The Inspiration (11 page)

I flop down on the couch. “Okay, I guess. I found some good books to reference, and got some ideas while I looked through others.”

“How did you guys get along? It’s late. Did you go get dinner or something?”

I tell her about our conversation, including the story about Sheila, all topped off with his reveal about his inability to get emotionally close to anyone.

She shakes her head. “Well, it sounds like red flag time. And since you’re going ahead with the book project, it’s good you guys aren’t dating.”

“Yeah, good thing,” I reply, not sounding entirely convincing.

“Focus on getting the work done. It’ll give you guys a chance to get to know each other better. If it evolves later, then so be it. I’d just be really careful.”

She sounds pretty wise for someone whose work life is all about princesses and fairylands.

“Dylan called me today.” She watches me for my reaction.

“Really? And what, pray tell, does he want?”

“He needs to visit a gallery in Santa Barbara, so we’re going to drive up there together on Saturday and make a day of it.”

“You have a date with Dylan? How did this happen?” I ask incredulously.

She gives me a shy smile, as if she’s about to share a secret. “We just hit it off at Max’s. And then he called me Monday night and we talked on the phone for almost three hours. He’s the greatest guy, and we like so many of the same things, it’s eerie.”

“That’s cool, Riley, I’m so happy for you.” I give her a big hug and we chat for another minute about Dylan before she gets back to work.

As glad as I am to see Riley find a potential love connection, there’s the selfish part of me that wallows in the idea that I may never find love.

I carry the two new art books to my room and flip open my laptop on the bed. I open the Lichtenstein book and study some of the paintings before I turn to my computer and open Google search. My fingers twitch as I hesitate, then surrender:
Maxfield Caswell artist.

The page fills up with entries. I read a number of articles and reviews about Max. Most of the analysis of his work is favorable. Things get dicey with his antics away from the studio.

One review from the previous year in the
New Yorker
succinctly summed up what others had tried to say.

Caswell’s work is thoughtful and uniquely his, unlike many of his peers who try to seduce us with derivative work. Yet, at times, Caswell seems more interested in being notorious than developing himself as a serious artist. Only time will tell if he can rise to the opportunity his talent has bestowed upon him, or be consumed by the partying and narcissism that threatens to establish him as the pop star of the moment of the art world.

Ouch
, I think, cringing
.

I click on the image gallery. Most of the shots are from gallery openings and parties. In almost every shot, he has his arm around an attractive woman and seldom is the same one seen more than once. In one photograph, he’s with a young actress I recognize. They both have drinks in their hands and are laughing as she leans into him. I enlarge the image and study his face, wishing I could step inside his head and understand what he really thinks of all this, why he has chosen to live his life this way.

Finally, I decide to look at the image gallery of his paintings to clear my mind.
Beyond the Sky
is the first work that comes up. It’s completely abstract with waves of color that bleed from light to dark and back again. It’s an emotional painting…dark, yet hopeful. This painting reminds me why I want to do this book: to put into words the intense feelings his work provokes in me.

Hours later, the emotion of
Beyond the Sky
is the last thing I think about in that brief moment between wake and sleep.

A
dam calls me into his office after I arrive at work Thursday morning.

“So how are things going with Max’s book?” He stands up behind his prized Mies van der Rohe desk, moves over toward a pair of black leather chairs, and motions for me to sit down.

“Honestly, I still feel overwhelmed about the whole thing and worry I’m in way over my head.” I look down at my hands and then back up. “I figure all I can do at this point is try. I’m working on an outline, and as I break it down into smaller parts, it becomes a little more manageable.”

“Ava, I have complete confidence that you’re not
just
going to be able to do this, but you’ll do a great job. If I was a betting man, I’d bet on you.” He beams.

I want to hug him. He’s so dad-like, so good to me. “That means a lot, thank you.”

“And Max? Is he behaving himself?” He’s fishing and it makes me smile.

