Work of Art ~ the Collection (108 page)

I lift her up and carry her to the exit where the stairs begin. She buries her face in the crook of my neck as I begin our descent. I have no idea how many stairs we’ve gone down before we come upon another landing so densely shrouded with clouds that I can barely make out the four poster bed just feet away. As I approach the edge of the mattress, I lower her gently onto the white sheets.

Despite my tender attention, she pulls me down on top of her, frantic and wanting. She reaches down and undoes my pants until her fingers tighten around my cock. We work together pushing away clothes, whispering words full of want and desire.

"Hurry," she gasps. "There's so little time."

Her fingers rake across my back until I sink down into her. She’s wild at first, writhing and moaning, begging me over and over to fuck her hard, harder, harder still. I fear I will break her in half, but I give her what she wants . . . always.

"Max," she cries as she peaks, and I feel every moment acutely as she completely surrenders.

I keep moving in sync with her, deeply stroking through her climax, until her thighs are trembling. Just as I think she’s going to still, she rolls me to my back, and sinks down over me. Her movements become slower as she makes love to me, her hands pressed over my heart. Her voice is so real in my head that I can still hear her final words—spoken like a sonnet, her voice strong and clear.

"We cannot wait for the clouds to lift, or the sea to calm. We must love each other as if each breath will be our last. Your heart knows the answer, Max. Step carefully, purposefully . . . our story is already written and each moment that passes carries us closer . . . either to our beginning, or to our end."

Those are the last words I hear before her skin begins to turn silver and harden again and I wake, gasping for air.

My eyes snap open to the harsh glare of morning light and the sounds of the city. We’ve already crossed the bridge and Lexington Avenue, heading West. We must be close to our destination. I shake my head and rub my hands over my eyes as scenes from the dream replay in my mind.

Closer to our beginning, or to our end? What the fuck did that mean?

It was just a dream . . . not the end of the world . . . just a fucking dream, Max. Get a grip.

That damn dream will haunt me all day as I ache for her, counting each moment until I see her again.

Cas

He's wary, a tentative animal pacing the apartment, watching the clock as if he’s late for an uncertain meeting without a destination. To distract him, I lure him to my favorite café for a late breakfast.

After he follows me to a large art supply store on Fifty-Seventh where I insist I need refills for my Montblanc. As I'd suspected, he soon wanders off to play with the paintbrushes and study the book selection. He’s still just the boy who wants to make art, and I'm hoping this place inspires him.

I finally drag him out over an hour later. Other than a book he intends to read on the way to Paris, he arranges everything to be delivered.

On the way down Fifty-Fourth he insists on stopping at MOMA for the strange Tim Burton show. I grit my teeth and follow him into the exhibit of baffling art. Since when do film directors get major museum shows for their doodles? Perhaps I should throw some paint at some canvases and have a thing at the Met. That would be a sure fire way to meet some interesting women.

I’m reminded however, that I find museums very irritating: the crowds, the obnoxious
apparent
art critics who comment loudly, and the poor excuses for art. But despite this fact, I soldier on. I have an agenda so I follow him from room to room and nod as he softly comments on what he finds inspiring. By the time we leave he’s itching to get home and create.

"Where’s Ava going to live? I ask as we step back out onto Fifty-Fourth Street, pretending I don't know. "Isn't it near here?"

“Yeah, she said Fifty-Second and Madison."

"Well, let's go check it out."

I smirk as we approach her new address. It's not that there’s anything wrong with it. The neighborhood is good. It's clean and well kept. It's just completely lacking in any kind of personality or appeal. It looks like the last place someone as special as Ava should live.

We get the doorman to let us in but by the time we pass through the lobby and start down a hallway that reminds me of a hospital corridor, Max begins to come unglued.

"I need to get out of here . . . now," he gasps.

"Of course," I murmur as we head out.
Mission accomplished.
It’s time to turn it up a notch.

