Chapter 60

“This puts me in mind of Rodin,” he announced, planting his feet in front of a wall-sized photograph of an unmade bed floating placidly on a storm-churned sea and seemingly tossing out an artist’s name at random.

“In what way?” A helmet-haired art maven in a black turtleneck who’d apparently overheard this pretentious non-sequitur clomped across the room in her cork-heeled mules and tapped Colin on the shoulder. “Rodin was a sculptor,” she reminded him. “And all but obsessed with the human form. What of Rodin could you possibly see in this piece?”

“I was wrong,” Colin conceded, unflustered. “It makes me think more of Van Gogh.”

“Ha!” His challenger scoffed. “And pray tell how?This has none of Van Gogh’s bold use of color, none of his sympathetic expressionism.”

“Maybe not,” Colin said. “But I would rather cut off my ear than stand here and listen to you.”

I barked out a laugh. The maven skulked away. Colin met my eye and tossed me a wink.