“Water lilies are called nymphéas in French. Isn’t that a beautiful word?”

“Sounds sexy,” said Bill, nuzzling her neck.

Lucy was surprised by this public show of affection. “What’s with you?” she asked as they walked along hand in hand.

“Paris, I guess.”

“I’ve read about these paintings,” Lucy told Bill. “Monet created a beautiful garden at his home in Giverny, with the intention of using it as a subject for his paintings. He dug a pond and built a Japanese bridge and planted tons of flowers, and he painted them in all seasons, at different times of day. It’s about the colors and the light.”

“Yes, Professor,” said Bill.

“I just want you to be able to appreciate them. They’re supposed to be amazing,” said Lucy defensively. “Besides,” she added with a sigh, “it will be nice to look at something beautiful. It will be a welcome distraction.”

The Orangerie itself was a rather plain stone building and had once been used to winter over the potted orange trees that were so popular with eighteenth-century aristocrats. There was the usual security system, and Lucy’s bag had to be checked and they had to go through a screening device before they were allowed to enter the two galleries containing the water lily paintings. The first gallery wasn’t crowded and there were benches to sit on, so Lucy sat down and gazed at the huge canvases, which she thought must be at least ten feet high and perhaps eighteen or twenty feet wide.

“Whoa,” said Bill, sitting beside her. “They’re big.”

“Monet built a special studio for them,” she said, consulting her guidebook. “They’re in sequence. They’re supposed to be different seasons.”

“That really green one is probably spring,” suggested Bill.

“I guess the dark one is winter, and the very green one must be summer.”

“That one with the big orange and yellow area would be fall.”

“And the one with pink is Soleil Couchant, which means ‘sunset.’ All those brushstrokes . . . There must be millions, and by themselves they don’t look like anything. But when you get a bit of distance, it all comes together, sort of.”

“Yeah, see, that must be the bridge.” Bill pointed to a green arc in the middle of one of the paintings.

“And those drapey things are willows, I think. I like the paintings with willows best. It gives a sense of perspective.”

“Are you disappointed?” asked Bill.

“Well, it’s a lot of swirly colors. Maybe too chaotic for me right now,” admitted Lucy. “Though you have to admit the man was a genius.”

“Absolutely,” said Bill, standing up and taking her by the hand. “But I think I know a better way of taking our minds off our troubles.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lucy.