Chantal shoots me a look so full of loathing it could burn my skin.
Unsettled by her open hostility, I focus on Dora again. “You have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you, but I’m afraid I can’t take credit.” As she speaks, she turns and points to the fireplace. Two lions roar from each corner of the mantle, their forms carved from gray marble.
“Much has remained unchanged since my grandfather’s time.” She points to a framed photo resting next to a vase of flowers. From across the room, I can make out shapes of people, but the background is indistinct.
I do a half spin to take in the décor. “Your artwork is remarkable.”
“We practically live in a museum,” Luci jokes. She takes my hand and leads me closer to a wall lined with paintings. “This is my favorite.” She taps the frame of a piece even I recognize.
“Is this…”
She laughs when amazement steals my ability to speak. “Monet.”
Together, we stare at the iconic bridge arching over water lilies.
“Take your time,” Luci tells me, a light touch on my elbow as she leaves to take her seat with Chantal.
A glance back at the others tells me they are engaged in conversation. I don’t want to be rude, but another minute appreciating the art should be acceptable.
Slowly, I ease along the wall, taking in the collection of pictures and sculptures. I come to a large painting in a carved wooden frame. Black is the primary color, offset only by moody browns and beiges and a touch of deep green.
The hues as dire and gloomy as the subject matter.
A woman stands in a dark room, the space littered with items—candles, books, knives, and a lute without strings. All amid a chaos of human bones. A single table stands in the center, holding an hourglass and a skull, whose empty sockets somehow appear terrified.
I lean closer to study the skull.
An object juts from its mouth, but I’m not sure what it is. Brown and thick, another book? Some sort of pouch?
“Remember that you have to die.” A deep voice rumbles behind me.
I whirl around. “Excuse me?”
An older man is standing close, eyes like simmering coals and black hair going silver at the temples. He waves a tumbler of brown liquid toward the painting, and I can smell the alcohol. “Memento mori.”
He continues to stand too close. “An artistic reminder of the inevitability of death.”
A faint memory surfaces, one from my introductory art class in college. “Memento mori.” I scan the image again, pausing on the skull. “Translation, remember that you have to die.”
So, he wasn’t threatening to kill me.
“Very good,” he says, giving me a once-over. I assume he’s referring to my correct answer, but his direct gaze makes me squirm inside. Maybe the perverted apple doesn’t fall far.
“Uncle Vincent,” Luci says, easing up to us, her usual happy energy subdued.
I do the math and put the family together. Vincent is married to Chantal, so Ric and Lyam are his sons.
Vincent reaches past me, but I shift before he brushes my bare arm. Unwilling to budge an inch, he holds two fingers near the thick swirls of ancient paint. “The skeletons represent death.” He edges closer. “And the hourglass is time running out.”
I nod and swallow, wishing for an interruption, for Luci to drag me away or for Dora to call to her son. I’d even take a snarky comment from Chantal if it would create some space between me and Vincent’s hot, whiskey breath.
“Sorry I’m late.” Ric strolls into the room, his swagger anything but apologetic.
Not the rescue I’d hoped for, but at least Vincent backs up.
“Finally.” Chantal rises from the sofa and makes a beeline for the door.
