A Renaissance Affair

By Chicklit

Chapter 1

Time Frame: Mid-Season Five, after "Unbearable" and Grissom's infamous dinner invitation to Sofia.

What was I thinking?

The Harvard alumni event at the Guggenheim Hermitage Museum had seemed like a good idea when I signed up, but now, looking around the room and not seeing a single familiar face, I'm beginning to re-evaluate my 2005 campaign to 'get a life.' I find myself secretly hoping for a page from Grissom so I can escape. Even the thought of dumpster diving with Sofia doesn't sound so unappealing. Hell, I'd probably agree to a decomp in the desert.

"Can I help you?" A young blonde smiles up from the registration table.

"Sara Sidle? I should be on the list."

The woman flips through a stack of sheets until she nears the end of the alphabet. "Here you are." She crosses out my name with a blue felt pen, then hands me a small packet. "The enclosed brochure outlines the exhibit and Professor Kaplan's lecture notes. Be sure to fill out this badge with your name and your favorite artist."

Favorite artist? I must look confused, because she feels the need to explain further.

"It's an ice breaker. You know, to help facilitate conversation?"

Yes, I know what an ice breaker is. I think it's already been established that I attended Harvard. But I figure being bitchy won't earn me any new friends so I just smile and say, "Got it. Thanks." I quickly grab an indelible marker from the table and write my name on the sticker provided. I'm still stuck on favorite artist, though. After a minute I hastily scribble a name and then hand the pen back to the woman. Taking a deep breath, I walk into the room.

The crowd is pretty eclectic. A mix of young and old in various modes of dress. I actually wore a skirt this evening. It's a dark floral number that hits just below the knee. I've topped it off with a deep purple camisole and dark denim jacket. Slightly flirty, but not overtly so. I'm happy that I seem to fit in, yet vaguely annoyed that I care.

A drink is definitely in order, if only to give me something to do before the lecture starts, so I amble over to the line at the bar. I busy myself with the packet of information the woman at the registration booth provided while I wait for the line to move. The lecture actually looks interesting. Changing Interpretations of Adam and Eve in Renaissance Art. I really enjoyed the art history survey course that I took in college, and I find myself looking forward to a new spin on old material. The scientist in me always appreciates a new hypothesis.

Snippets of conversation drift by as I skim through the exhibition notes. There are old friends gossiping about classmates. Casual acquaintances debating the current political climate. The inevitable clusters of impassioned young art majors enthralled to be in the same room as Italian Masters. I can't seem to tune out the two men in line ahead of me, though. Late fifties, tweed jackets, faux British accents. I keep a small smile plastered on my face while I sneer inwardly. The keep using the word 'preternatural' in conversation and it's really beginning to annoy me. I decide if they aren't on staff at Harvard they desperately want to be. Pompous fools.

"They give us all a bad name, don't you think?"

Startled, I turn to find a tall man with dark brown hair smiling down at me. I peg his age as mid-forties, although his wide grin makes him seem much younger.

He nods toward the irritating men in tweed. "Them… They pretty much define the haughty stereotype."

I have to agree and reward the man with a genuine smile. "Sadly, stereotypes, like clichés, are often based in fact."

"True." He fearlessly sticks out his hand. "I'm Mike."

My hand clasps his. "Sara."

"So, Sara, I see that you like the Classics."

"Excuse me?"

"Your favorite artist. Bernini. Excellent choice." He nods his head, and I can't help but feel as though I've just aced a test. "Not a Renaissance artist, mind you, but still an excellent choice."

"You're a fan as well?"

"Who isn't? I think the only people who don't like him are the ones who've never heard of him." His eyes glimmer. "Favorite piece?"

For once I don't hesitate. "Pluto and Persephone." That piece called to me from the moment I first saw it back in college. Pluto's abduction of Persephone was evoked with rage and power and fury. The artist had converted cold marble to raw, liquid energy. And yet, for all of its violence, the work was infused with a sort of indelible grace. There was beauty and nobility in Persephone's struggle against her captor.

"Powerful work."

