago? About more than kissing?”

  She nods, her lips parting slightly, and I can’t look away from them. “Gee, I remember it perfectly.”

  “So sassy,” I say with a wicked grin, cupping her cheek, then sliding that hand down to her shoulder, along her arm, to her waist.

  Her eyes drop to my mouth. “Maybe I want kissing and more than kissing.”

  “At the same time?” I tease, my fingers toying with the fabric of her skirt as my hand travels lower to give her what she’s asked for.

  What my bold, confident, and sometimes enigmatic Clio wants.

  More.

  I crush my lips to hers, pressing my body against her.

  Letting her know I want her too.

  The second we collide, she gasps, a wonderfully needy sound that thrums through my entire being.

  That drives me on.

  I kiss her more deeply, and she answers by looping her hands around my back and grinding against me.

  I heed the call too.

  One hand holds her face. The other reaches the end of her dress, sliding under, traveling along her soft skin.

  Her breath hitches the closer I get to the apex of her thighs.

  My body heats, desire pounding through me as I cup her, feeling her need, and she cries out, a desperate, gorgeous sound.

  Then, she moans as I slide my fingers under the lace and against her, where she wants me.

  I shudder.

  She trembles.

  I kiss her harder, a little deeper as my fingers explore all her lush wetness.

  She moves with me, rocking her hips against my hand, seeking out more contact, more touch. And I listen to all her needs, all her wants, touching her the way she seems to crave.

  We move and bend together.

  We rock and moan.

  But soon, kissing becomes too hard.

  And our mouths fall away as I roam my lips across her chin, her jaw, my fingers playing with her, gliding over and in.

  Soon, she’s gasping, the sexiest murmurs in the world tumbling from her lips.

  And my name too.

  My God, the way she groans it as she’s rocking against me, as her lips part, as her eyes squeeze shut, is the most sensual sound in the universe.

  I stroke a little faster, crook my fingers just so, and when I see she’s daringly close to shouting my name, God’s name, a curse, I cover her mouth with mine, losing myself in her kisses, and she comes apart on my hand.

  And nothing is better than this—the woman I am falling so hard for reaching the heights of pleasure in the midst of the most beautiful art in the world.

  Pleasure I gave her.

  Pleasure I want to give her again and again.

  Here, there, and on the other side of the gallery too.

  Let the Monets watch. Let the Van Goghs gawk. Let all the Cézannes gaze at this woman and me as we tangle together in this museum in Paris after midnight.

  Yes, I do have a Clio kink, and I definitely have an art kink.

  Because I would really like to fuck her surrounded by all the masters.

  After we clean up, we wander back to her frame, and she doesn’t seem the least bit shy. Rather, she seems wildly delighted.

  “So, that was decadent.”

  “Better than chocolate?”

  She stops, running her finger along my bottom lip. “Better than an apricot tart.”

  “High praise indeed.”

  “The highest.”

  She takes a beat, her eyes locking with mine. “Can I do that to you?”

  I laugh as my body screams yes. But practical me knows it’s too risky. I bring her close, whispering in her ear, “I just want to make you feel good. There will be time for all sorts of other things.”

  She pulls away, arching a dubious brow. “I’m holding you to that.”

  “You can definitely hold me to it.”

  We reach her frame, and I can’t resist another kiss.

  We linger on each other with soft hints and mere whispers of kisses, until she says, “More,” and crushes her hungry lips against mine in a feast of kissing.

  At some point we break apart to breathe. “Tomorrow, I want you to come to my place,” she says, so much mischief in her blue irises.

  “The gardens?” I ask, processing what she’s asking, a new possibility unfolding.

  “Yes, and I’m going to hold you to it.”

  I groan in pleasure. A big art kink indeed.

  I start counting down the hours.

  15

  I see a familiar face in my only tour the next day, and it’s a welcome one this time. Emilie gives me a little wave and
then a quick smile when I notice her in the group.

