“Don't usually pick up such beautiful women,” he said as she got in.
Her grin expanded. A car honked behind them. “Whoops,” she said, closing
the door. “Any ideas on where you want to go?” she asked.
He pulled into traffic. “I've always wanted to go to the Art Institute,” he said.
He could sense her eyebrows raising. “You sure? It might put you to sleep.
All that boring art stuff.” She shivered for effect.
“I can take it.”
“Okay, then. Let's see…turn right up at this light.”
* * *
Peter had managed to score a parking space only two blocks from the museum
on South Columbus, a feat which Kate pronounced miraculous. Chalk one up for
the small-town guy, he thought.
By noon, they'd breezed through the Indian, African, and Asian art galleries,
some of the ancient art, and had spent the last hour or so roving through the second level. Peter had to admit he'd been lost when it came to the pieces on the
lower level, but now he made a show of pointing out a variety of paintings to her. In particular, a Gauguin and a Van Gogh in the Impressionism wing.
Now they moved into the Modern American Art section.
“So, over here,” Kate was saying, pulling him by the hand, “this is Edward
Hopper's famous—”
“ 'Nighthawks,' ” Peter finished for her. “Yes, a particularly stark piece.”
She stared at him as if a horn had just popped out of his head. “Right…” she
said.
He turned, then nodded. “This is one of my favorites,” he announced,
pointing to a large painting of what looked like a disintegrated planet resting on a huge wire spool. “The Rock.” He stroked his chin. “So blunt, yet so surreal.”
Kate was wordless she followed him into a room across the way.
He rushed over to a square painting of an unremarkable seascape. “A
particularly stunning example of a Whistler, don't you think?” he said, pointing.
“Notice the broad, rough brush strokes.”
He could feel her staring at him, and it was great. She reached out, socked
him in the shoulder.
“Okay,” she said. “You're going to tell me how you know all these paintings or I'm really going to smack you.”
He turned, eyebrows up in mock surprise. “Hmm? Oh.” He turned back to
the Whistler, hand to his chin, studying it as if he were considering buying it. “I guess you could say I've always been a connoisseur of the arts,” he said in his worst English accent.
Her arm raised, and he stepped back, his own hands up in defense. “Okay, okay,” he said, laughing. “My parents had this game, Masterpiece?”
Her head cocked. Go on?
“It was an auction game. You each had these paintings with different values
and you had to sell them. All the photos they used were from the Chicago Art Museum. I didn't know that until I saw about three of them here.”
Her arm lowered, her head still cocked. But there was the slightest hint of a
smile. “I knew something was up. How come we never played that game?”
He shrugged. “Don't know. My parents had to almost force me on game
night. I preferred a good round of 'Hoth Ice Planet Adventure' myself.”
