The Unveiling (Work of Art #2) (9 page)

I wiggle so that his grasp loosens and then step out of the hug.

I look up. “Why don’t we sit down and talk?”

He gestures toward the path along the side yard, and as I walk with him, the long grass softly tickles my ankles. When we reach the backyard, we approach the love seat swing perched under a large tree and sit down. He gently rocks the swing as I look around the backyard, taking everything in.

“I got your letter,” I finally say.

“Is that why you came?”

“I suppose. I know you’ve been having a rough time, and it’s made me sad and confused. There’ve been so many misunderstandings between us. I thought if you could see me…that I’m all right and I don’t hate you or harbor any ill will…that it might help you.”

He flinches. “So you drove all this way to help me?” He looks stunned.

“Yes, I did. I care about you, Max…despite everything, I do.”

His head falls to his chest and the bright expression on his face fades.

“What?” I ask.

“I don’t want you here because you feel sorry for me, Ava.”

“Okay. Why would you hope I’m here?”

“I guess because you missed me and really wanted to see me. Have you thought about me at all since I’ve been gone?”

“Of course, I’ve thought about you a lot. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out what happened…what went wrong.”

His eyebrows are tightly knitted together. “Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer it. It’s not like I deserve an answer.”

I nod.

“Dylan told me you’ve continued to see Jonathan, even though the book project is over. Is that true?”

Damn it, Dylan! Why did he tell Max that?
I nod.

“Why, Ava? Are you really into him?”

I push off with my legs, setting the swing in motion again. I don’t really want to have this conversation with Max. If I tell him my feelings for Jonathan have cooled off, he might see it as an open invitation, and neither of us is ready for that. I decide to speak in a general way about my feelings.

“I guess what I like is the way he treats me, like I’m special, and smart…beautiful too. It feels really good to have someone treat me like that, and I think it came along at a time when I needed it.”

His eyes narrow and his jaw tenses. I imagine there’s jealousy permeating through his skin as he sighs and leans forward.

“Well, you deserve to be treated like that. I’m sorry I didn’t make you feel that way.”

I smile sadly. “Do you remember the day we met when you swept me out of the show and took me to that little restaurant? I didn’t realize at the time you were just flirting like you do with a lot of women, and for those precious couple of hours, I felt very special. You made me feel like I was the only woman in the world.”

He smiles. “It wasn’t just flirting…I was completely taken with you.”

“Really? Because when we left the restaurant, you abandoned me on the curb after you saw some model you knew. I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. That was when I decided you could never be the one for me.”

He lifts himself off the swing and takes several steps forward. I can see the tension in his body as he makes tight fists and curses to himself. Exasperated, he runs his hands through his hair and paces for a while. Finally, he stops and sits on the swing again.

“See how I kept fucking things up for myself? That was so stupid. She didn’t mean anything to me.”

“Could have fooled me,” I say glumly.

“I just remember feeling intense and overwhelmed with you. She was a diversion.”

“Really? Well, you definitely lost your appeal after that.”

He nods. “I guess, deep down, I’d always felt you should never be with a guy like me…a guy with my past. You deserve so much more.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. I’m not perfect, you know.”

“But that fucked up scene with Sheila…”

“Yes, I wish I hadn’t come by that night. I think that will always haunt me.”

“Well, if it’s any comfort, I’d give anything to go back in time and remove that night from both our memories. It was hellish to begin with, but when I realized you were a witness to my moment in hell, I just wanted to fucking die.”

“Okay, we’re in agreement there. But, Max, as bad as it was, it’s not like you were cheating on your girlfriend. Other than getting caught up in a moment at the studio, we’ve only ever just been friends.”

“No, Ava. You’re wrong, because I was cheating on the way I feel about you. I was lying to myself and trying to avoid what my heart was telling me.”

His forthrightness surprises me. It’s almost he’s like a different Max…a man stripped of his bravado and manufactured persona…a man who senses he may never have the thing he wants most and is trying so hard to hold onto whatever he can.

I drop my head to my chest, because I can’t find the words to respond. I just don’t know how to step forward.