  I wish I had seen her before we started. I want to ask if she’s heard from the Paris Opera Ballet. It’s so easy to imagine her on the stage. Even the way she moves around the gallery is graceful but powerful, as if a swan mingled with a leopard to make her.

  When we stop at the Degas I’ve gotten to know, though, I do a double-take. How have I not noticed before that Emilie is a photocopy of Emmanuelle? She’s older, but with the same delicate bones, the same black hair and milky skin.

  “You look just like her,” says a round woman standing next to Emilie, so I know I haven’t imagined the likeness. “Maybe you’re related.”

  The group turns their eyes on the flesh-and-blood girl, and Emilie’s ears flame red.

  “You never know,” she says, glancing away.

  The attention seems to make her uncomfortable, so I jump in and guide the group to the next painting, taking the scrutiny off of Emilie, catching her relieved and grateful smile.

  When the tour ends and the group disperses, she lingers behind, as I’d hoped she would. I find her near the Van Gogh, tilting her head as she gazes at Dr. Gachet in his royal-blue coat.

  “So?” I say, and she turns to smile shyly at me. “Are you dancing under the chandelier now?”

  Her smile transforms into one that’s broad and beaming. “And hanging out with the Phantom in the underground lake. But he hasn’t crashed the chandelier yet.”

  “I knew you’d get in!” I grin, oddly proud of her, despite barely knowing her. “That’s amazing. Congratulations!”

  “Thank you.” Then there’s a pause, and Emilie seems to start and stop for a moment, before saying, “Would it be weird if I asked if you want to grab a coffee with me?”

  “Weird to get coffee?”

  “Weird for me to ask. The coffee is just coffee.” She waves a hand vaguely. “Lucy is my only friend outside of ballet, and you know how she and Simon have been grafted onto one another.”

  I laugh, because that’s accurate. “Sure. That would be great.”

  We leave and walk around the people lounging on the steps of the museum, stretched out in the warm August sun. I tense when I see Max on the sidewalk, but he’s sketching a young couple, moving his pencil quickly across the paper. His hands are normal, supple.

  Is normal Max a sign that thwarting Renoir’s forgery efforts has banished his ghost to. . . wherever the spirits of artists go?

  As Emilie and I weave past him, I say hello. It’s like poking a bruise to see if it’s healing. “How’s it going, Max?”

  “Going great,” he answers, sounding like the Max I know. “Just found out I’m going to be teaching a class on caricature at an after-school program. Applied for the gig a few weeks ago. I’m stoked.”

  “That’s great.” And I mean it. The real Max is personable and will enjoy talking about what he loves, I’m sure.

  He laughs. “Pretty soon, a whole generation of French youth will be drawing pointy chins and big noses.”

  I laugh too, relieved that Max has regained sole proprietorship of his own body.

  Emilie and I pop into a café and order coffee.

  “So, that Degas. You might not believe this, but you want to know why I got so red when that woman said what she did about me looking like the woman in the painting?”

  “Red?” I ask, straight-faced. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  She pretends to swat at me. The waiter brings our coffees, and Emilie stirs sugar into hers.

  “Try me,” I say. “You’d be surprised at the things I believe.”

  She hesitates than plunges, the words rushing out. “I’m like the great-great-great something of some Degas dancer.” Her nose wrinkles with an embarrassed grimace. “That’s what my mother tells me, at least. It sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

  “Emilie, that doesn’t sound the least bit crazy.” Or if it does, her crazy is nothing compared to mine.

  “So, she was supposedly this amazing dancer. Her name was—”

  “Emmanuelle.” We say it in unison.

  Emilie’s mouth falls open in shock. “How did you know her name?”

  I wave to dismiss my gaffe and improvise, “It must have been in the description in one of the catalogs.”

  That actually makes more sense than the truth.

  “Sometimes I wish I weren’t related to her,” Emilie says with a sigh. She rests her chin on her hand, and I hear the faintest notes of music again, just like I did at the café in Montmartre.

  “Why would you wish that?”

