Work of Art ~ the Collection (10 page)

“So, Ava,” Dylan asks, once Max is finished. “I’d love to read some of the books or articles you’ve written. What would you recommend first?”

I look up and a nervous knot forms in my stomach. “Um . . . I-I’ve never been officially published.”

His blank stare shifts to confusion. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, you’ve never been published?” He looks horrified.

“I haven’t,” I admit. It seems pointless to lie about it. He’d find out soon enough anyway.

He turns to Max. “You told me she was perfect for this. What the hell are you doing? Is this some type of joke?” He pushes his chair back angrily. “Don’t you realize how important this is, not just for you, but for us and everything the gallery has worked for?”

Max is angry now too. “She
is
perfect for this, Dylan.”

Not wanting to hear Dylan’s response, I stand and walk down the hallway, hoping they didn’t see the tears of frustration running down my face. By the time I get to the bathroom, I’m shaking with anger.

Why has Max done this to me? Why has he put me in a position to be ridiculed and questioned? He has to know this will only get worse.

I take deep breaths, willing myself to calm down before splashing cold water on my face. When I’m finally calm again, I gather up my nerve to go back to the table and tell them that my part in the project is over. Deep in my heart, I know that Dylan’s right. They need a professional to write this story, not a neophyte with a full-time job.

When I open the door, Max is leaning on the wall of the hallway waiting for me. His somber eyes meet mine.

“Come on,” he says and lightly touches my shoulder. “Let’s take a walk.”

I silently follow him out the side door, through the security gate and down the stone steps to the beach. We walk up to the shore and let the water wash over our feet. We stand there for a couple of minutes, not saying anything, just looking to the horizon.

I finally turn to Max. “You know what I’m going to say.”

“No, Ava, you can’t let Dylan get to you. He’s so fucking wound up about the book that everything aggravates him.”

“Max, I’m so flattered, really flattered, that you asked me to do this. But I let reason get away from me. It was a crazy idea. And as happy as I am to think it could work, I realize I’m in over my head. I think it’s time to let it go, so you can find a real writer who’ll do a brilliant job.”

His face falls, and his reaction gets to me more than I would’ve anticipated.

“You can’t give up, Ava. I need you. I need you to do this . . . for me,” he says, looking like he’s in pain.

I fight my natural inclination to soothe and take care of him, and instead focus on his words.

“What do you mean,
you need me, Max
?” You don’t even know me.” I say, shaking my head.

He turns to face me and he grabs my forearms. “I told you, Ava, it’s just a sense I have. Nothing’s ever felt more certain. You’re going to help because you’re good for me.”

“Ahhhh,” I groan in frustration, and I walk down the beach. He follows along beside me. “It’s this
savior
thing again, Max. It’s crazy. Can’t you see I’m no one’s savior? I’m just an ordinary girl . . . a completely ordinary girl.”

“Ava, damn it,” he grumbles, pulling on his hair with both hands, in frustration. “Why can’t you see there’s nothing ordinary about you?”

We walk another length of the beach until we reach a point where the jagged rock landscape prohibits us from walking further. A gust of wind off the ocean blows my skirt up. Max sees my lavender finery, but doesn’t say anything, even though I’d like to know what he’s thinking.

Embarrassed, I smooth my skirt down and we sit in the sand.

“It’s such a beautiful day,” I say softly, attempting to lighten the mood and change the subject.

He has a very serious expression and looks like he’s not ready for small talk.

“How long have you lived here, anyway?” I ask.

He pauses for a moment and then looks back toward the ocean. “Full-time, about six years.”

“Wow, what an incredible place to work and live.” I smile. “But does it get lonely being so far away from the city?”

“Sometimes,” he admits. “But most of the time I prefer solitude.” He looks up at the house. “We better get back. They must be wondering what happened to us.”

When we arrive at the house, Riley and Dylan are on the couch having an animated conversation and don’t seem to notice we’ve returned.

I watch Riley with curiosity.
She’s flirting with Dylan.
And it seems to be working. At least the day wasn’t a total wash.

When it’s time to leave, Max walks us to the car. He leans over my door. “Will you do something for me, Ava?” he asks with hopeful eyes.

“What’s that?”

“Come with me to Hennessey and Ingalls next week.”

“The art bookstore in Santa Monica?”

“Yes. Let’s just look through some books on other artists, and talk some more before you make up your mind.” He’s giving me
the look
, that damn look. It’s almost impossible to turn him down.

“It’s only fair, Ava. At least see what Max wants to show you,” Riley says, egging me on.

Thank you, dearest friend, for throwing me under the bus.
I give her the evil eye.

He takes a step back and pushes his sleeves up his sculpted arms. My eyes wander up from his bare feet, over his worn jeans, his broad shoulders and handsome face. He’s over six feet of masculine perfection and distracting in every way. A breeze from the ocean hits him, and he turns his face sideways. The sinking sun backlights his perfect silhouette.

This view of him engulfs me. I feel doused in flames and what I want at this very moment has nothing to do with writing. I’m burning for him. I desperately desire to be up on that deck wrapped around Max with the ocean breeze at my back. I don’t want to be his savior nor his biographer, I just want to consume him, and I hate myself . . . knowing that doesn’t make me any better than his art groupies.

“Okay, I’ll go to the bookstore!” I say, exasperated.

Max smiles happily and offers a wave as he backs away from the car. He thinks he’s won, but this game hasn’t even begun.

Chapter Seven / Well, How Did I Get Here?

The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery.

~Frances Bacon

“A
va!” Brian booms as soon as I step into the gallery Monday morning, and I laugh. Everything with Brian is big: his stature, his voice, his personality.