Can he tell that I’m lost?

“Don’t worry, Ava. I’m not going to harass you. I can only hope that, when I’m doing better, you’ll give me a chance to show you who I really am inside.”

“So, can we take things slow?” I hear hope in my voice.

“Sure. I’ll take whatever I can get.” He gives me a long somber gaze, and the sincere look in his eyes makes me believe him.

He stands and turns toward me. “Look, I have somewhere I’m supposed to be, and it’s going to take about an hour, but I really don’t want you to leave yet. You could come with me, or stay here and hang out while I’m gone…just, please don’t leave.”

I stand. “I’ll go with you.”

We go to the house, and he gathers a canvas and some paint supplies while I speak with Ann. When she asks me to join them for dinner, there’s optimism in her eyes, but just to be safe, I ask her if we can see how the afternoon goes. Normally, it would be rude to ask, but considering everything, I think she understands.

Ann has worked out a tangible plan to help Max heal. Besides therapy, she’s strongly encouraged him to do charity work that will get him to focus on helping other people for a change.

We take my car, so he doesn’t have to borrow his aunt’s. We pull up to the Sunrise Assisted Living Facility.

“We’re going to see a woman named Helen in the Alzheimer’s wing.”

I look up, surprised. “Is she related to you?”

“No, I heard about her because they’ve discovered she’s an amazing artist.”

“Was she always an artist?”

“That’s the interesting part. Two years ago, a local art teacher came to work with the Alzheimer’s patients. As soon as they put a paintbrush in her hand, Helen came alive. Although she’d never painted before, and despite the effects of her disease, she’s created amazing paintings.”

“Wow, I love that she’s creating art.”

“Me too. I’ve worked with her several times now and am blown away.”

After we enter the facility, the caregiver inputs numbers into the door keypad to The Neighborhood where the Alzheimer’s patients live. I’m nervous, but as soon as we’re inside, a patient sees Max and her face lights up.

“That’s Helen,” Max whispers.

She hurries over and puts her hands on his face. “Billy, you came back! Look, everyone, my handsome Billy is here.”

Max seems unfazed by her greeting, and he gives her a hug and starts setting out the supplies on the table. She stays close by his side, and although her words have dissolved into gibberish, she still seems delighted that he’s there.

The activities director brings out paper and supplies for the rest of the residents. Max directs me to go to the kitchen and bring back a paper plate, some paper towels, and a container with water.

When I get back, Max has fanned out all of the colorful tubes of paint. He gently shows Helen and asks what colors she wants to start with. She points to an emerald green and a golden yellow. Max squeezes generous amounts on the plate and hands her a brush.

Over the next hour, I’m transfixed watching Max gently coax and flirt with Helen as she paints with all of the confidence of a seasoned artist. The work is abstract, and the organic way she approaches the painting is amazing. She doesn’t hesitate or labor over her movements the way a lucid person might. Her painting is the purest form of expression.

While she works, I walk around, watching the other residents attempt to color pages similar to something you would see in a preschool. Several of them can barely hold a crayon and appear to be much further along in the disease than Helen is, but everyone seems content, working.

At one point, Helen grabs Max by the collar and says some mumbled words that I can’t make out. He nods and squeezes her hand affectionately. She picks up her brush, swirls it in the cobalt blue he’s just put out and starts painting again. Max smiles.

I’m glad he shared this experience with me.

Helen finishes the painting with the same assuredness she started with. She sets her brush down, walks over to a nearby couch and motions for Max to join her. I gather up the paints and take the brushes into the kitchen to wash them out.

When I return, Max and Helen are on the couch, holding hands as she rests her head on his shoulder. Max is explaining how great it was to paint with her, but now he has to go. One of the caregivers distracts Helen, and we’re quietly led from The Neighborhood by another caregiver.

Paintings line the long hallway to the lobby.

“Are these Helen’s?”

Max nods.

They’re good…really good, and if I didn’t know the history behind them, I would’ve thought they were done by a noted artist. I turn to Max. “You know her work is really great. This is such a fascinating story. I’m surprised more people don’t know about her.”

