“Well…” Jack glanced around as he gathered his thoughts, not quite sure what to say.

He, Gia, and Vicky had just exited the Metropolitan Museum of Art and now stood atop the high granite steps. The sun had been low when they’d entered and was well gone now. A tiny sliver of moon, a glowing fingernail clipping, hung in the sky. Below them, singles, couples, and groups lounged on the steps, smoking, eating, cuddling, hanging out. Water splashed in the oblong fountains left and right. And beyond the steps and crowded sidewalk, Fifth Avenue traffic crawled along despite the fact that rush hour was long gone. Exhaust fumes wafted up on the evening breeze that billowed the huge dark blue banner suspended above them, trumpeting the Cezanne exhibit.

Jack ran a quick apparel check, comparing his clothing to what the other museum goers were wearing. He’d gone for a slightly more upscale look tonight—light blue oxford shirt, tan slacks, brown loafers—and was pleased to see that he blended pretty well. In a bow to the current trend, he’d had his brown hair trimmed a little shorter than he preferred. He could pass tonight for a teacher or an accountant out for an evening with his wife and daughter. No one worth noticing. And that was perfect.

Jack watched Vicky doing her own scan, but hers concentrated on the sidewalk. Her dark brown hair had been unwound from her customary braids into a single long ponytail for her trip to the museum. He could read her eight-year-old mind: Where’s the ice-cream man? Where’s the pretzel guy? For a girl who couldn’t weigh more than sixty pounds fully clothed, she could eat like a long-haul trucker.

He turned to Gia and found her pale blue eyes staring up at him as a small smile played about her lips. The breeze ruffled her short blond hair. She looked dazzling in a snug blue silk sweater set and black slacks.

“‘Well’ what?” Gia said.

Jack scratched his head. “Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Cezanne. Why he’s so famous. Why he’s got his own show at the Met.”

“Because he’s considered the father of modern art.”

Jack shrugged. “So they say in the brochure, and that’s all fine and good, but some of those paintings don’t even look finished.”

“That’s because they aren’t, you ninny. He abandoned a number of his canvases because they weren’t going the way he wanted.”

“Yeah, well, finished or not, his stuff doesn’t do anything for me. How do they put it? It doesn’t speak to me.”

Gia rolled her eyes. “Oh, God. Why do I bother?”

Jack threw an arm around her shoulders, drew her close, and kissed her blond waves. “Hey, don’t go getting all huffy now just because I don’t like this guy. I liked Monet, didn’t I?” He still remembered colors of sunlight so vibrant he’d felt the warmth radiating from the canvases.

“Monet’s easy to like.”

“You mean a painting’s got to be hard to like to be good?”