The Inspiration (26 page)

He continues, “I’ve tried to talk him into slowing down, not moving so fast with Riley, but he clearly isn’t listening. I just hope that she’s genuine.”

I’ve heard enough. My blood boils.

“Wait just a minute. How can you question if she’s genuine? Riley’s a good person. She’s stood by me through thick and thin without ever wavering. Furthermore, she’s crazy about Dylan. If she knew that you didn’t believe in their relationship…she’d be devastated.”

He leans back, seemingly shocked by my passionate defense of Riley.

“Well, sorry I offended you. I’m just telling you how I feel.”

“Please tell me you aren’t going to pull a Darcy and try to convince Dylan not to be with her. It’d kill her.” I feel like hitting him.

“Pull a Darcy?”

“Yes, you know, Jane Austen…
Pride and Prejudice
? Darcy doesn’t trust Jane’s affections for his best friend Bingley, and he breaks them up. It isn’t until the end of the story that he realizes he’s made a huge mistake, and he encourages them to reunite and they get married.”

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You’ve been reading too many of those girly stories. They’re messing with your head.”

“I’m serious, Max…don’t interfere. You may not believe in love, but I do. And I think they have a chance to share something wonderful together. Don’t ruin it for them.”

He tips his head to the side and looks at me with wide eyes. It’s almost like I’m a stranger, and he’s seeing me for the first time. “Okay, I’ll leave them alone…I promise.” And then he breaks out in a wide grin. “I never would’ve guessed that sassy-girl Ava is a hopeless romantic.”

I shove him playfully and make a face. “Yes, I am, you big cynic. So my Mr. Right is going to have to pour on the hearts and flowers if he expects to win my heart.”

“So, fair Ava, how does one win the heart of a girl like you?”

“You know, stand under my balcony and serenade me, write me love poems…stuff like that.”

“I’ll remember that.” He laughs as we head to the car.

We haven’t been on the freeway long when traffic comes to a complete stop. As we inch ahead, my laziness overcomes me, and I start falling asleep sitting up. But every time I drift off, my head lolls forward and my neck snaps, waking me back up. After a few rounds of this, Max sighs, slides his arm over my shoulders and pulls me against him.

Heaven.
All I remember from that is complete contentment. As the minutes pass, he instinctively pulls me in even closer, and I fall into a deep slumber.

“Dylan, look, they’re so sweet,” Riley’s voice says somewhere in the edges of my mind.

What is she talking about?

“Should we leave them here or wake them up?”

“Leave them here? I don’t think so. Wake them up.”

A hand on my knee pulls me toward the waking world.

“Ava,” she whispers, shaking my knee a little.

I open my eyes slowly and blink, realizing that I’m burrowed into Max.

Riley smiles, and I try to gently pull away, but realize he’s asleep with his head tipped back against the headrest. It hits me that, not only is his left arm wrapped tightly around me, but he’s holding my free hand against his chest, right over his heart.

For a moment, I want to close my eyes and settle back into him, but since Riley and now Dylan are watching me…

“Max,” I say softly as I slowly wiggle my hand out of his grasp. “Max.”

He stirs and lifts his head just as I pull away. He looks disoriented at first and blinks as he takes in all of our faces.

“We’re home,” I murmur and then catch my mistake. “I mean, we’re at my place.”

He presses his palms into his cheeks. “Okay,” he responds, his voice sleepy and full of gravel. We slowly pull ourselves together and step out of the car.

As we turn to face each other, I can tell he’s embarrassed and I try to set him at ease. “Do you want some coffee or something?” I gesture upstairs.

“No, I’ve really got to go. But thanks.”

He looks at me and there’s a thought shadowed in his eyes, as if he wants to tell me something, but can’t or won’t. The impression of this overwhelms me. I want to shake it out of him, like a shiny penny cascading out of an overturned piggy bank. But in my sleepy state, my courage fails me, and he turns away once again.

I
n my opinion, Sunday morning just before ten is a ridiculous time to be driving up Wilshire to work. Phoebe lives in a high-rise condo in Westwood and when I pull in the driveway, a valet leaps forward to take my car. I steel myself for what’s to come as I glide up the elevator to the fifteenth floor. The front desk has already announced me, so Phoebe opens her door as soon as I ring the doorbell.

