“Why are you wearing that?”
“What—my hat? You don’t like it?”
I do actually. Though it would look ridiculous on any other person, he, of course, somehow pulls it off. “It’s ninety degrees outside.”
He shrugs. “It’s raining.” As if that explains it all. As if the yarn his hat is made of would not get drenched instantly in a downpour.
Then he grins at me, and suddenly all my anxiety and worries feel a hundred miles away. Maybe because they are. They’re back in Hope Springs.
“Right, well.” He claps his hands together and the sound echoes in the cavernous room. “Where do we start?”
I stare at him for a beat, and realize how instantly at ease I feel, like I know him, really know him, and my lips slowly spread into a smile. “God, this is so weird.”
“The hat?!” he says. “Jesus, I can take it off if it’s making you that uncomfortable.”
A laugh bursts out of my mouth, and just like that, I’m glad I came.
* * *
I lead him through the busts first—Mask of Crying Girl, Head of Sorrow, Man with the Broken Nose—telling him all the facts I know, some I memorized from the placards, others from various art history classes and books.
“This piece was rejected twice from the Paris Salon, because of its departure from the notion of classic beauty.
“Rodin liked this one so much, he replicated it in stone.
“It’s actually a monument to Joan of Arc.”
He pauses at that. “What is Joan of Arc’s favorite coffee?”
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
“French roast.”
I groan. “Oh my god. That’s terrible.”
He laughs, and we start walking to the next bust.
“So, do you sculpt, too, or just paint?” he asks.
“I dabbled in all different mediums in college, but painting is what I love most. My best friend, Raya, is an incredible sculptor, though. She welds metal. What about you?”
“Me? No, I’m terrible at welding.” He grins.
“I meant your writing. Is it just celebrity books or do you also write, I don’t know—novels?”
“Oh God, am I that much of a cliché?” Before I can respond, he answers his own question: “Yes, yes, I am. I have written a novel. Unfortunately, no one else wanted to read it. Thirty-seven rejections later . . .”
“Ouch.”
“‘Pedantic’ and ‘tedious’ were some of the flattering descriptors. And those were the nice ones.”
“Ooh! I can play this game,” I say. “‘An incohesive amateur display, without the talent to add depth and substance.’”
He raises his eyebrows. “One of your paintings?”
“A collection of them. My first—and not surprisingly last—exhibition.”
“A big success, then?”
“Rousing.” I grin.
He pauses, his eyes growing serious. “Is that why you’re sad?”
I hesitate. “How could you tell?”
He shrugs. “I’m not a makeup expert, but I think the mascara is supposed to stay on your lashes?”
“Oh geez,” I mutter, quickly rubbing beneath my eyes with my index fingers.
“You know,” he says, tilting his chin down as if sharing a secret. “Someone once told me that the first sculpture Rodin ever submitted to the Paris Salon was rejected twice.”
“Is that right?” I say, mock wide-eyed.
“I don’t really know—she might have been making it all up. But the point is, what the hell do critics know?”
“What the hell do critics know,” I repeat, a grin spreading across my face. And I realize Harrison was wrong. Dreams are not the only thing Oliver and I have in common.
We walk slowly, stopping in front of sculptures, but not really seeing them. Not anymore. We’re deep in conversation. Trading bits of information about each other like kids swapping Halloween candy.
Finally, we reach the last sculpture—a large, solid piece of white marble. It’s one of Rodin’s more vibrant and overtly sensual works: Eternal Springtime. A couple embracing, the woman arched back while the man bends over her, clutching her in his arm.
“Well?” Oliver asks, arching an eyebrow.
I clear my throat, reassuming my position as tour guide. “So this is one of his more famous pieces. It, too, was originally supposed to be a part of The Gates of Hell, but was deemed too cheerful and, therefore, antithetical to the theme. The model was a woman named Adele Abruzzesi, but most historians believe he consciously or subconsciously included features of Camille Claudel as well.”
“Who?”
I hesitate. “His lover.” And maybe it’s my imagination, but when I say lover, his eyes meet mine and I swear to God he can see what I’m thinking. The two of us in a very Eternal Springtime situation from my dreams. But then, just as quickly, his eyes flick back to the sculpture. As heat creeps up my neck, I start rambling about Camille and how she was arguably an even better artist than Rodin, but doesn’t receive as much credit.
“Why not?” he asks.
“Because, patriarchy. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he says, grinning.
I get a chill and start rubbing my bare arms. “God, it’s frigid in here.”
“Huh,” he says, a half grin on his face. “Guess you should have worn a hat.”
* * *
When we’ve made it through every sculpture and find ourselves back at the entrance, I glance outside. The sky is still doomsday, but the rain has held off.
“Come on, there are a couple more pieces out here.”
Oliver holds the door open and then follows me out. I walk down the stairs and then turn around, pointing out The Gates of Hell. And then we meander past the reflection pool, taking in the various plots of flowers and manicured bushes on the opposite side, still colorful even when drenched.
“How’s your latest book coming? The Penn Carro thing?”
He grunts. “Not well. The guy talks in circles, basically reiterating his one main point ad nauseam.”
“Which is?”
Oliver puffs out his chest and his voice comes out deep and full and energetic: “You know who succeeds in life? It’s the people who act. Who do something. Who make decisions. That’s the difference between CEOs on Wall Street and janitors that clean the floors and empty the wastebaskets on Wall Street. Are you decisive? Or do you leave things up to fate? You have to create your fate.”