Work of Art ~ the Collection (13 page)

As the wine relaxes me, I start to drift off and wake up when my head snaps forward. I drag myself to my bedroom and glance at the clock. It’s exactly ten o’clock. I feel a surge of panic, mixed with breathtaking curiosity. Will Max fix what’s broken?

Despite all the hell I went through for him and what I may’ve given up with the effort, there’s a part of me that sincerely hopes he can.

Chapter Nine / On Gossamer Wings

I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.

~Vincent Van Gogh

T
he line at Starbucks is precariously long, but I’m going to need a venti cappuccino to get through this morning. I glare at the chatty barista who’s moving too slowly and glance at my watch to determine if I’m going to make it to work on time or not. There’s nothing worse than rolling in late holding a cup of Starbucks, absolute evidence that you could have been on time if you hadn’t fed your hard-earned dollar to the corporate coffee machine.

While I wait for my drink, I receive a text from Max. My heartbeat speeds up. I seriously wondered if I’d ever hear from him again. I slide open my phone’s screen.

I need to talk to you.

I pause, unsure how to reply. As curious as I am about what happened with Mr. Matthews, I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to him. My phone prompts again.

I really need to talk to you. How long will you make me wait?

Completely irritated with his message I reply,

I, I, I . . . Definition: narcissist, egocentric, love of one’s self

I hit send. My phone rings only seconds later. I don’t answer, not trusting my snarky filter until I’ve had at least some coffee. I’m not even inspired to listen to the voice mail that chimes a minute later.

Luckily, Brian’s in a great mood because of two nights in a row with the fabulous Thomas, so he graciously gives me mindless busywork after I stumble into the gallery. As I input the names of collectors into the new database, my phone rings again. It’s Max. Now the ass knows how it feels not to be able to reach someone when you have something to say.

The rest of the afternoon, my phone remains quiet, and I descend into a very dark mood. I still haven’t resolved if I’m going to quit working on Max’s book, and I have to decide because Jonathan’s office keeps calling to set up our meeting. I head home, not even happy it’s the weekend and turn up my emo playlist while I change into my sweats. I flop on the couch and finally listen to Max’s voice mail from this morning.

“
Damn, Ava, I didn’t mean for my text to sound like that. I just really need to talk to you. I didn’t sleep at all last night thinking about what happened, what you did for me, and how mad you are.

I want to explain and make things better. Please, can’t we have lunch or talk or something?

I’ll wait to hear from you. Okay, call me please.”

I listen to the message two more times, trying to figure out how it makes me feel. I’m so confused.

Suddenly, Riley bursts in the door, takes one look at me and stomps her foot down. “Oh no, missy . . . it’s Friday friggin’ night! I’m not allowing you to do this
goddess of angst
thing tonight. Now you go in there, take off those sweats and put on something sharp. We’re going out.”

I give her a blank wide-eyed stare. “Do I look like I want to go out, Riley?”

“That’s the point. This isn’t about want. It’s need. You can’t let
art boy
do this to you, then he wins.”

She’s starting to make sense. “So, where would we go if ‘hypothetically’ we went out?”

“You know my friend Calliope, the one I went to high school with? She’s doing stand-up at the Comedy Store tonight, and she reserved tickets for me.”

Comedy sounds good—it could be just what I need, so I get my ass off the couch and change. I put on my best jeans, black high-heeled boots and a fitted black top before we head out. Dylan’s working an event but he’ll join us later for drinks.

The show’s a riot, and I tell Riley that Calliope was better than the guy she opened for. It felt great to laugh and forget about all the stresses in life outside the cocoon of the club.

We meet Dylan at the House of Blues. He’s a member of their Foundation Room, so we sit in the private area surrounded by the most wonderful outsider art and the lush colors and lighting of the eclectic Moroccan theme. The walls are a dark cobalt blue, and there’s a patchwork of worn Asian rugs on the floors. There are low leather couches with carved wooden tables. Intricately etched Moroccan lanterns hang at different heights from the ceilings.

Riley’s so happy to see Dylan she practically sits on his lap, and he looks equally smitten.