“Yes, he’s a perfect gentleman—apparently not to the rest of the female population, but with me, he’s been very professional.”

Adam nods. “Glad to hear it. Let me know if he acts up.”

It’s almost two in the afternoon when I drive my car up a winding driveway with Henry and Francisco following in the van. This installation shouldn’t take long, but our clients appreciate it when we make a big production out of hanging the art. Of course, everything has to be handled with the utmost professionalism.

The clients, Stephan and Stella Matthews, are major collectors and philanthropists. Mr. Matthews is on the board at the Museum of Modern Art in New York where they’ve donated many works over the years. They prefer to bring the work of young artists into their home to keep their collection updated.

We walk up the grand entrance and a woman who introduces herself as Mrs. Matthews’s assistant meets us at the door and leads us into the marble foyer. This particular house, designed by Paul Williams, is in the Hollywood regency style and has sweeping views of the city. To my right there’s a Jeff Koons’ large silver dog balloon sculpture and several feet behind it hangs a Jackson Pollack drip painting. I’ve never seen a Pollock anywhere but in a museum, and I’m stunned.

As Mrs. Matthews approaches us, I’m struck by her elegance. Tall and regal, her sleek silver hair is worn in an angular style, and she’s dressed in a black cashmere sweater and charcoal narrow slacks. Her only accents are her massive diamond ring and her architectural earrings.

After introductions, she leads us to the game room, which is more casual than the rest of the house. The plan is to hang Jess’s painting above the carved Italian fireplace. While Henry and Francisco get to work, Mrs. Matthews turns to me.

“So, Ava, what do you think of Jess’s work? Do you get to deal with her directly in your job at the gallery?” she asks in a kind voice.

“Well, I have to admit, Jess is one of my best friends, so I’m extremely biased, but I’m a big fan of her work. To me, she’s a modern day impressionist, but instead of painting ballet dancers and girls in the garden like Degas and Renoir, she captures the people in our daily landscape.”

Mrs. Matthews nods.

“She’s a great person too. We held a show for her in New York last week and a number of her friends from her years at Pratt were there. They all talked about her with great affection.”

“Yes, that’s right, she went to Pratt. Have any of her classmates done as well as she has?” she asks.

“I’m not exactly certain, but the only one that really stands out in terms of success is Maxfield Caswell. They’re still friends.”

“Yes, Caswell,” she answers thoughtfully and pauses. “We bought one of his pieces a couple of years ago. I still love it, but my husband is over him, so I had it moved to my study.”

“Really? Does your husband not care for his work any longer?”

“It’s not his work; it’s his attitude. My husband was standing near him at an opening a month ago and overheard him trashing MOMA in New York. It’s really so unfortunate because Stephan’s on the board and had been encouraging the curator to include Caswell’s work in an upcoming show called
Urban Legend
. He would’ve only been one of two artists under thirty included. It could’ve been pivotal for his career. They’re making the final decision in the morning, but I’m certain Stephan is against Caswell being in the show now and he has a tremendous influence.”

“Oh no,” I gasp, shaking my head.

“Do you know him personally?” she asks me, her curiosity piqued.

“Yes, we’re friends,” I say, stretching the truth a bit. “I’m actually writing the text for a Taylor and Tiden book about Max.”

“Taylor and Tiden?”

Her eyes widen.

My stomach churns. I have the possibility to help Max in a very important way, but to do so will require more lies and well-executed manipulation than I’m capable of. Yet the next words come out of my mouth so smoothly, I surprise even myself.

“Actually, I spent time with Max in New York last week and we went to MOMA to see the
Bauhaus
exhibit. He told me it was his life’s dream to have one of his paintings exhibited there.”

I’m on a roll. I take a deep breath. “I believe Jess told me about that incident your husband overheard. Max had a crisis that day, along with a series of events that led to those comments that actually had nothing to do with MOMA, but he didn’t know it at the time. I only wish there was a way for him to explain it to your husband.”