Max

Even though Ava had told me about the place and described it in detail, I still wasn't prepared for the feeling that crashed into me as we walked through the soulless vacuum of a residence. Residence . . . the word alone sounds as lifeless as a parking garage or storage facility. I had to get out of there immediately, before the walls fell down over me.

I can't see Ava there, saying hello to the doorman after a long day of shooting; gathering her mail and waiting patiently for the elevator to take her to her empty box where she lives—the empty box where she lives . . . without me.

I don't remember anything but my father taking my arm and leading me back to his place. He parks me on the couch and brings me a bottle of water. I look up at him.
Can't you see I'm heartbroken, not dehydrated?
But I twist off the cap and down it anyway.

"Let's talk some business, Max," he says with a firm tone.

"Business?" I ask. What the fuck? "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not up for talking business right now."

"I mean life business, emotional business . . . survival business. That's why we're here."

"Really?" I murmur as he opens the balcony door and steps outside. He motions for me to join him. I tentatively get up and follow him outside.

He turns toward me. "You know, just like in business, sometimes you can lose perspective and miss that the solutions are right in front of you. I’ve learned that there really is an answer to every problem."

"It may not be the answer you want though," I respond quietly.

"Or maybe it is. Here's an example. Will you work with me on this?"

I nod. It's difficult to not give him something when he's trying so hard.

"Look down there, Max," he says pointing to the busy street far below. "Now imagine you see Ava down there. What's she doing?"

I feel a brief flash of excitement to even think of Ava being here now, so close to where I am. But the surge is followed by a letdown when I remind myself that this is a game. I force myself to play and throw out the first thing that comes into my head.

"She's getting into a cab."

"Yes, a cab." He nods his head. "Now I want you to close your eyes and imagine that you are back in Malibu alone, while she is here getting into a cab, going somewhere and moving forward in her new life."

Fuck. I reach out and grip the railing hard to steady myself. I want to rip these images out of my head. Where the fuck is she going? Who is she going to see? The bile rises up into my throat.

I've yet to figure out how I can have a life in Malibu without her. I know I'm supposed to try to figure it out, but I'm not sure how to . . . and I'm running out of time.

My father seems pleased with my evident dismay. I guess this is the effect he wanted. The lesson must be coming soon. It better be a good one.

"Okay, Max." He reaches over and gently holds my shoulder, steadying me. "Now imagine your easel—your studio set up right here, and you're painting."

I look to the open space full of light where he's pointed. He's suggesting that I paint here? What does that mean? I look at him, trying to figure out where he’s heading with this.

"And?" I ask.

"And Ava is still in the cab, but in a minute she will get out, enter the building, and step into the elevator."

I can picture it perfectly, and my heart's pounding so hard I can barely breathe.

"And you know what? She's heading up this elevator because she's coming home to you."

"She's coming home to me? What are you saying, Dad?"

As soon as the word slips out of my mouth, I see his face brighten. I don't even remember the last time I called him dad. His expression softens as he looks me in the eyes.

"You can do this, Son. You can come with Ava to New York and live here with her. I know you can. I believe in you, and I believe in you and Ava together."

I can see by the look in his eyes that he means every word. He then reaches into his pocket and pulls something out, offering it to me. I hold open my hand and he drops two keys into my palm.

"I want you two to stay here, to live here while Ava does her year in New York."

"Are you serious?" I ask, completely overwhelmed by the gesture. I scan the apartment and see it in a new context. I can imagine Ava curled up on the couch, the morning light falling over her as she smiles at me. We could be happy here. I know we could.

I look back at him, stunned. "But don't you need it for when you stay in New York?"

"I haven't been coming as often lately. Besides, I love the Plaza. I can stay there if I need to during the year. What a sacrifice that would be, to have to slum it at the Plaza," he jokes.

"Are you sure?" I ask, amazed. This is, by far, the nicest thing he’s ever done for me. It's not just the place, it's the way he’s shown me the answer and put his faith in me.

