Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(44)

“But you went to college, right? Your major was music? Didn’t you go to any museums then?”

“Ultimately, my major was music education. But I wasn’t one for going out. I went to class and then home. Aunt Mary and Uncle Peter—uh, Ben’s aunt and uncle, they’re who I lived with—were older and needed help. So when I wasn’t in class, I was at home with them.”

“Did you like being there? Or did you wish you could socialize more?”

“Oh, I liked it. They were so nice. We’d play cards at night or I’d sing and play the piano for them. And she taught me how to cook.” I whispered a bit quieter since we’d just entered a sorta hallway and something about it felt extremely sacred, like a church but on sanctity steroids. On either side were half-finished marble carvings of men.

Our guide murmured something from the front of our group. “Should I put the earbuds in? Is she already talking?”

“You are nervous. I can tell.” Shelly’s eyes moved between mine and, totally serious, she said, “I’ll protect you.”

A surge of warmth and affection for this woman had me sending her a big smile. “Thank you, Shelly. I appreciate you. But I’ll get over being a dummy in just a minute, I think.”

“Let me tell you a story to distract you.” Arm in arm, she marched us forward, past Jenn and Cletus, past Drew and Ash and Bethany, past Billy and Maya, Duane and Beau. She even strolled right on past the guide and—

“Holy crap!” My feet stumbled and my mouth dropped wide open because there he was. David. Right in front of us, like he was real. I mean, holy crap. Just like that, all my silly nerves were forgotten.

“That’s David, and he’s beautiful,” she said, her voice definitely not a whisper. “You can’t see his face very well from this angle.” She led me forward, bringing us to a stop adjacent to his giant left foot. “But he is frowning, he looks stern, focused, a little angry. And yet, his posture is so relaxed, don’t you think?”

I nodded dumbly, mesmerized by . . . well, by the whole dang thing.

Billy had once told me the Bible story when we were teenagers and I’d looked it up since. I tried to imagine this beautiful boy—brave and noble and undeterred by fear—with only a sling and rocks, facing the gruesome giant Goliath.

But this? Beautiful wasn’t the right word for what David was, the description felt paltry given the reality of him. It. The statue, I mean.

Shelly tugged on my arm and walked me slowly around the barrier so we could see his backside. And, my goodness, he had a glorious backside, glorious, and an inkling of a suspicion occurred to me. This statue wasn’t a depiction of a Bible story, not really. This was a celebration of the male form, of its rough beauty, hard shape, severe angles, and graceful lines, and—for so much of history—its purpose.

“When I was in school, at the University of Chicago, we were told a story about Michelangelo, more of a legend with two endings.” Shelly stopped us right at the center of his back and we both took a moment to gaze upon the amazing details of his torso, legs, and right hand.

“A legend?” I asked, my eyes fastened to the white marble, only tangentially aware that we’d just been joined by Cletus and Beau as well as Billy and Maya.

“When Michelangelo was carving the sculpture of David, he’d been warned the piece of marble chosen was flawed.”

“Flawed?” Billy asked, his deep voice echoing in the cavernous space made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. “How so?”

“In 1464, the marble had been given to an artist by the name of Agostino to carve a statue of David, but he gave up, saying he couldn’t work with it. Then, in 1501, Michelangelo took the assignment and the marble. As you can see, it’s a stunning, priceless, pure white marble, shipped from a quarry in Carrara, a town in the Apuan Alps in northern Tuscany. A huge, single piece of stone, and even though everyone said it was flawed, Michelangelo wanted it anyway.”

“Was it flawed?” Beau asked, drawing Shelly’s eyes to his.

“Maybe. According to the story I was told, Michelangelo knocked off a knot that had been on David’s chest, and afterward he’d had no trouble carving the block.”

“Huh. Interesting.” Duane peered up at the statue, squinting. “I’d never heard that before.”

“And here is where the legends diverge,” she continued. “In one version of the story, the knot, they say, was David’s heart.”

“Oh.” Maya’s dark brown eyes widened, like she found this distressing, an expression I’m sure was mirrored in my own eyes.

“And when Michelangelo removed the heart of the stone, it was easy to manipulate and shape into whomever or whatever he desired.”

“That’s . . . sad.” Maya looked to me, as though to confirm her feelings on the subject were valid. “What did the other legend say?”

“The other legend claimed that the knot had blocked David’s heart. And once it was removed, the true form beneath the marble was revealed.”

“I like that story better,” Beau said, grinning at Shelly.

“I can see why,” Billy muttered, sounding distracted, his attention affixed to David’s calf and foot.

“Which story do you prefer?” I asked. Shelly always had an unexpected take on things.