Page 23 of Saving Ian Pope

When I joined Ivy in the car, I felt as if I’d turned some kind of corner in my life. I snapped on my seatbelt and twisted toward her. “Where to?”

“I know you like art, so I’m taking you to the Getty Center.” She wheeled away from the curb and stuck her hand out the window, waving at the parking attendants. “Ever been there?”

“No.”

She clicked her tongue. “Philistine.”

“How do you know I like art?”

“When I was scrolling through your past on my phone last night, I didn’t see just the bad stuff.” She rubbed my arm, giving me chills despite the heat inside the car. “Some of the good stuff snuck in there, too. I read that you’re an artist, had done some sketches for charity, and that you often contribute to arts foundations.”

“I wouldn’t call myself an artist, but I do appreciate art. Can’t wait for our first adventure.” I snapped my fingers. “Step on it.”

***

I didn’t know what I’d been expecting from the museum, but a tram ride from the parking lot to the top of a hill wasn’t it. The views from the grounds were amazing, and Ivy could barely get me inside the museum to look at the actual art.

As I gazed at the city skyline with the mountains in the background, she tugged my sleeve. “We don’t have that much time. Let’s look at the paintings.”

I allowed Ivy to drag me through the Impressionists, which I appreciated, but my interest perked up when we walked into another gallery with several portraits.

We entered one room of 17thCentury portraitists and like a homing beacon, I zeroed in on a particular painting of a woman in a dark green, off-the-shoulder dress. Something about her expression arrested me, and I stood before her, my gaze roaming the canvas. I glanced at Ivy, her head tilted to one side as she studied a painting of a man in a ruffled collar holding an old-fashioned instrument.

When I looked back at the woman in the painting, I noticed that the look in her eyes reminded me of Ivy’s—something guarded, even secretive. And I had to admit, for all Ivy’s openness, she always seemed to hold something back. Her eyes, sometimes green, sometimes hazel, were the keepers of her secrets, just like...I leaned into the painting...the duchess, here.

I aimed my phone at the QR code on the label next to the painting and sank down on a bench in front of it to read about the Dutch master who’d painted the lady and the lady herself. Turns out, the duchess was a spy.

Ivy touched my shoulder. “Are you tired?”

“I’m reading about this painting. I really like it.” I slipped a flyer from my museum program guide and turned it over to its blank side. “Do you mind if I sit here for a minute and sketch this and take some notes. Do you have a pen in your bag?”

“I think so.” She dipped her hand inside her bag and withdrew a pen. “I’m going out to the gardens. You can meet me there when you’re done. Do you want something to eat?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll see you out there.” The pen was already moving across the page in light strokes.

Once I’d taken a picture of the painting, done a passable sketch of the duchess, and taken some notes, I stood up and stretched. When I folded the piece of paper and shoved it into my back pocket, I knew I had the beginnings of a song.

I wandered outside, squinted, and clapped my sunglasses back on my face. Ivy had insisted I wear my hat again and I’d obliged her, but I knew the disguise wasn’t always adequate to keep my fans at bay.

I found her on the grass near a fountain with two sandwiches and two bottles of water. I sat beside her and kissed her on the side of her head, warmed by the sun.

She repositioned herself on her back and put her head in my lap, looking up at my face. “So, did you have a connection with that painting?”

Running my thumb over the little bump on the bridge of her nose, I said, “I did, yeah. She reminded me of you.”

“You mean sexy and irresistible?” She lifted her sunglasses and batted her eyelashes.

“Mysterious.”

“Moi?” She rolled over and grabbed the packaged sandwiches. “Turkey or ham?”

“I’ll take the ham.” She was an expert at avoidance. Maybe she was a spy like the duchess.

As Ivy tossed me the sandwich, a woman stepped into the line of fire, and the sandwich hit her on the back of the leg. It didn’t even faze her. “Sorry to interrupt, but would you mind signing my Getty Center map?”

“Be happy to.” I grabbed my ham sandwich on the ground before the woman crushed it under her heel.

Ivy stood up and dusted grass from the back of her white pants. Unwrapping her own sandwich, she rolled her eyes at me and stepped away. She really didn’t like this fame game.

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