"I'm very serious," he acknowledges. "Believe me, I wouldn't joke about this. I want to help you, Son. I want you to be happy."

I look at him and smile, realizing what he’s given me. Everything about this trip has been so calculated and clever. He's fucking unbelievable.

The keys are warming up in my hands. Instead of the questions that have eaten away at me since the news of Ava's move, these two fragments of pressed metal, hold all the answers. I was blinded by fear, and my dad has given me sight. I have the keys to my future with Ava.

Suddenly, and most spectacularly, I have everything.

Cas

Did you hear that Liz? He called me Dad.

I never thought I would hear that word out of his mouth again. Seeing him so happy and hopeful, makes me want to do more . . . crazy gestures that would be overdone. I have no restraint.

I remember the look on your face, Liz, when I brought home the go-cart for our boy. We’d been getting along for a few weeks and I wanted to reward him. You always told me that I spoiled him too much and that all Max needed was to spend time with me, not a bunch of stuff. As it was, Max liked the go-cart but he drove it too fast and crashed it his third time out. I thought you’d never forgive me. I had to arrange the best plastic surgeon in LA. to work on him, minimizing the scar on his handsome forehead.

I look over at him as his eyes wander across the apartment. I can see that he’s imaging his life with Ava here. If he's anything like his dad I can imagine what he'll do with his beautiful Ava all over this apartment. I'm sure I'll have to get all the upholstery thoroughly cleaned when they're done with this place. But even I know that what will matter most is the simple fact that they’re with each other, their lives growing together instead of apart. It hits me how much Liz would approve of this plan, and a warmth spreads through me.

Oh Liz, you would love Ava . . . you really would. She's strong, smart, kind and beautiful . . . so much like you. As for Max, I'm finally taking care of our boy, Liz baby. And this time, I think I'm finally doing it right.

Max

The afternoon blurs into evening. Dad takes me to dinner at Le Cirque where we have huge steaks. It's the first time I've been really hungry in days. Over a fine bottle of wine plans are made, ideas are formed. Now that my decision to move is made he wants to help me in every way and it's overwhelming. I finally have to slow him down when he insists on my arranging rose pedals to be scattered over our suite in Paris.

"Women love that shit, believe me, Son."

"That is so corny," I tease him. "I'm not doing that. I want to meet Ava outside. We'll be in Paris for God's sakes . . . the most romantic city in the world. I can think of so many better places than a hotel room strewn with flower fragments."

"Why in the hell would you want to meet her outside? Don't you want her on your bed and in your arms, when you tell her that you're moving to be with her? You know you're going to end up in bed anyway as soon as she hears the news."

"Well, even if that's true, it'll just make the build-up that much sweeter when we finally get there."

"Man, I'd love to see her face when you tell her."

"You're not coming to Paris, Dad."

"I know, I know," he laughs.

As the evening goes on I ask about what it was like when he first fell in love with Mom . . . how he knew she was the one. His eyes get soft as he describes her and their early days together. From his descriptions, they were incredibly happy.

But what surprises me are his recollections about how thrilled he was when she was pregnant with me, that the experience brought them even closer together. I didn't realize that he was present at my birth. It just seemed so far from the type of man he is. Maybe there’s a side to him I've just never looked close enough to see.

That idea is confirmed when he tells me that as a toddler I would have these fits, and the only thing that would calm me down is when he played piano for me. Mom would put me in my high chair next to his bench and I would quiet down and listen to every note.

"I can't imagine what kind of father I’ll be," I lament after hearing his stories.

"I think you'll make a good father," he says reassuringly. "You’re so much more sensitive than I ever was. If you learn from everything I did wrong, and take from everything your mom did right, I think you'll be fine."

I nod, my mind imagining being a father. I picture Ava pregnant with our baby and I can't imagine anything more beautiful.

"And don't wait too long, okay? I'm not getting any younger and I've got all kinds of plans for how I'm going to spoil my granddaughter."