Chapter １３３

It was an art gallery, white walls and blond timber flooring and wonderfully ambient temperature. And not just any art gallery—a collection of things I recognized, and not because they were renowned. They were from local painters residing in France. I knew some of them. I'd undoubtedly seen some of their stuff. A enormous painting hung on the far wall, sparkling and undulating with layers upon layers of dazzling jewel-toned paint and jagged bits of aluminum cans.

“What... what is this?” I said. “Did you know me before we met?”

His hand encircling mine pressed closer. “I wouldn't say that,” he replied. “But I had heard your name before.” He wouldn't look at me, simply gazed at waking as if trying to link the lady next to him with the work of art in his small private museum.

A bench stood in the center of the basement, a giant plush cushion on it, and Luke guided me to it. We sat, and I glanced about me in astonishment. “Why didn't you tell me you enjoyed art?”