The Inspiration (13 page)

“And I him,” he replies.

It’s late when Riley and I meander up the stairs to our apartment, and my breath catches when we get to the top. There’s an extraordinary flower arrangement waiting for us. It’s a celebration of color: hot and pale pinks, flaming oranges and soft peaches. The exotic flowers spill out of a tall glass cylinder vase lined with strips of bamboo tied together with sea grass. The whole effect is breathtaking. Riley moans, like it’s for her. But when she opens the card and hands it to me, its message is simple.

Riley gives me
the look
.

Feeling overwhelmed, I carry the flowers into our dining room. I can sense my rough edges softening with Max’s efforts and the things Dylan told me earlier.

By morning, I’m tempted to call him, although I’m not quite ready yet. I decide to take a long walk on the beach and head out to Santa Monica. It’s another glorious day; the sky is a vivid blue and the hot sun is tempered with a cool breeze. I take off my jogging shoes and wiggle my toes into the wet sand as I walk along the waterfront.

What do I want?
I can call Max and we can easily make up and agree to be pleasant with each other and finish the book. But is that enough at this point?

What do I want when I lie awake in bed at night, imagining him on top of me? Max filling me up and whispering my name while his hands caress me, his lips burning a path from my breasts to my lips and back again.

And what do I want, knowing his history with the kind of women I look down on in disgust? They’re women with little aspiration but to win him for a night. Ironically, I admire them for their unwavering confidence in the power of their sexuality. In contrast, I hate him for subscribing to their agenda.

By the time I head back to my apartment, I’m even more confused, and I decide to zone out and watch a movie. I make a sandwich and decide it’s time for a Darcy fix. I pull out my well-worn copy of
Pride and Prejudice
.

Why, oh why can’t I find my very own Darcy?

I never tire of this movie. I fast forward through the titles and eagerly await one of my favorite scenes—the community dance at a country hall. I pump my fist when Lizzy gives it to Darcy on how to promote affection, astutely getting revenge for insulting her earlier. After she delivers the line to the pompous ass, she confidently walks out, leaving him stunned. I rewind the scene and watch it over and over until my phone pings an incoming text from Max.

I reply
yes
, and then feel guilty for not thanking him for the beautiful flowers.
What can he be sending me now?
I refocus on the movie, and right at the scene in the rain where Darcy first declares his love, the doorbell rings.

Damn.
I pause the movie and looked through the peephole. The delivery person is holding a large wrapped package. I grab my wallet and take out enough for a tip before opening the door.

I am gripped with curiosity as I carry the package to the table and carefully unwrap it. I gasp when I see the edge of a very ornate frame
. Is this one of his paintings?
My heart pounds.
I can’t believe this.
As I pull the main piece of wrapping away, I step back…shocked.

The painting is of an angel, an exquisite angel with flowing hair and gossamer wings, yet she’s of Max’s world of color and expression. As I look closely, I can see where he has put his hands on the painting. I can even see pencil markings bleeding through in spots where he first drew her and then markings he added once the paint was applied.

As much as I love the painting, as much as I’m overwhelmed to receive the most exceptional gift of my life, those feelings are superseded by the stunning recognition that the angel has my face. I’m Max’s angel.

I take several breaths to calm myself. When on earth did he paint this? What depth of emotion would cause him to not only do the painting, but give it to me? Much less importantly but curiously, how did he get it to dry and then framed so quickly? The whole thing represents an extraordinary effort.

I see a note in the pile of wrapping, pick it up, and slowly open it.

I hold up the painting and shift it slowly in the light, trying to comprehend all that he could’ve meant with those words. Then it occurs to me to turn it over. Sure enough, he has written something on the back.

Okay, now I’ve melted.

I’m but a mere puddle on the floor.
Jane Eyre
is my all-time favorite story.

It occurs to me that Max is more like Rochester than my initial impression of Heathcliff. Either way, it’s starting to feel as if my life has become a Brontë sisters’ drama.

I carry the painting to the living room and carefully place it above the fireplace, leaning it against the wall. I stand back and gaze at it, my heart racing and tears brimming my eyes. It’s almost too much to believe. I need to call him right away, but opt to cautiously text first.

He responds immediately:

I dial his number.

“Wow, Max. You really know how to say thank you,” I say when he answers.

“By completely overwhelmed, I hope you meant in a good way?”

“Yes, of course. I’ve never received such an extraordinary gift. I’m crying right now, if you must know.”

“Don’t cry, Ava.” His tone is gentle and soothing. “I don’t want to make you feel bad anymore. You scared me yesterday. I didn’t think you had it in you to yell like that, to get that mad.”

“Yeah, I surprised myself. I was so wound up when I couldn’t reach you. And then I was terrified I’d done the wrong thing by convincing the Matthews to give you another chance. I had no right to involve myself like that.” I take a long breath. “So when you freaked out, I just lost it.”

“How could you have done the wrong thing, Ava? You’re my angel,” he states categorically.

I decide to shelve the weird angel talk for later. “Yes, well, angel or not, it wasn’t my place…it just happened so fast, and I made a split second decision to help you.”

“Thank God you did. I was able to convince Stephan that I appreciated his initial support of me and would do anything in my power to regain his respect. I was able to explain the events of that day and the evening of the disaster, and I gave him another perspective of my intentions. I feel good about it and hope the bridge has been mended.”