“You gotta see this.” He waves me over to his laptop and points to the screen. “Look, I finally got it, my fifteen minutes of fame!” He laughs loudly.

On the screen is a photograph of Brian with his arms draped across the shoulders of artist Jeff Koons and a guy with silver hair I don’t recognize.

“Was this at the Prada opening last night?”

“Yup! Everyone was there.”

Brian travels in some pretty hip circles.

“And who’s this?” I ask, pointing to the silver-haired guy he has his arm around.

Brian grins. “Thomas. He works for one of those entertainment shows.”

“And . . .” I taunt him, smiling.

“Yeah, I’m seeing him tonight.”

“Cool. Where are you guys going?”

“He has to cover a movie premier, but we’re meeting afterward.” He grins, looking very pleased with himself.

“Okay, I want to hear all about it tomorrow.”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

It warms my heart to see Brian happy. He hasn’t been himself since Christopher broke up with him and moved back to England late last year.

We discuss some business issues, including a schedule conflict with some installations. Two of our clients have tricky setups Thursday afternoon, and Brian asks if I can oversee the one in Bel Air while he takes care of the Weitz’s in the Hollywood Hills. I note all the information, and he agrees to let the client know in case I need some type of security clearance.

By Wednesday, all of my experiences in New York and even my Sunday in Malibu feel like a million years ago. I’m surprised midmorning when I receive a text from Max.

“Still good to meet at the bookstore?”

So he hasn’t forgotten our meeting, but his text feels businesslike.

I respond likewise.

“Yes”

“6:30?”

“Okay”

“Hennessey & Ingalls, 214 Wilshire between 2nd & 3rd, I’ll be in the back.”

“Okay”

I slide my phone screen closed.

That’s the shortest text I’ve ever sent and I feel disjointed. On the other hand, I’m not sure what I expected.

This is a business arrangement. That was a business text.
I remind myself that a professional demeanor would probably be a smart way to approach him this evening. I got distracted by him and all his gorgeousness in Malibu, but I’m determined to regain my focus.

As I pass through the doors at Hennessey and Ingalls, a wave of delight pours over me. I could hang out here all day in the presence of so many wonderful art and design books. I note that I should do just that the next time I have a chunk of free time.

Max is in the back, as promised, surrounded by several piles of books. He’s so completely engrossed in one, he doesn’t even notice when I walk up to the table.

“Hey, Max,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t look up, but waves me to his side. “Look at this book about Gerhard Richter. Man, I’d love to hang out with him for a few days,” he says with awe in his voice.

Max appears so comfortable that I get the impression he spends a lot of time here. I also remember seeing the piles of books in his house, so he must be a good customer as well.

He finally looks up, smiles and then pulls the chair out next to him and pats it. “Hey Ava, I pulled a bunch of books for you to look at.”

I take the one off the top and examine the cover: Richard Prince. I open it and skim the pages.

Before moving to the next book, I look up and ask, “How long have you been here anyway?”

“I don’t know, a few hours. I always lose track of time when I’m here.”

We remain quiet for another twenty minutes, and I’ve almost gone through the first pile when Max stretches.

“I think this Francis Bacon book’s good. I like the Jackson Pollock one too. Of course that guy was a lot more interesting and colorful than I’ll ever be.”

I laugh. “Well, let’s hope so. He didn’t have a very happy ending.”

Max looks thoughtful. I wonder if the art groupies he hangs out with actually know anything about art.

“I guess it’s up to you how you want to be perceived. It’s your book after all. It’s not my job to do a critical analysis of your work. My job is to tell your story.”

“Hmm,
my
story.” He gives me a big smile. “Hey let’s get out of here. You want to grab something to eat?”

I grin. “Sure. Let me just pay for these two books.”

He sweeps them out of my hands. “I’ll get them. Shopping here is my retail therapy. Hmm, Kenny Scharf and Roy Lichtenstein, interesting choices.”

“Yeah, well, I like the writing and the way the author presented the artist’s life. I want to study them in more detail.”

As he approaches the register, I know I have to make a decision about whether I’m going to continue working on his book. His behavior at the bookstore indicates that it’s a given, but perhaps this is calculated to influence me.

My gaze travels across the displays of books, and I try to imagine a book I’ve written on a shelf here. This is such an unbelievable career opportunity. I would be a fool to walk away at this point. I can’t deny the pull to spend more time with Max only makes my decision more resolute.

Outside, we wander toward the promenade and decide on a nearby Thai restaurant. We’re seated next to the big picture window. After the waitress brings our bottles of Thai beer, we order
tom kha gai
soup, spring rolls and pad Thai noodles.

We talk about his experience four years ago when he was chosen for the Whitney Biennial at such a young age. His eyes light up when he talks about it. Clearly, it was a very exciting time in his life. I pull out my small notebook and take notes while we’re talking, and he looks partly amused and somewhat impressed by my actions. I have specific questions I intend to get answers for.

“Why did you come back to Los Angeles when you were done with art school? Don’t you think New York is the home base for any contemporary artist aspiring to the elite level in the art world?”

He tips his head to the side in thought. “Yes, I did think that way for a long time. I lived there my first few years after school but New York really overwhelmed me and I was always on edge. Then around that time, more and more cutting edge artists were setting up shop in L.A. I eventually came to see Los Angeles as the city of the future. Anything new is embraced here, and that was the spirit I wanted in my art. You can’t fight new here. You’re spurred on to go with it, to live it.”

I scribble on my notebook furiously.
He’s good at this stuff; it just rolls out of him.

We’re almost done with dinner when a couple strolling by the restaurant stop and point at Max in the picture window. The guy makes a silly face, and Max laughs and motions for them to come inside.