The Inspiration (17 page)

He finally joins me on the couch and sits close to me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I nod, despite how weary I am. I feel ravaged inside, my spirit broken.

“What was it you couldn’t find?”

I need him to understand that what I lost was a part of me.

“It was a box. I still can’t believe it’s gone.”

He nods with great empathy. “I could tell it meant everything to you.”

“My family, my past, all that was precious to me…the letters my dad wrote me from Iraq before he was killed…”

Max’s expression is one of profound sadness. “How old were you when he died?”

“Fifteen.”

“Oh, baby,” he whispers.

“The poem my grandma wrote for me before she passed.” I close my eyes and picture the poem and my eyes well up again. “Why didn’t I make a copy of the poem? I just never thought…”

“Oh, Ava. How could you’ve known?” He rubs my shoulder to soothe me.

“My dad’s class ring and gold watch. Grandma’s pearl earrings. Oh…” I sink further, as if an invisible weight is pushing down on my shoulders. “The last thing I put in there was a letter from my mom.”

He tips his head to the side with a curious expression. “Is she still alive?”

I let out a long sigh. “I have no idea.”

I take another sip of my wine. I don’t want to talk about my mom right now. Max waits patiently and I’m hoping he won’t ask what I may not be ready to tell.

“There was so little to hold onto…and now it’s been taken. It feels like my past has been stolen. None of my things will mean anything to the thieves. It’s only cash to them. But I’d give anything to have it back.”

More tears fall, but I’m calmer now that I’ve finished. It’s cathartic to let it all out.

Max reaches over and pulls me close. He rubs my arm and runs his fingers through my hair. As we sit silently, his touch relaxes me and my eyelids grow heavy as the exhaustion of unleashing so much emotion hits me.

“You know Ava,” he finally says, “I had no idea what you’ve been through.” He shakes his head. “And I’m so sorry for what you’ve lost tonight.”

Instinctively, I slide closer.

“But do you know what’s most significant about what you’ve told me? Your memories of your family are what’s important, not the stuff they left you. You’re lucky because they loved you, and they had a chance to tell you. Losing the letters doesn’t take any of that away. You’ll always have the memory of what they said in those letters, and they’ll always live in your heart. You don’t need the stuff to know it’s true.”

And even though I don’t want to hear that now, somewhere deep in my heart a tiny part of me knows he’s right. We stay on the couch, and as Max quietly comforts me, my eyes finally close and I fall into a deep exhausted sleep.

When I wake, it’s dark and I hear the sound of the ocean in the distance. I sit up, but don’t recognize my surroundings. The T-shirt I’m wearing isn’t mine, so I check a little more. At least the bra and panties are mine.
Where are my clothes?
The memory of Max holding me on the couch comes back.
Did he change me and put me to bed?
I’m horrified and I break out in a cold sweat. The feeling is unnerving and familiar, and my heart starts racing wildly. Recognizing the signs of a panic attack coming on, I take deep breaths to calm myself. I get out of bed to see if I can find Max.

I step into a hallway with a terra-cotta tiled floor, dimly lit with old wrought-iron light fixtures. There are large paintings on each wall. At the end of the hall are double doors made of intricately carved dark wood. They’re just open enough for me to stick my head through and look inside.

A dim light in the corner allows me to take in the details of the room. French doors are wide open and its sheer curtains flutter in a cool breeze that carries the sound of the ocean inside. In the middle of the room is a large four-poster bed with heavy velvet drapes hanging on the sides. Despite the carvings on the bed frame and the velvet curtains, the decor is very masculine.

When I spy Max, I sigh. He’s covered with sheets, but I can still see he sleeps with abandon. He’s diagonal on the bed, his arms outstretched and his wild hair a halo against the pale pillow. I slowly walk to the edge of the bed. To see him like this—so peaceful, so beautiful, stirs something inside of me.

“Max…Max,” I say, trying not to startle him awake, and wait a moment before I try again. After I’ve said his name a dozen times, he finally opens his eyes.

“Ava,” he says groggily and looks at the clock. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry to wake you, but…I’m trying to fight off a panic attack. I’m so shook up from what happened.”

“Of course you are,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Can I get you something? Do you want me to sit up with you?”

“No, but would it be okay if I stay in here while you sleep? Maybe I could lie on the other side of the bed?” I ask meekly.

“Sure…as long as you’re comfortable with that. Why don’t you try to get more sleep too?” He scoots over to the right side of the bed and lifts the sheets and blanket on the other side so I can get in. When I sink down into the bed, I marvel at how soft the sheets are. I sigh, immediately feeling so much better with him near.

He settles back down and I lie there, frozen by the tension floating between us.

“Are you okay?” he finally whispers.

“Yeah, I guess I’m still nervous. I’ll be fine.” I roll onto my side, facing the open French doors to let the ocean breeze soothe me.

“Come here,” he says quietly. He curls his arm around my waist and pulls me to him until we’re spooning. As he holds me, he caresses my head and whispers in my ear, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Everything’s okay.”

Being in his arms and feeling safe and cared for is heavenly. I settle into a deep, calm sleep.

When I wake up, I feel rested, despite the night I endured. The ocean air is healing and this bed’s probably the best I’ve ever slept in. I amuse myself remembering Riley’s prediction that I would be in Max’s bed sooner than I thought.
I don’t think this is what she had in mind though
.

I turn toward Max, but his spot is empty. I feel a little abandoned without him here, but then decide it makes the morning less awkward not to have to wake up in his arms and then try to compose myself. There’s a note on his pillow.

Peeling the sheets back and stepping out of bed, I take a long stretch. I decide to find the kitchen and see if he’s made any coffee.

