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As the plane made its descent, my stomach turned in anticipation.
18
Grace
After freshening up at one of the nicest hotels I’d ever seen, Luke’s driver idled outside the lobby waiting to take us to The Louvre. Driving through the streets of Paris, my mind raced to catch up to my heart. All these years, I imagined this moment. I imagined taking a hot tour bus with twenty sweaty strangers wearing running shoes and a baseball cap. Instead, I sat in an air-conditioned Bentley, wearing a red summer dress, and nude heels. Life was perfect.
A short time later, the massive structure of The Louvre came into view. The rows and rows of windows and hallways that could surpass a city block befuddled me. How could one man—albeit a king—live in a palace like this for himself while his people went hungry? No wonder they started a revolution.
Crowds gathered both inside and outside of the museum, with people taking photographs of themselves while picnicking outside or simply waiting in line to get in. When Luke steered us toward the side of the building, I redirected him. “Oh, I think the line starts here,” I said.
“I know,” said Luke. “But we’re not going that way.”
He ushered me toward a smaller entrance with a red canopy above the door. A security guard stood at the entrance. Luke flashed his passport and a business card and the guard opened the door for him.
“Bonjour, Mr. Crawford,” said a man on the other side of the door. “Suivez-moi. Follow me.”
My heels clicked on the marble floors. More people gathered inside, and the tour guide’s voices boomed over the chatter.
Luke and I followed the smaller man with black-rimmed glasses down a separate corridor, one closed to the public. He knocked on a door and when no one answered, he opened it with a three-pronged key.
“Après-vous,” he said. “After you, Madam.”
“Thank you. Merci,” I stammered, using the only French word I knew.
Several pieces of art lined the walls and I wasn’t sure where we were exactly. No one else stood in the room. It was just Luke and me. Even our guide had left. Spinning on my heels, my eyes landed on a familiar sight. I gasped.
Framed upon the wall, her smile taunted me.
Mona Lisa.
“Oh my gosh,” I whispered, slowly walking closer to the painting. Two semi-circle stanchions guarded it, but no other obstacles or people blocked me from devouring every detail of the painting. “She’s beautiful,” I said.
“She is,” Luke whispered beside me and splayed his hand across my lower back. He pushed my hair behind my ear and gently placed a kiss on my temple. “I didn’t want anyone or anything in the way of you seeing her.”
I pressed my lips together, overcome with emotion. He had planned this in so little time. He remembered how much I loved this painting and knew how happy seeing it would make me. Other than my mother, no one else had ever put my happiness first. I tried to thank him, but the words caught in my throat. So, I turned to face him, went onto my tiptoes, and gently pressed my lips to his. He caught them and kissed me back just as slowly.
“As much as I want to lay you down and make love to you in this room, there are still security cameras around.”
I dropped my head onto his chest and laughed. “I don’t want to be on some paparazzi YouTube page.”
“Wait here,” he said and stepped behind me. I continued to stare at the painting, knowing I would never get another opportunity like this one again. The brush strokes were indiscernible, and da Vinci’s use of shadows to depict a smile that was barely there had always moved me in photos, but to see it in person was a completely surreal experience. I felt as though I was looking in a mirror. At someone who tried to appear calm to the outside world, but inside, she hid her raving emotions. But if you were patient enough, you could see them.
“Take a seat,” Luke said, turning me around. Behind us, he’d thrown a plush blanket on the ground and laid out a tray with cheese and grapes. “They were very particular about what I could bring inside.”
“I’m sure they were.”
He opened a bottle of water for me and fed me some grapes. I giggled. “I feel like I’m in one of those paintings.”
“I don’t know. I’m pretty happy you’re sitting right here next to me.”
“You really are a charmer, aren’t you?” I teased. Yet I couldn’t stop my heart from beating faster.
“Now tell me, Grace. After all these years explain to me, how do you see a smile?”
I laughed out loud, recalling our conversation all those years ago in front of my locker. Pointing to her lips, I said, “Do you see the faint shadows at the end of her mouth and how they curve upwards?” He nodded. “Then there’s the shadowing along her cheeks and eyes. Da Vinci was a scientist and an artist. He studied human muscles and how they worked in a smile. He also knew that receiving light from your periphery vision differed from staring at it straight on. So, his use of shadows gives a sort of optical illusion. So, if you stare at Mona Lisa’s eyes, cheeks, or anywhere away from her lips, you get a stronger sense of her smile.”
“Huh.” He tilted his head to the left, then to the right. “That’s creepy,” he mused.