She’s still in her Pilates outfit, and she’s lean and fit with long, jet-black hair and an attractive face. She looks to be in her mid-thirties.

I step forward and offer my hand. “Hi, Phoebe, I’m Ava.”

She shakes it firmly and leads me inside to the living room. The space isn’t large, but the floor-to-ceiling windows give it an expansive feeling.

“Would you like some tea?” she asks politely. She’s indicated that I can set my things down on the table in the corner.

“That’d be great. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

As she heads to the kitchen, I move to the window to take a closer look at the view. The building is set at an angle, so from her window you can see a distance down Wilshire Boulevard.

She returns with two steaming mugs.

“Yerba mate,” she says as she sets them down in front of us. I lift my mug and smell. It has the aroma of burnt hay and tastes even worse.

Phoebe then scoots up her chair and gets right to the point. She explains that she’s already spent a number of hours on what I’ve submitted, and she took it upon herself to do the edits and rewrites where necessary. This was the only way, considering the amount to be done within such a short period.

This is exactly what I was afraid would happen, and I work to push down the swell of emotion inside of me. Why the formality of a meeting if she’s already changed everything? Perhaps she wants to look good for Jonathan.

I decide to start our discussion with something that doesn’t have my handprints all over it—the Twenty Voices on Caswell chapter, a compilation of other people’s writing about Max’s work.

“Yes, this wasn’t awful. Some of the things people wrote were actually thought-provoking, but the way you put it together was clumsy.” She has each section in a separate folder, so she finds that chapter and pulls it open.

“What I did was move Lisa Forrester’s quote first, then Edward Runyon’s, and so on. Here, you can see what I’ve done.”

I silently flip through her list.

“Okay. Can I take this home? I’d like to study what you’ve changed.”

She nods abruptly. “Of course. I’ve made you a complete set of copies to take.” She pushes a neat pile of folders toward me.

I pick up the top folder off the pile titled
The Early Years.
I open it slowly and haven’t read much before the feeling of alarm sets in. I skim through several other pages, barely recognizing the writing.

“You’ve left out so much,” I say, almost as a question.

“Too sentimental,” she snaps.

“I see.” I close the folder and place it back on the pile. “Well, I think what makes the most sense now is to take this home and read it thoroughly. Then we can meet, if needed, for a follow-up conversation.”

“If it’s necessary,” she says, sounding like she definitely doesn’t think we’ll need to talk again.

“Can I get one of your cards?”

As she retrieves a business card from her Filofax organizer, she pauses and then looks up. “How much time did you spend with Caswell researching this?”

“I’m not sure—we’ve had a number of meetings,” I answer, wondering where she’s going with this.

“Was he agreeable?”

“I would say so. He’s very excited about this book.”

“Well, he should be.” Her eyes narrow and her lips purse together.

The undertone to her words makes me pause, but the last thing I want to do is to explore this idea with the charming Phoebe. At this point, I’m counting the seconds until I can escape.

I stand, hugging the folders to my chest. “Well, I’ll be going. Thank you for your time, Phoebe.”

She silently walks me to the door.

“Oh, and thank you for the tea,” I say with a friendly voice.

She shuts the door abruptly, thereby missing the scowl that crosses my face and stays there the entire way to the elevator.

I’m numb as I drive toward my apartment, thinking about Phoebe’s changes. I pull into the drive-through at Starbucks to get a venti vanilla latte to get that foul tea taste out of my mouth.

Luckily, Riley’s spent the night at Dylan’s, so our place is quiet. I curl up on the couch and open the top folder, intent on working through the pile.

Once the shock of her dramatic edits wears off, I get a grip on my emotions. I have to read most section three times before I fully grasp the changes. In some cases, she’s sharpened and focused the ideas I’m trying to convey. In other places, it just felt as if she took a hatchet to my carefully-constructed words. I flag the sections that upset me the most…figuring, at the very least, I can discuss them with Jonathan.