“Oh, I’m glad for that, Max.” I let out a sigh of relief.

“Today at noon, I got a call from Lisa Forrester, the curator at MOMA, and she told me they want to include me in their feature exhibit early next year.”

I could hear the joy in his voice. If he’d been here, I would’ve grabbed and hugged him.

“I’m so happy for you! It’s a dream come true, isn’t it?”

“If you only knew what this means to me. Well…it’s everything, and it would’ve never happened without you.”

I’m quiet because I know it’s true, and the satisfaction in knowing that is another gift I can hold in my heart.

He clears his throat. “I wish I could redo that whole scene in my studio. I feel horrible that I got so angry and yelled at you.”

“You were pretty scary. Is it true no one comes into your studio?”

“Yes. Making art’s such an intimate act that I hate anyone watching. I always struggled with it in my studio classes at school, but it’s gotten worse over the years.”

“Well, I did surprise you,” I admit.

He laughs. “Yeah, I’m not good at surprises either.”

“Noted. But I don’t put up with yelling, understood?”

“Agreed. So, I want to do something to celebrate. I thought I’d get some friends together for dinner, maybe tomorrow if we can get it figured out. Will you come?”

“Okay, sure.” I smile.

“So we’re good? Still friends?”

“Yes, still friends, and thanks again.”

“You bet. There are plenty of good times ahead for us.”

I hope so,
I think as I sit back on the couch to look at the painting.

My
painting.

Max succeeds in getting a small group together for Sunday night at The Ivy on Robertson. Riley and I take extra care getting dressed. She insists I wear my Agent Provocateur lingerie under the Derek Lamb dress I splurged on at a Barney’s warehouse sale. I’m feeling pretty damn good.

When we arrive at the restaurant, Max and Dylan are already there, and Max looks exuberant. He gives me a big hug and swings me around. When he puts me down, he steps back and holds me at arm’s length. “Hey, angel. You’re the honored guest tonight.”

I smile from ear to ear, my cheeks flushed.

Jess, Laura and Joe arrive, and we’re seated on the heated patio under the twinkling lights. Max orders several bottles of Veuve Clicquot champagne for the toast.

“As you guys have all heard, I found out Friday that I’m being included in a group show at MOMA. But what you may not have heard is…this never would’ve happened if not for Ava.”

Jess, Laura and Joe look at me in perfect synchronization. I look down, embarrassed.

“Having my work in MOMA is a lifelong dream, so thank you, guys, for helping me celebrate this. And thank you, Ava my angel, for waving your magic wand and making my dreams come true.” He picks up his champagne flute.

“To Ava!”

“To Ava!” Everyone repeats the toast.

The table’s immediately buzzing in conversation as Jess, Laura and Joe listen to the story of the Matthews’ installation and resulting phone call that changed Max’s fate. Everyone’s in a festive mood, and we’re in a wonderful bubble when the food arrives.

In my mind, I take a step back and look at the group of us…laughing and joyful. A swirl of colors and warm light envelops us. I’ll always remember the feeling of this moment. I’m truly happy.

“So, Max, how are you going to thank Mr. and Mrs. Matthews?” Riley asks.

“Yeah, did you promise them your first born or something?” Joe asks, laughing.

“No.” Max laughs before his expression becomes serious again, making me think he’s thought about what he can do to thank them. “I’m giving them my best painting. I’m delivering it on Monday. I really want them to have it, and it’ll mean something to all of us.”

His declaration makes me smile when I realize how right that feels.

When the restaurant starts preparing to close, it’s time to leave. As we wait for the valet to bring us our cars, Max and Dylan try to convince Riley and I to go for a ride. This idea is dubious at best, even if Dylan barely drank and seems to have his wits about him.

Yeah, let’s drive up to Mulholland and watch Dylan and Riley make out in the car…

It’s been a long eventful weekend, and I need to get home and sleep if I’m going to be worth anything tomorrow.

While having a final discussion with Jess, Max, who’s fairly lit from a steady flow of champagne and martinis, stands behind me and affectionately wraps his arms around my shoulders. As they talk, he progressively pulls me closer to him and the heat from his body gets me thinking about things I shouldn’t.

This time spent in close proximity to Max has thrown gasoline on the fire burning inside me. I take a very deep breath. My crazy thoughts imagine his hands sliding over my breasts while I grind my ass against him. Heat surges between my legs, and I fight an inner war to stop pressing back against him.

Oh God, I can’t take much more of this. Is he so drunk he doesn’t understand what holding me like this is doing to me?

When the valet brings Riley’s car forward, Max pulls away, turns me around and gives me a hug. The good-byes are brief. Max and I agree to talk in the next day or so to plan our next book meeting.

My raging libido is still sparking, and I struggle to keep my focus straight.

Thank God Riley’s driving.

When we stop at the first streetlight, Riley turns completely sideways and stares at me with wide eyes.

“What?”

“Oh, you know
what
, Miss Ava. The sexual energy between you and
art guy
was unbelievable. At the end, I thought he was going to throw you on the table and have his way in front of all of us,” she says, provocatively.

“Oh, girlfriend, you’re so kinky and have an overactive imagination to boot. If any vibe like that was going on, it was only because he was drunk and, in his stupor, confused me for one of his art groupies.”

She rolls her eyes.

I didn’t convince her.
Did I convince myself?