Page 23 of She’s Worth the Risk

Gran and I move through to the Contemporary Art wing, and I pause in front of a Kandinsky, eyes tracing the color and movement as I think about last night. In that moment when Nick brushed my hair from my eyes, I glimpsed the man behind the armor. The same man who told me he loves Venus of Urbino without meaning to. He’s so complicated, this beautiful man who loves art, who seems to hide that love behind the safety of scholarly analysis.

And despite myself, I’m drawn to him.

I check the time on my phone, wavering. Class starts in an hour and a half, but I’m still undecided on whether to go. Pushing the thought from my mind, I follow Gran into the European Sculpture Court, an airy two-story section with high glass ceilings, where light filters through to reflect off the marble floor and dance across statues, shadows pooling at their feet. It’s one of my favorite parts of the museum, and I take a moment to soak it in, feeling for a moment as if time has stood still.

Gran and I pause in front of Perseus with the Head of Medusa. “How are Mom and Dad?” she asks lightly.

I sigh, turning away. My parents are management consultants, hopping from city to city on short-term contracts, always chasing the next project, the next promotion. While they’ve never discouraged me from having a relationship with Gran, I know Gran and Mom haven’t been close since she met my father, a man more interested in business than the arts, and not at all who Gran imagined for her only daughter.

I shrug. “Same as always.”

Gran focuses intently on the sculpture in front of us, and I think that’s the end of the conversation when she says, “I know it can’t have been easy for you, Z. Moving so much as a child.”

I pluck a map of the museum from a nearby stand and busy myself looking for Renaissance art.

“That’s why I always asked to have you stay for the summer,” Gran continues. “Provide some sense of stability.” She turns to me, fingers brushing my arm. “You know you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Not only for the summer.”

My throat tightens inexplicably, and I place my hand over hers, squeezing. “Thanks, Gran, I appreciate that, but you’ll be sick of me soon enough.”

“Nonsense!” She laughs as if this is the most ludicrous thing she’s ever heard. “I will never tire of you, my dear Zinnie, and no one can tire of New York. There’s always somewhere to go, someone to meet.”

I smile. She’s right about that. In all the summers I’ve come to the city, I’ve never once grown tired of it.

“Which reminds me,” Gran adds, “you have to meet Poppy. She lives next door, at Marty’s old place. Remember him?”

I do remember Marty. He was a lovely old man who grew vegetables in his yard and always brought plenty for Gran.

But that’s not what I’m thinking about right now. What I’m thinking about is Poppy sitting in Gran’s living room, drinking iced tea with us.

“Poppy?” I echo, studying Gran carefully. “I met Poppy yesterday with Violet and Iris, remember?”

“Oh,” Gran says, looking suddenly flustered. “Yes, of course.” She tugs at the Hermès scarf around her neck, glancing away. “Let’s go to the European Paintings wing.” Then she heads toward the stairs before I can say a word.

My heart pounds as I scurry after her, thinking of Poppy’s words yesterday—mixing up days of the week, leaving her front door open, forgetting her keys. Things I’d written off as no big deal. We all make mistakes from time to time, and I can only imagine it’s normal for that to get a little worse with age. Nothing worth making a fuss about.

But forgetting three women had come for iced tea less than twenty-four hours ago? That doesn’t seem right.

“Gran?” I ask, taking her arm to help her up the steps, despite the frown she gives me. “Is everything… okay with you?” I think about what the guy said at the front desk, that it’s been far too long since Gran was here. “There’s nothing I should know about?”

“I’m as right as rain,” she says, smiling as we arrive on the second floor. “Now, follow me. There’s something I want you to see.” She weaves across the gallery with purpose, depositing us in front of a painting. “There. Look at it.”

But I’m still examining Gran, perplexed. How is it possible she can’t remember yesterday, but she knows the layout of the Met like the back of her hand? Worry tugs at me, and for the first time, I wonder if Poppy is right. If something is wrong, and I just haven’t wanted to see it.

“Look, my darling,” Gran insists, nudging me toward the painting.

I force my gaze to the work on the wall, and my breath catches at what I see. It’s a painting by Giotto, shimmering with gold leaf, showing the three wise men visiting baby Jesus while Mary looks on. After seeing slides of the Scrovegni Chapel in class only two days ago, it feels almost surreal to be standing in front of a painting by Giotto again. I cast my mind back to how Nick described Giotto’s work; the early attempts at perspective, the use of drapery, the overlapping figures. He wasn’t passionate, exactly, but underneath that carefully controlled exterior, behind his dry, academic terminology, I could sense his real love for the work. Maybe that’s why I tried to talk to him after class.

Why I still find myself thinking of him, even now.

“Thank you, Gran,” I murmur, leaning my head on her shoulder as we gaze at the painting. I’m not sure if I’m thanking her for taking me to the Met, for reigniting my love of art this summer, or for always being there for me, but I just know the words need to be said.

Thankfully, she doesn’t ask. She simply presses a kiss to my hair, whispering, “You’re welcome, Z.”

After that, we stop for lunch at The Balcony Lounge, and as Gran and I talk about our favorite pieces, I forget about class. It’s not until we’re in the gift shop and she mentions it that I remember.

I don’t want to go. It’s been so weird with Nick, it would be easier not to.

It would be easier to leave New York altogether.