But as I read, another theme becomes apparent. The overall tone is very sharp, often bordering on unflattering. Max and I had already discussed mentioning his notoriety in the social world, but now it has a much harsher tone. And the digs aren’t just about his public persona; they hint that his work is derivative and that he borrows some of his more important ideas.

When I finally close the last folder, I realize if I were Mr. Joe Public and had read these words, I’d conclude that Caswell was a real asshole with questionable talent. I wonder if Phoebe has an agenda, and I even consider that Jonathan might too. Is this really what Taylor and Tiden wants?

An unsettling feeling creeps up my spine, and my mind scrambles for my next move. I turn on the stereo and make lunch before I do anything else. As music fills the silent apartment, I make a quesadilla and steam some veggies.

It feels good to avoid thinking about this mess, so I do a couple of chores to occupy myself until I accept that the issue with Phoebe’s butcher job can wait no longer. I do the first thing that comes to mind…call Jess. Luckily, I catch her at home.

“Hey, babe, what’s up?” She sounds happy and relaxed.

“I had a meeting with that Phoebe this morning, and it didn’t go well. Now I don’t know what to do.” I can’t hide the panic in my voice.

“Did you ever get her last name?” she asks calmly.

“No—oh, I got her card. Wait a sec.” I grab it from my purse. “Phoebe Carter.”

Jess gasps. “FUCK! I’ll be right over.”

This isn’t good.
I pace my living room until Jess bangs on the front door.

“Let me see that bitch’s card,” she growls.

I hand it to her, and it bows as her hand tightens over it.

“Damn, I had a feeling.” Her face is tight with anxiety.

“What is it?” The curiosity is killing me.

“Several years ago, Max went out with this whack job a few times. As I recall, she was into some really kinky stuff, and Max lost interest quickly and cut it off.” Jess shakes her head. “Well, she went ballistic…like they were engaged and he’d left her at the altar. She stalked him for months. He had to get a restraining order. A helluva lot of good that did, though; she still managed to cause all kinds of trouble. That bitch had an unholy obsession. Finally, she got in trouble at work, and they relocated her to the home office where they could watch her.”

“Well, that explains the way she asked me about him. It was creepy.” I chew on my fingernail. “But the worst part is, she reworked all my writing so he sounds like a complete asshole—not just a bit of an asshole like he actually is.”

She smiles at my attempt to lighten the mood, but her face falls again. “Can you show me some of what you’re talking about?”

We settle into the couch and I show her the sections I’ve marked.

She hisses as she reads. “This will kill Max. You can’t let this be published.”

“What should I do?” I search her face for answers. I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful for her friendship and guidance.

“You have to talk to Jonathan first thing tomorrow. Tell Adam you have a doctor’s appointment or something. I wouldn’t wait until lunch.”

Memories of Friday evening resurface. “Ugh. Max and Jonathan had a tug-of-war Friday night at the Getty event, and I was the rope. Jonathan wasn’t too pleased with Max by the end of the evening.”

“Great, fucking great. What’s wrong with Max anyway? He always makes thing difficult for himself.”

“You can say that again,” I add, remembering my intervention with the Matthews over the MOMA comments.

She looks at her watch and jumps up. “I was supposed to meet Sam ten minutes ago. Call me as soon as you’re done with Jonathan and let me know what happened. Meanwhile, I’ll think about how to break this to Max.”

I give her a big hug. “Thanks so much, Jess. I’m so grateful for your help with this nightmare.”

She pats my shoulder. “Sure thing, babe. Tomorrow…” She says before she hurries downstairs.

Luckily, Jonathan agrees to meet me at nine thirty.

Attempting to look as professional as possible, I dress in my black sweater, gray slacks and a jacket. He greets me warmly, and we move to the table by the window so that we can sit side by side as we go over the changes.

Before we begin, Jonathan takes a moment to address the editing process with me. Perhaps he’s hoping to head me off at the pass. “Surely you understood when you took this on that your work would be stringently edited,” he states firmly, not as a question.

“Yes, I understand that, Jonathan.” I fight to keep my expression neutral. “But this is more than editing. Phoebe has changed the tone of everything I’ve written. When you read it, you’ll see what I’m talking about.”