  “It’s too much pressure. I’ll never live up to it.”

  The strains of music grow louder. Emilie’s gaze is turned inward, so I glance around to see where the melody might be coming from. Thing is, I have a feeling, but I need to rule out mundane possibilities. “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” She looks around too.

  “It sounds like flutes.” I point to the ceiling speakers, even though the music surrounds Emilie, wreathing her in melody. “You haven’t heard them at all?”

  “No, but is the music pretty, at least?” She sounds amused.

  I smile. “Very much so. But tell me why you think you won’t live up to her?”

  The music has become distinct now. The string section comes in, and the melody turns to three-four time. This waltz is familiar—iconic, even, recognizable without even knowing the ballet. The source isn’t the café’s sound system, but the down-in-the-dumps ballerina in front of me.

  “Because I’m awful.” Emilie sinks deeper into her propped fist. “I’m rehearsing right now for—”

  “The Sleeping Beauty,” I finish.

  Emilie sits up straight and gapes at me. “How did you do that again? How did you know?”

  I shrug. “Just a guess.”

  It’s like when I saw exactly how Gustave could finish his art piece, as clearly as if I had read a schematic. He only needed a final touch of inspiration. With Emilie, I hear music when she needs a boost of confidence.

  I don’t know how Remy’s eternal Muses work, but this is how I work. Finally, something for my Human Muse User Manual.

  Desperately, I wish I could text Clio and tell her my insight, right now, while I’m still giddy from it.

  “A guess?” Emilie narrows her eyes then wags a finger at me. “Or perhaps you looked at our calendar and know that’s the next ballet of the season.”

  “That must have been it. I’m sure I read it somewhere. I bet you’ll even get a solo.”

  As soon as I say it, the music fades, like someone has closed the doors of the orchestra hall.

  “I’m trying out for one.” Emilie’s shoulders have relaxed, and so has her smile. “And thank you for saying that. I don’t know why, but I always feel so much better about my dancing after I talk to you.”

  “I’m glad. You should feel good about your dancing.”

  “Will you come to the performance?”

  “Name the time. I’m there.”

  She gives me a time and a date a few weeks from now, and we finish our coffee and say goodbye, both of us feeling good about the encounter.

  But good feelings don’t always last.

  On my walk back to the museum, my phone pings with a text.

  * * *

  Remy: Julien, mon ami!

  * * *

  Julien: That’s not at all a suspicious way to start a conversation.

  * * *

  Remy: C’est vrai. But promise to consider that I am but a lowly messenger for the powers that be.

  * * *

  Julien: What does that mean?

  * * *

  Remy: It means “Don’t shoot the messenger.” Here goes. The Muses want to know how everything is going with the Woman Wandering in the Irises.

  * * *

  Julien: Oh, really. The Muses want to know? Did you get an email, or do they communicate by skywriting?

  * * *

  Remy: Don’t be absurd. They write a note and
leave it in the basement.

  * * *

  Julien: Oh, well, of course. I’m heading in to work right now. That is a hint to get on with telling me the message.

  * * *

  Remy: Yes, of course. The woman in the painting—they want to know how she is.

  * * *

  Julien: Tell them she’s fine.

  * * *

  Remy: Is she?

  * * *

  Julien: She’s just great. Truly.

  * * *

  I make it up the stairs and wave to the guard at the reserved entrance. He lowers the rope and lets me through. The exchange gives my thoughts time to catch up, and I add another line, completely without sarcasm.

  * * *

  Julien: And tell them I do appreciate their concern.

  * * *

  Remy: I will.

  * * *

  I bound down the steps to the main floor, but then stop short when I smell that rose perfume, thick and heavy. I turn around and see Max walking to the door with that out-of-sync gait. I get a good look at his hands; they’re curled up into the cuffs of a long-sleeved shirt. My chest tightens—that’s not really Max at all.

  What is Renoir up to now?

  I suppose he could be up to nothing more sinister than gazing at his own masterpieces and reminiscing.