At the bottom of the stairs, I stand under the arch leading into an open room. Floor to ceiling shelves full of books line the walls, and there’s a large fireplace on the left wall. French doors open to the front garden and provide a direct view of the koi pond and fountain. On one side of the room, an oversized antique wooden desk covered with piles of papers, books and an Apple laptop is angled to look out on the garden.

An old Asian rug frames the sitting area that has a pair of oversized worn leather chairs facing the fireplace. I almost swoon. This is my fantasy room. I can imagine sitting here for hours with a favorite book, the fire roaring and the French doors just parted so I can hear the water cascading into the pond. I wonder if Max realizes how lucky he is to live here.

I wander around a bit more until I find the kitchen, and note that everywhere I look there are piles of books, both art and literature. I have to wonder how the busy artist and party boy has time to read.

I’m rewarded with a pot of coffee already brewed. I help myself to a mug, and then wander out on the patio facing the beach. Leaning on the railing, I gaze at the ocean and watch a kayaker cut across the low horizon. Something catches my eye and I focus on the water in time to see two dolphins leap out of the water and dive in again. They repeat the motion three times with incredible grace until the water is quiet again.

Finally, I gaze along the shore, taking in the jagged, rocky coastline of Malibu. The beach is still quiet except for a lone jogger gracefully moving my direction as he runs along the water’s edge. As he comes closer, I recognize him. Max is barefoot, wearing a pair of navy board shorts and apparently nothing else. I watch him run up to the beach in front of the house. He stops and stretches for a moment, and then I lose sight of him as he moves to the gate leading up to the houses.

He bounds into the kitchen and stops when he sees me leaning against the kitchen counter.

He smiles. “Hey sleepyhead. I see you found the coffee.”

I’m desperately trying to regain my focus to answer him. It’s one thing to see Max partially disrobed at a distance on the beach. But the sight of him so close with a thin glistening layer of sweat across his beautifully-defined body combined with the bright look in his eyes and color in his cheeks renders me speechless.

Finally, I manage to ask, “How was your run?”

His smile widens. “Great, it’s a beautiful morning, perfect weather.” He takes a mug from the cupboard and fills it with coffee. “How are you feeling this morning?” His expression softens as he studies my face.

I run my fingers through my bed hair. “Well, much better than last night. I’m really sorry I woke you up in the middle of the night, but I slept so much better. I hope you were able to go back to sleep.”

“I slept like a baby.”

I feel my cheeks turn red and he smiles.

He refills his water bottle at the sink. “I’ve already mixed up some pancake batter. Let me jump in the shower and then I’ll make breakfast.”

“Shower,” I repeat, distracted with the idea of Max naked with water flowing over him.

“Care to join me?” he teases playfully.

I grin. “Join you? Oh my, Max.”

He backs out of the room, his hands outstretched. “Last chance!” he teases and then he heads upstairs.

I sit down in the booth at the end of the kitchen facing the patio, drink my coffee and consider running upstairs to surprise Max in the shower, but then the darkness starts to settle in my mind, and I wonder how many of the art groupies have been in that shower with him. Suddenly, the idea loses all of its appeal. But I still allow myself the luxury of picturing him in the steam, rubbing soap all over his body before the water rushes over him.

Minutes later, he’s back in the kitchen taking a griddle out of the cupboard and removing various ingredients from the fridge. He has a perfect command of the kitchen. As I look around, I note a big bowl of fruit and various well-used cooking appliances.

“Was your mom a good cook?”

“Yeah, she loved to cook and she always took me with her to the local farmers markets. She wanted me to know how to cook too. I guess she figured it would make me more desirable to the female population.”

“Like you needed help in that area.”

He smiles. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

After we finish stacks of pancakes with bacon and drink our orange juice, I ask him if he has a picture of his mom. I follow him into the living room and he takes a framed black and white print off the mantle.

“It’s my favorite,” he says softly as he hands me the picture. It’s a photograph of Max and his mom on the beach. He looks to be about twelve or thirteen and she has her arm draped over his shoulder. What’s most striking is the photographer caught them laughing as they look at each other, and you can feel how much they love each other. They’re both good-looking, but they aren’t posing like models. They’re just happy and laughing, enjoying each other.

It takes my breath away to realize he had that, and now she’s gone. From the various things he’s said, she obviously adored him and made choices in her life for the benefit of Max. She was a beautiful woman, but what mattered was Max and being a good mom. My mom was like that once. We’ve both lost so much.

“She’s beautiful, Max,” I sigh, handing the photo back. “You can tell in this photo how much you two adore each other.”

He nods silently and carefully sets it back on the mantle.

“Is it hard living here since this was her home once too?” I feel bold asking him this, but everything in this house tells me something about Max, and I want to learn more.

“You know, even though she decided to raise me in the city, she loved this house and put a lot of herself into it. As a matter of fact, this is where she primarily lived after I went to college.

In the beginning, the first couple of years after she died, I kept everything the same. I guess it was a shrine, and I couldn’t bear to let anything go. But I realized it kept me in a state of mourning. It was time to move forward. I changed a lot of the interior and hung new art, both my friends’ and mine. All the changes made it easier. But as for the house itself, I find comfort in the connection I have with her here. She loved this place…designed the garden and put so much love into this house. I feel it whenever I’m here.”

I look into his eyes and offer him a tender smile. It hits me how much he’s shared—deeply personal thoughts I imagine he’s shared with very few people, if anyone. And although he’s avoiding getting physically intimate with me, I take comfort in the thought that I’m becoming an important friend. He certainly proved what kind of friend he could be last night.