He had a panel that evening, and his talk was scheduled for the next morning. As soon as he finished the talk, he would fly back home. In the meantime he checked in, deposited his overnight bag and briefcase in the room, and walked along the boulevard to the museum. As he neared the entrance, with its classical Greek columns, his mind went to the visits they used to make to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. He could still hear his daughter’s oohs as she looked up in awe at the imposing building, and then the excitement in her voice as she said “Mommy, look at the big baby heads!” when they showed her the huge sculptures. Julian’s favorites were the old masters, but Cassandra was always drawn to the photographs in the Ritts Gallery. She especially loved the work of Alfred Stieglitz and would stand transfixed before his photos, studying the nuances of light and form.
Julian sighed, feeling the familiar wave of melancholy as he climbed the flights of stairs leading to the Impressionism Gallery. As he stood before one painting after another, all of them slightly out of focus, an indistinct image of the real thing, almost dreamlike, he realized that they were exactly what his life had felt like for the last two years. He sat on one of the long, padded benches in the gallery and let himself feel the genius and pain of the artists surrounding him. Claude Monet, whose wife died tragically young at the age of thirty-two. Edgar Degas, blind and destitute at the end of his life. Sometimes it helped Julian to remember that he was not the only one who’d experienced suffering and heartbreak. They were, after all, hallmarks of the human condition.
Pulling back his coat cuff, Julian checked his watch. He should head back to the hotel for his briefcase if he was going to get to the panel on time. He put his hands on his knees and looked around for another minute before rising and exiting the gallery. As he walked outside, he buttoned his coat and quickened his gait. The wind had picked up. When he reached the curb, he waited for the Walk sign to appear. A young woman approached him and held out a flyer. He shook his head and waved her away, but she smiled and said, “I saw you come out of the museum. Tomorrow is First Friday in the Old City. All new exhibits.” Julian took the paper just to be polite, but after she’d walked away, he crumpled it up and put it in his pocket. He’d throw it away when he got back to the hotel. Julian hated litterbugs.
The title of his panel was Pediatrics and the Well-Developed Child, and Julian had been flattered to be included. Dr. Graham Parker, a brilliant researcher in the field, was the moderator, and the four other panelists were equally respected. The panel itself went well and lasted only fifty minutes, but the Q&A afterward drew it out for another forty minutes, and Julian was getting antsy. All he wanted to do was get back to the hotel and relax before tomorrow’s session. As they filed out of the room, Graham put a hand on his back. “How about a drink at the bar? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you.”
“I have plans tonight,” Julian told him. “Heading over to Old City to check some of the local galleries,” he elaborated, thinking of the flyer in his pocket.
Graham’s face broke into a smile. “That sounds interesting. Mind if I join you?”
Great, Julian thought. He would rather have gone back to his room, and if he really planned to visit the galleries, he’d prefer to do it on his own, but what could he say without sounding like a jerk? “Not at all,” he said.
Julian was pleasantly surprised at the depth of Graham’s knowledge and appreciation of art as they talked companionably, walking from one gallery to the next. After about an hour and a half, though, the events of the day began to catch up with him, and he felt his energy flagging. His stomach, too, was reminding him that he had skipped dinner. “I think it’s time for me to call it a night,” he said to Graham, and they said good night and headed in opposite directions.
Most of the galleries along Second Street were dark as Julian walked past. There were posters in many of the gallery windows advertising the exhibits that would be opening the next day for First Friday. Toward the end of the block and across the street, he saw a large poster hanging in the window of one of the galleries, with a photograph of a woman. He did a double take, squinting to bring it into focus. Finally he crossed the street to get a closer look. As he moved nearer to the window, his heart beat so fast it felt like it would break through his ribs and explode. It couldn’t be, could it? He put his palms against the window and leaned his forehead against the glass. His mouth dropped open. It was her. He had found Cassandra.