“That’s intentional, according to the wishes of her family. If people tell her story, she’ll become a spectacle—a circus freak show—and that wouldn’t be good for Helen. Painting is pure joy for her.”

“I’m so glad I got to come here with you,” I say and gently take his hand. As we pass through the front door and onto the street, I realize Helen has probably already forgotten that we were there, but the effect she’s had on Max will stay with him the rest of his life.

When we get back to the house, I grab the copy of his book from the car. Neither of us wants to address me leaving yet, so we make a snack of fruit, cheese and crackers and head to the backyard. Max brings his sketchbook, and I borrow one of Ann’s photography magazines. We sit quietly while I read and he draws. After several articles, I’m so relaxed that I can’t focus on the page.

“I think it’s nap time for angel. Why don’t you stretch out for a few?” He points to a hammock nestled between two trees.

He doesn’t have to ask twice. I slowly walk to the hammock and steady it while I crawl inside. The sides wrap up around me, creating a womb-like effect, and after a few moments of swaying and feeling the warm sun and cool breeze brush over me, I fall into a deep sleep.

When I wake up, I assume I’m in a dream as there’s a thick quilt over me and a pink cast over the entire yard. I slowly sit up and rub my eyes.

Max is about twenty feet away with a canvas and easel. He’s painting and looks very content. He glances over. “Hey, sleepyhead. Did you have a nice nap?”

I stretch out. “Heavenly. How long have I been asleep anyway?”

“Over an hour.” He laughs as I almost lose my balance trying to get out of the hammock.

“You’ve got to be kidding! I guess all those nights lying awake finally caught up with me. I’m sorry to be such lousy company.”

“You could never be lousy company. There was something wonderful about having you here while I painted.”

Ann comes out to the yard with two glasses of sangria. “Here,” she says as she hands us our glasses. “Enjoy the pink moment.”

“Pink moment?” I glance up at the sky to discern where the color is coming from.

“Since Ojai is lined up with an east-west mountain range, it’s one of the few towns in the world to have a pink moment as the sun sets. The fading sunlight creates a vivid shade of pink for several minutes on the Topatopa bluffs.”

Max and I take our drinks and sit together on the swing, quietly rocking while we admire Mother Nature’s show. The pink has a few brilliant minutes until the sun sets and a soft violet washes over us. When most of the yard has fallen into dark shadow, we gather up our things and move inside.

Ann bustles around the kitchen preparing dinner, and she’s delighted that I’ll be joining them. She prepares a penne pasta with a homemade Bolognese sauce topped with sautéed mushrooms and freshly grated parmesan. Max takes over salad duty, cutting up tomatoes, basil and mozzarella for a caprese salad. Ann tells us stories about her life in Ojai while we sip our drinks and eat.

After dinner, Max pours me my third glass of sangria. Maybe he’s trying to get me drunk so I can’t drive back tonight. By nine, we’re still drinking and having fun, but it’s Ann who insists that I stay over in the guest room, while Max sleeps on the sofa. He heartily agrees, loaning me one of his T-shirts to sleep in. We turn in before eleven, and surprisingly, I fall asleep right away, despite my long nap.

In the middle of the night, I wake with a thunderous headache
. You fool.
I chastise myself for drinking so much sangria. I fish around in my purse until I find some aspirin and then go to the kitchen for a glass of water.

On my way back to bed, I notice a light on in the living room, and I peek inside. Max sits in the middle of the couch, holding the manila folder with his manuscript against his chest. It looks like he’s been crying and it scares me.

“What’s wrong, Max? Are you okay?” I ask as I draw nearer. His eyes are red-rimmed, and he looks three steps away from shutting down. I don’t want to deal with that kind of drama when my head feels like it’s splitting open.

A few moments pass, and then he looks up. “I don’t know what to say, Ava.” He holds the folder out in front of him.

“Is it okay? God, I hope you like it.” I can’t tell what his expression means, but it worries me.

His eyes are so wide that he looks stunned. “Like it? Like it? Ava, I knew you’d do a great job, but I didn’t realize it would be fucking amazing, groundbreaking…brilliant.”