My companion is eying me speculatively, as if my selection has revealed a facet of my personality that intrigues him. I've never bothered to psychoanalyze why I'm drawn to the piece and I'm not about to start now. I quickly steer the conversation to safer ground and ask him to defend his own choice of artist. Effortlessly, our discussion continues as the line inches forward. Mike is an engaging conversationalist with a sardonic sense of humor that puts me immediately at ease.

Much later, drinks in hand, we wander through the exhibition. Mike is quite knowledgeable and can converse easily about the paintings that fill the galleries. An almost foreign emotion wells up inside me and I'm shocked to discover that I'm actually having fun. "I'm glad I came," I blurt out, and I am surprised at the admission.

"I'm glad you came, too," returns my companion.

"No, I…." I pause, trying to collect my thoughts. "… It's just, I've been dreading this all week, and now here I am, and I'm actually happy to be here. It's not what I expected."

Mike's facial expression waffles between flattered and concerned. "If you were dreading it, why did you bother to come?"

This nice man does not need to know my life history so I opt for an abbreviated version of the truth. "I made a New Year's resolution to start participating in activities completely outside of work. When I got the e:mail about the event here I thought it fit the bill."

"Doesn't explain the dreading part."

"I majored in Physics… This isn't exactly my element." Mike doesn't seem to get it. "I had visions of people dressed in black, filled with angst, debating glazing techniques. You know, art types."

"Ah…" He leans back and appraises me with a cocked brow. "Art types. That would be daunting indeed for a scientist. And yet you came… I'm impressed by your fortitude."

"That's one word for it."

He laughs out loud. "So tell me, Sara the Physics Major, what do you do when you're not out bashing art historians?"

Before I can formulate a reply a flustered RuPaul clone appears at Mike's side. He's garbed in unrelieved black and positively reeks of clove cigarettes. "Professor Kaplan! Where have you been? We simply must begin the lecture now."

Professor Kaplan? My mouth is agape and I'm too stunned to close it. I've been standing around tossing out disparaging comments about art types to the evening's guest lecturer? A renowned PhD? A tenured Harvard professor? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. That decomp in the desert is sounding better and better.

Page me, Grissom. Page me now.

Mike is smirking, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Just a minute, Keith. I'm having an illuminating discussion with Miss Sara Sidle here about art types. I find myself compelled to improve her jaded opinion of us."

Keith clearly has no sense of humor. He's eying me like I'm the snake in the Garden of Eden. "Two minutes," he concedes, and then stalks into the adjoining lecture room.

Cringing inwardly, I meet Mike's amused stare. "I owe you an apology."

"Absolutely not. It's actually refreshing to speak with someone outside of the art community. I love my colleagues, but they can get stale sometimes. You know what I mean?"

I do, and that surprises me. "Yeah…"

"Look, I do need to go inside and prep a few things before we get started. You'll stick around for the lecture?"

"Wouldn't miss it." I smile sheepishly.

"Afterwards, would you like to go grab a drink? We can continue our discussion."

I take a reflexive step backwards. "Uh…" It's one thing to step outside my comfort zone and attend an alumni mixer, it's entirely another to go out on a date. With all of the unresolved turmoil in my life that is a recipe for disaster. Not to mention the effect it would have on a certain emotionally unavailable entomologist. Grissom and I have forged a fragile bond these past few months and I am loath to do anything to upset the balance.

"It's not a date." He seems quite emphatic on this point. "Just drinks."

"Well, gee, when you put it like that…"

He leans in and drops his voice to a whisper. "Look… At the risk of sounding desperate… I've got a serious girlfriend back in Boston. I'm here for six months as a visiting professor at UNLV. You are the first person I've met who reminds me of the friends I left behind at home. It would be nice to go out and talk about something other than…. glazing techniques."

While his imploring tone is persuasive, I'm not convinced. Vegas is full of charming men with unsavory agendas. Hank Peddigrew comes immediately to mind. "What's your girlfriend's name?" I ask the question quietly and watch his face intently.

"Caroline." He smiles and intones the name reverently.

I decide to take him at face value. I only hope that one day a man invokes my name the very same way. Mike isn't using friendship as a ploy to get me back to his place to 'see his etchings.' He's genuinely looking for a friend.

And so, I realize, am I. "You're on."