“The bequest was for the contents of Edward Willing's library," she said tersely, "and did not include the paintings.Those went...elsewhere." Her already disapproving expression became even more pinched with the word. Like elsewhere was Hell, or Overseas, or MoMA.”

“She had a point,you know," Edward commented a few hours later. "Unnecessarily crude, perhaps, but apt. Our public personas frequently do not match our private ones. You, of all people, should know that.""This isn't about me," I said grumpily. "This is about needing to find more information about the private you.Something I don't already know.""I have terribly ugly feet.""Not what I had in mind.And probably untrue anyway."Edward glanced down at the empty space below his rib cage. "Probably. So, what did you have in mind?""A letter,maybe.From Diana.Something that connected your love to your work.""I rather thought I did that through my paintings.""You did.I mean, that's what attracted me to you in the first place.Well, o, that was your smile, probably,but the paintings helped. It's just that I need to know more about your muse.""Ah, darling Ella, the artist's muse is Ego.Nothing more.""You don't mean that.You married Diana because she made you feel like no one else in the universe ever did or could."He nodded. "She was extraordinary.""But not everyone saw that.Your family went nuts.Half of your friends stopped inviting you over, at least for a while.""Their loss. She was a woman who comes along once in a lifetime.”

“Truth (according to Edward Willing): People who rely on first sight are either lazy or deluded.”

“Favorite painting...?""Painting? Odalisque," I said."Really.His non-nude nude. Interesting."It was,to me. Edward's most famous painting of Diana is Troie, where he painted her as Helen of Troy: naked except for the diamond bracelet and the occasional tendril of auburn hair. It had caused quite a stir at its exhibition. Apparently, Millicent Carnegie Biddle fainted on seeing it. It wasn't quite what she was used to viewing when she sat across from Mrs. Edward Willing every few weeks, sipping tea from Wedgewood china cups. Odalisque was more daring in its way, and infinitely more interesting to me. Most of the Post-Impressionist painters did an odalisque, or harem girl, reclining on a sofa or carpet, promising with their eyes that whatever it was that they did to men, they did it well. An odalisque was almost compulsory material.But unlike any of them,Edward had painted his subject-Diana-covered from neck to ankle in shimmery gauze.Covered,but still the ultimate object of desire."Why that one?" Dr. Rothaus asked."I don't know-""Oh,please.Don't go all stupid teenager on me now.You know exactly why you like the painting.Humor me and articulate it."I felt myself beginning the ubiquitos shoulder dip. "Okay. Everyone is covering up something. I guess I think there's an interesting question there.""'What are they hiding?'"I shook my head. "'Does it make a difference?'""Ah." One sharp corner of her mouth lifted. I would hesitate to call it a smile. "That is interesting.But your favorite Willing piece isn't a painting.""How-""You hesitated when I asked. Let me guess...Ravaged Man?""How-""You're a young woman. And-" Dr. Rothaus levered herself off the desk-"you went through the 1899 file. I know the archive.”

“I watched the silent battle in awe. Daniel waited patiently, giving Chloe a half smile that was less a friendly expression than a display of his incisors, which are slightly longer than the teeth on either side. It makes him look even more feline than he already does. "Oh, go ahead.Card hime," Frankie said wearily. "He doesn't mind.""No,no.That's okay.I'll be right back..." And she was gone.Daniel bared more teeth. "Nice, bro.""What? You're disgustingly proud of that ID."Daniel laughed. "I am," he agreed. "I totally am.”

“They came in to look. I watched them. Most people go through museums like they do Macy's: eyes sweeping the display, stopping only if something really grabs their attention. These two looked at everything. They both clearly liked the bicycle picture. Yup, Dutch, I decided.He was a few steps ahead when he got to my favorite painting there. Diana and the Moon. It was-surprise surprise-of Diana, framed by a big open window, the moon dominating the sky outside. She was perched on the windowsill, dressed in a gauzy wrap that could have been nightclothes or a nod to her goddess namesake. She looked beautiful, of course, and happy, but if you looked for more than a second, you could see that her smile had a teasing curve to it and one of her hands was actually wrapped around the outside frame. I thought she looked like she might swing her legs over the sill and jump, turning into a moth or owl or breath of wind even before she was completely out of the room. I thought she looked, too, like she was daring the viewer to come along. Or at least to try.The Dutch guy didn't say anything. He just reached out a hand. His girlfriend stepped in, folding herself into the circle of his outsretched arm. They stood like that, in front of the painting, for a full minute. Then he sneezed.She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tissue.He took in and, without letting go of her, did a surprisingly graceful one-handed blow. Then he crumpled the tissue and looked around for a trash can. There wasn't one in sight. She held out her free hand; he passed over the tissue, and she stuck it right back into her pocket. I wanted to be grossed out. Instead, I had the surprising thought that I really really wanted someone who would do that: put my used Kleenex in his pocket. It seemed like a declaration of something pretty big.Finally,they finished their examination of Diana and moved on.There wasn't much else, just the arrogant Willings and the overblown sunrise. They came over to examine the bronzes.She saw my book. "Excuse me. You know this artist?"Intimately just didn't seem as true anymore. "Pretty well," I answered."He is famous here?""Not very.""I like him." she said thoughtfully. "He has...oh, the word...personism?""Personality?" I offered."Yes!" she said, delighted. "Personality." She reached behind her without looking. Her boyfriend immediately twined his fingers with hers. They left, unfolding the map again as they went, she chattering cheerfully. I think she was telling him he had personality. They might as well have had exhibit information plaques on their backs: "COUPLE." CONTEMPORARY DUTCH. COURTESY OF THE ESTATE OF LOVE, FOR THE VIEWING PLEASURE (OR NOT) OF ANYONE AND EVERYONE.”

“It had seemed too whimsival on the occasions when she'd worn it, a quirky and impractical gift from a husband who hadn't lived to see her wear it. I never thought about the fact that, as Estella Marino, she was literally Star of the Sea. My grandfather had."I don't suppose I have much of a choice now," I said aloud."The admirable thing, darling Ella," came Edward's reply, "is that you ever thought you did.”