She holds her focus on Jess’s painting for several moments. “Well, you believe in Caswell. Am I correct?”

“Yes, I do, Mrs. Matthews. He’s unbelievably talented, he lives for his art and he highly values his place in the art community.”

“Well, let me talk to Stephan and see if he’s willing to speak with Maxfield. If so, I’ll text you with a time to call.”

I thank her repeatedly as I write my number down. I desperately hope I’ve done the right thing.

On the way out the door, I tell Francisco and Henry that I’ll meet them back at the gallery. From the side of the road, I dial Max’s cell phone. When he doesn’t pick up, I leave him a message.

“Hey Max, it’s Ava. I have something important to talk with you about as soon as possible, so please call me back as soon as you can. Thanks.”

I hang up, disappointed he didn’t answer.

I have a lot to do when I return to the gallery, but when an hour passes without a call back from Max, I get nervous. I call again and leave another message.

A few minutes later, I receive a text message, and I slide my finger across my phone’s screen.

My heart nearly jumps out of my chest. I text back,

After I hit send, I look through my phone contacts for Max’s home number I entered before we drove out to Malibu. When I get his answering machine, I break out into a cold sweat. What if he’s on a plane, or in a double feature movie with his phone turned off or somewhere else unreachable? It’s already five.

I call Dylan and when he picks up, I pray my luck’s changed.

“Hi, Dylan. It’s Ava, Riley’s friend.”

“Hey, Ava. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I really need to get ahold of Max right away, but he’s not answering his cell or home phone. Is he with you, by chance?” I cross my fingers and hold my breath.

“Nope, he’s not with me. Is this something I can help you with?”

Even though Dylan is Max’s manager and I should probably let him know about this situation, I’m not sure I can handle it if he gets mad at me for sticking my nose in their business. “No, but thanks. I really need to talk to him.”

“Well, when I spoke with him this morning he said he planned to paint all day. When he works, he doesn’t like to be disturbed, so he doesn’t answer the phone. He’ll take a break eventually and I’m sure he’ll get your messages.”

I thank him and hang up, not feeling very reassured. I decide to text Max using shouty caps.

By the time I pull out of the parking lot to head home, I’m a nervous wreck, and I almost run into a cyclist, despite the fact that he’s wearing a neon yellow jersey. He yells at me, waving his fist and I sink down into my seat.

When I get home, I pace the living room for about fifteen minutes before I call him again. As the phone rings I chant in my head,
Answer, answer, answer, damn it! Why did I do this? If I’d just kept my damn mouth shut, I could be sitting on the patio right now enjoying a glass of Pinot Noir.

I get his machine again.

Feeling out of options, I get back in my car and head to the freeway. It’s going to be a long drive to Malibu, and God knows how Mr. “Doesn’t Like to be Interrupted” will feel when I crash his work session.

Six-thirty on a Thursday night is a very bad time to drive to Malibu—drive being a relative term. The 101 is a parking lot and I’m having fantasies of doing a
Thelma and Louise
and gunning it through the empty emergency lane. I turn on the stereo and crank it up to take my mind off things. “Move Along” by The All-American Rejects plays, and I sing at the top of my lungs, taking strength from the words.

Despite my singing, the apprehension lingers. It’s eight when I finally pull up to Max’s house, and I’m tempted to turn around and leave. For a moment, I seriously consider the possibility. He doesn’t know yet what the issue is with Mr. Matthews. Yes, I left a bunch of messages, but I could make something else up. He’d never know.

But what if this situation with MOMA ever got back to him? He’d never forgive me, knowing there was a chance to salvage his chance to be in that show. I slowly climb out of my car and face his house.

I notice a structure to the far left of the garden with large windows. The door’s wide open, light streams out the windows and aggressive hard rock music blasts into the garden. I assume this to be his studio and move toward it, the dread of telling him about my interference testing my nerves.