Page 66 of Rescue

“Come on,” he says. “There’s so much to see.”

We wander through the main gallery for a while with his brothers, taking in the sculptures. On either side of the main gallery are smaller rooms filled with paintings and more sculptures. At the far end of the museum, Cash and Daltrey stand on a glass floor looking down at a model of a Paris neighborhood. We see Paige and Sam admiring a statue. As we pass, I hear Paige explaining something about the artist. “Is Paige into art?”

Lennon shrugs. “She has a surprising number of hobbies.”

“This is a pretty museum, Lennon. I can see why it’s your favorite.”

His eyes flash. “We haven’t even seen the good stuff yet. Come on.”

He heads up a set of stairs, and I follow. “Could you slow down a little?” I ask, already out of breath after one flight.

“Come on, Hunt,” he calls over his shoulder. “Don’t wimp out on me yet.”

On the third floor he stops, turning to grin at me. “This is the good stuff?” I ask, huffing a little bit.

“The Impressionists,” he says. “Come on.”

My first thought is that the Impressionists must have liked color. On every wall, I see paintings full of color and light. I have no idea what I’m looking at, no idea who any of these are by, but that doesn’t seem to matter so much. They’re beautiful.

“Look around,” Lennon says, his voice soft. “We’ll catch up.”

I nod, not sure where to look next as I wander through the gallery. I come up short a few minutes later. “Oh, wow,” I whisper, approaching two tall paintings of a man and woman dancing. Their clothes are from another era, her skirts long and seeming to sway as they dance. A quick glance at the placard tells me that these are by Renoir, though the titles are in French. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard that name before, and I decide to go ask Lennon if he knows these paintings.

It’s quiet and still in the Impressionist exhibit as I search for him. A docent stands nearby, arms folded over his chest, and he gives me a little nod as I pass. I wander into one of the side rooms and once again come up short.I recognize these, I think, excited. I lean in and see the name Van Gogh, just as I guessed. The painting that caught my attention is a church set against blue sky. The church itself is certainly interesting, but it’s the sky that takes my breath away. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a vibrant blue. I wander down the room, recognizing other paintings by Van Gogh, famous paintings that I’ve seen on posters and on TV. And here I am, in front of the real things. As I reach the end of the room I realize with a start that I’m not alone. Lennon is right in front of me, staring at a portrait.

“I didn’t know you were in here,” I say, coming up to his side. “I just saw the most beautiful painting.”

“Yeah?” His voice sounds far away, like he’s not really here with me.

“Lennon?”

“Sorry.” He turns away from the painting. It’s a portrait of a man, and even I can tell the style is the same as the painting of the church I just admired.

“Is that him?” I ask.

Lennon turns back to the portrait. “Van Gogh, yeah. A self-portrait.”

“Hmm.” Behind the man is a background of blue swirls, not as vibrant as the blue in the church painting, but beautiful in a different, softer way. They make Van Gogh’s eyes even more striking.

“Sorry,” Lennon says again. “You said you saw a beautiful painting?”

“Oh, yeah.” I tear my eyes away from the portrait. “By, uh, Renoir, I think it said his name was.”

“Oh, yeah.” Lennon smiles. “Was it the garden party?”

“No, dancers. They were… I don’t know. They were beautiful. It was like I could feel them moving.” I blush. “I clearly know nothing about art.”

“Who cares?” he asks, his eyes steady on my face. “I like art because it makes me feel things, not because I’m some expert. I haven’t studied any of this.” He makes a sweeping gesture of the room. “I don’t need to know the textbook part to enjoy it.”

I smile, taking a step closer. There’s something about him when he talks like this, when his brothers aren’t around and he isn’t worrying. He’s so captivating.

“So what does this one make you feel?” I ask, nodding at the portrait. “You were staring at it pretty hard.”

He turns back to the painting, and his entire demeanor changes. “Uh, actually, I was thinking about the artist. Van Gogh.” His voice sounds strained. “He was mentally ill, did you know that?”

I swallow, my skin feeling colder for some reason. There’s something in his tone that I don’t like the sound of. “I thought you said you didn’t know a lot about art,” I say, trying to lighten the somber tone.

He flashes me a little smile before turning his gaze back to Van Gogh. “I know a bit.”