The wall behind the bed was the same blue-gray as the vanity, with all the other walls the shade of latte, and that shade repeated in the area rug covering most of the floor. The furniture was as dark as espresso, and the comforter's jacquard design pulled together all the colors in the room. Windows flanked the bed, their drapes one shade darker than the latte, and the trim throughout was a bright, glossy white.

Noticing four small sketches above the chest of drawers, Lisa wandered over to look at them. The first thing that caught her eye was the simplistic frames, merely basic squares of black surrounding the drawings. The next was the paper. Lisa could see the fibers in the parchment, and being slightly sepia in tone, she knew they were old. She nonchalantly moved from sketch to sketch, studying the nude, buxom, flared-hip women drawn in various stages of foreplay and intercourse before her eyes finally settled on the signature scrawled in the corners. Lisa read it…and then she read it again.

***

Bennett was setting down her phone when Lisa came out of the bedroom. “I just spoke with Max. He wants us at his place at no later than three, so we can talk.”

“So much for the honeymoon.” Lisa held up her hands when Bennett’s face turned sour. “Chillax, honey. It was a joke. I’m actually surprised he didn’t want us over there bright and early this morning.”

“I think he wanted to give everyone a chance to catch their breath.”

Lisa giggled. “I guess we didn’t get the memo—huh?”

Bennett’s smile lit up her apartment, and walking around the counter, she pulled Lisa into her arms. “No, I suppose we didn’t.” Their lips met in a gentle massage that was both light and lingering, and it lasted for almost a minute before the buzzer on the coffee maker interrupted the moment.

“And that would be our coffee.” Bennett gave Lisa a quick peck on the cheek before returning to the kitchen. “Would you like a cup?”

“Yes, please,” Lisa said, sauntering to the counter. “So…um…are those really Gustave Courbet sketches you have in the bedroom?”

“Please tell me that’s a rhetorical question, or I’m paying you far too much to be my curator.”

“Ha ha,” Lisa said, taking the cup Bennett was offering. “I was just a little surprised to see them. You do know how much they’re worth—right?”

Bennett peered down her nose at Lisa. “Yet another silly question.” Lisa playfully scrunched up her face, and Bennett let out a laugh. “Yes, of course, I know how much they’re worth, and before you ask, they’re completely encased in archival glass and framework, and I never hang them anywhere near direct sunlight.”

“You move them?”