Renaissance of the Heart - Part 2 - Sex Stories

Renaissance of the Heart - Part 2

... hadn’t been to Rome, nor anywhere in Italy for that matter, so I would have plenty to keep me occupied. There were three days to go before the sale. At work, Craig revealed some information that might prove to be crucial. “Cindy, just to let you know, I’ve changed the listing on the painting.” “Oh?” “Yes, I’m listing it as ‘putative sixteenth century of Madonna and baby.’” “Oh right.” “It’s just that I think, putting it in definitively as an Old Master, is too bold.” “Hmmm…” “I know you really rate the painting, but we have to be realistic.” “It’s fine.” “Really?” “Yes, I understand.” “I had a guy from London look at it.” “Ah. What did he say?” “While he agrees that it looks like the real deal, it is almost certainly an eighteenth century copy. I think we’ve done the right thing.” This intelligence was received with a mixture of enthusiasm and dismay. Enthusiasm because Craig’s downgrading inevitably would knock down the estimate. Dismay because I knew there was a good chance he was right. I began to doubt my original impressions, but deep down I couldn’t reconcile all the professional appraisals with my raw, academic gut reaction. I decided not to reveal this latest development with Elizabeth but just let it go with the flow. In some respects the value was now almost immaterial. I just wanted to get it sold, get Elizabeth her money and go to Italy with the painting. I continued the day to day functions of my job with my usual diligence, but the painting was beginning to ...

... absorb me. I went into the art room at lunch and looked at it again. If it was a copy, it was an amazingly good one. It simply had that renaissance feel to it, at least to my naïve young eyes. Had I become so rolled up in the romance of finding a rare painting, that I had somehow fooled myself? Or was it really a Michelangelo, incredible though that would be. Only time would tell. For now, I had to try and keep at least some perspective before I got completely embroiled in a self-made drama. The autumn had come with a vengeance. Going for my midday sandwich was no fun. I drew up my hood and battled against the drizzle, which seemed to envelop me, along with the chilly breeze. The wind had all but knocked off the golds and browns of the leaves, leaving a few dangling memories of what once was. In my present state of mind, it was totally dispiriting. I drove home on auto-pilot, my body tense and in need of the relaxation of a hot shower. I had just opened the bath and shower set that my Mum bought me for Christmas. I had only got as far as unwrapping the little tablet of soap. The scent of lavender - it evoked warm summer evenings, of buzzing bees and girls’ voices, and drinking wine at dusk. There’s something so rewarding, so beautiful in the stroke of a virgin bar of soap, as all its fine, sweet aromas are released; anointing the skin. The hot water sprinkled over my body, soaking my hair, running in my ears and over my breasts. The burden of the day ran away with the water, as I ...