“This exhibit was timed to open around Valentine’s Day, for reasons which should be obvious,” said Ms. Iverson. “Instead of dinner and a movie, maybe a perfect date night will be a trip to this museum!”

“Most boring date ever,” Jack heard Jessica mutter behind him. He chose to ignore it.

“I understand you’ve already read the letters of Abelard and Heloise, so you know their love story. How an affair between a teacher and his brilliant, beautiful student pitted Christian devotion against sexual passion.”

He noticed Cody looking sideways at him.

“As much as we want to believe this was a true story, the authenticity of the letters has never actually been established, and some scholars argue they’re merely fiction.”

“What do you think?” Taryn asked her.

“There’s such passion in these letters; I prefer to believe they’re real.”

“Or they could just be erotic fantasies written by some horny monk,” Jessica said.

Iverson responded with a tight smile. “Perhaps.”

“Does it really matter who wrote them?” Taryn said. “They so beautifully immortalize a doomed love affair. I’m guessing they were the inspiration for other tales about star-crossed lovers. Maybe even Romeo and Juliet.”

“Excellent observation,” said Ms. Iverson.

As they moved on, Jack heard Jessica whisper to Caitlin, “Brownnosing little bitch.”

They passed by a Pre-Raphaelite painting of the doomed couple, golden-haired Heloise adorned in lustrous silk, Abelard with a head of dark ringlets. In the painting beside it was a completely different version of Abelard, depicted as a medieval scholar in a cowled hood. He looked more like a wizard than a teacher as he kissed an innocent Heloise.

“He looks like Voldemort putting the moves on Hermione,” Jason said to a few chuckles.

“Maybe she did it for the A-plus,” Jessica said.

Jack saw Cody flash Taryn a frown. What the hell was the scuttlebutt in class? Did they really think there was something going on between him and Taryn?

He wanted the tour to be over, but unfortunately, they were moving on to sexier depictions of the pair. They stopped before a nineteenth-century oil painting showing Abelard holding Heloise’s hands against her bared breast. Behind them, her menacing uncle Fulbert lurked in a shadowy doorway. But it was the rosy glow of Heloise’s breast that held Jack’s gaze, a breast unmarred by age or the relentless pull of gravity. He was acutely aware of Taryn standing beside him, her gaze on the painting as well. She was close enough for him to catch the scent of her hair, to feel her sweater brush against his arm.

Abruptly he turned and moved on.

They came to the final group of illustrations, depicting Abelard’s punishment.

“As you already know, since you’ve read the letters,” said Ms. Iverson, “Heloise’s uncle Fulbert had Abelard castrated as punishment for the affair with Heloise. So some of these images are quite disturbing.”

They certainly were. One black-and-white eighteenth-century engraving showed Abelard laid out on a canopied nuptial bed with two men holding down his legs while Fulbert performed the castration. Heloise stood restrained as she watched the scene, screaming in horror. In another etching, Abelard was held down, his head covered by a hood, while a black-robed priest wielded a knife between Abelard’s legs.

The final painting, The Farewell of Abelard and Heloise, by Angelica Kauffman, showed nuns leading a weeping Heloise from Abelard, the lovers’ arms stretched out to each other as they were forever separated.

“She goes to a convent. He gets his balls cut off,” Cody said. “I think it’s pretty clear who got the worst of it.”

“Not Abelard,” Taryn said. “He got what he wanted, even if he did spend the rest of his life sexless and in a monastery.”

“Thanks for meeting with me,” Taryn said an hour later as she and Jack sat at a table in the MFA’s restaurant. “I probably should have scheduled an appointment during office hours.”

“We both have to eat lunch. We might as well have our meeting here.”

“Yeah, but . . .” She looked around the dining room as a waiter glided past with four glasses of wine on his tray. “The coffee shop would have been fine too.”

“The food’s much better here.” He shook out his napkin with a nonchalance he wasn’t quite feeling. Professors often had lunch with their students, yet he felt a twinge of guilt, sitting here with Taryn. This restaurant was where he and Maggie had celebrated their engagement, right after he’d proposed to her in front of Renoir’s dancers.

The waiter came to deliver their drink orders, iced tea for Taryn and a pinot noir for him. He took a sip to center himself.

“To be honest,” he said, “I thought this restaurant would offer more privacy. Because I wanted to thank you for coming to my defense about that Title Nine complaint against me.”

“How do you know I’m the one who defended you?”

“Elizabeth Sacco told me one of the female students in the class stood up for me. I realized it had to be you.”

“It was supposed to be confidential,” she said as a smile twitched on her lips. “The complaint was ridiculous anyway. I can’t believe anyone was triggered by what you said.”

“Neither can I,” Jack said.

“About affairs between teachers and students?”

“I was talking about a book. I wasn’t advocating any such behavior.”

“But would you?”

“Would I what?”

“Ever have an affair with a student?”

He felt his heart take a gulp of blood. “I’m a married man. And it’s strictly forbidden by university rules. Besides, I’m twice the age of my students.”

“You talk like you’re ancient or something.”

“Compared to you, I am.”

She smiled. “But not so old I wouldn’t date you.”

The coquettishness of her response disturbed him, but he let it pass. He took another sip of wine. “Rules aside, it’s just not something I would ever do. Because it’s wrong.”

She nodded. “And that’s what makes you different. You care about right and wrong. About loyalty. A lot of people in this world wouldn’t give a damn about that.” She pulled up her museum-shop bag. “Want to see what I bought?”

“Sure.” He was relieved to change the subject.

She pulled out a box from which she extracted a white ceramic statue of a woman, a dagger gripped in her hand. Carved at the base of the statue was the name Medea.

“You didn’t buy anything about Abelard and Heloise?”

“No, because this is more my kind of woman.”

“Medea?”

She read aloud the description on the box. “‘In Greek mythology, Medea punished her unfaithful husband by murdering their two children. Wounded by infidelity, blinded by jealousy and anger, Medea contemplates her pending crime.’” She looked at him. “She’s a far more interesting character than Heloise, don’t you think?”

“Why?”

“Because Medea’s not passive. She’s active. She uses her rage to take command of the situation.”

“By murdering her children?”

“Yes, it’s horrible, what she does. But she doesn’t spend the rest of her life whining woe is me.”

“And you find that admirable?”

“I find it worthy of respect.” She placed the statue back in the box and stuffed it into her backpack. “Even if men might find the idea terrifying.”

“Terrifying?”

“Female rage.” She looked straight at him, and the fierceness of her gaze unsettled him. “That’s what I’d like to write about. Medieval literature emphasizes female passivity. It saddles women with all those thou shalt nots. We’re not allowed to be immodest or wanton or rebellious. But Greek mythology celebrates our power. Think of Medea and Hera and Aphrodite. They don’t passively accept male infidelity. No, they react to it, sometimes violently. And they . . .”

Her voice suddenly dropped away. She was no longer looking at Jack but over his shoulder. He turned to see what had caught her attention, but all he noticed was a young couple walking past the hostess stand and out of the restaurant. He looked at Taryn and was alarmed by how pale her face was. “Are you all right?”

She shot to her feet and yanked her jacket from the chair. “I have to go.”

“What about your lunch? It’s still coming.”

She didn’t answer. She dashed out of the restaurant, just as the waiter returned to their table.

“Your lobster rolls,” he said and set down two plates.

Jack looked at the chair where Taryn had been sitting. “I think you should box up her order.”

“Isn’t she coming back?”

He glanced at the exit. Taryn had vanished. “I don’t think so.”

CHAPTER 14

TARYN