“So, Ava,” he says after kissing Riley’s neck. “What’d you do to Max? He’s been completely wacked out all day.”

Riley jabs him in the arm.

“What did I do?” I raise my eyebrows in wonder. “It’s more like what did he do. I was just trying to help him with something, and he went postal.”

“Well, whatever you said or did really got to him. I’ve never seen him like this. When he heard I was joining you guys tonight, he insisted on coming, but I refused to tell him where we were going.”

“Well, thanks. I’m not ready to talk to him yet.”

He nods. “I just hope you work it out soon. He’s got a lot to get done, and I hate seeing him like this.”

“Well, if he hadn’t been such an ass . . .” Riley says, but stops herself.

Dylan eyes her and then me. “Ava, I know Max can be an ass, but at the core, he’s a really good guy. If I were in trouble, he’s the first person I’d call. I know he’d take care of me. There’s more depth to him than anyone else I know.”

I’m doubtful of Dylan’s words but study his face and note the sincerity of his tone. “Well, Max is lucky to have a friend like you.”

“And I him,” he replies.

It’s late when Riley and I meander up the stairs to our apartment, and my breath catches when we get to the top. There’s an extraordinary flower arrangement waiting for us. It’s a celebration of color: hot and pale pinks, flaming oranges and soft peaches. The exotic flowers spill out of a tall glass cylinder vase lined with strips of bamboo tied together with sea grass. The whole effect is breathtaking. Riley moans, like it’s for her. But when she opens the card and hands it to me, its message is simple.

Ava,

Can I start by saying thank you?

Max

Riley gives me
the look
.

Feeling overwhelmed, I carry the flowers into our dining room. I can sense my rough edges softening with Max’s efforts and the things Dylan told me earlier.

By morning, I’m tempted to call him, although I’m not quite ready yet. I decide to take a long walk on the beach and head out to Santa Monica. It’s another glorious day; the sky is a vivid blue and the hot sun is tempered with a cool breeze. I take off my jogging shoes and wiggle my toes into the wet sand as I walk along the waterfront.

What do I want?
I can call Max and we can easily make up and agree to be pleasant with each other and finish the book. But is that enough at this point?

What do I want when I lie awake in bed at night, imagining him on top of me? Max filling me up and whispering my name while his hands caress me, his lips burning a path from my breasts to my lips and back again.

And what do I want, knowing his history with the kind of women I look down on in disgust? They’re women with little aspiration but to win him for a night. Ironically, I admire them for their unwavering confidence in the power of their sexuality. In contrast, I hate him for subscribing to their agenda.

By the time I head back to my apartment, I’m even more confused, and I decide to zone out and watch a movie. I make a sandwich and decide it’s time for a Darcy fix. I pull out my well-worn copy of
Pride and Prejudice
.

Why, oh why can’t I find my very own Darcy?

I never tire of this movie. I fast forward through the titles and eagerly await one of my favorite scenes—the community dance at a country hall. I pump my fist when Lizzy gives it to Darcy on how to promote affection, astutely getting revenge for insulting her earlier. After she delivers the line to the pompous ass, she confidently walks out, leaving him stunned.

I rewind the scene and watch it over and over until my phone pings with an incoming text from Max.

I have a delivery for you, are you home now?

I reply
yes
, and then feel guilty for not thanking him for the beautiful flowers.
What can he be sending me now?
I refocus on the movie, and right at the scene in the rain where Darcy first declares his love, the doorbell rings.

Damn.
I pause the movie and looked through the peephole. The delivery person is holding a large wrapped package. I grab my wallet and take out enough for a tip before opening the door.

I’m gripped with curiosity as I carry the package to the table and carefully unwrap it. I gasp when I see the edge of a very ornate frame
. Is this one of his paintings?
My heart pounds.
I can’t believe this.
As I pull the main piece of wrapping away, I step back . . . shocked.

The painting is of an angel, an exquisite angel with flowing hair and gossamer wings, yet she’s of Max’s world of color and expression. As I look closely, I can see where he has put his hands on the painting. I can even see pencil markings bleeding through in spots where he first drew her and then markings he added once the paint was applied.

As much as I love the painting, as much as I’m overwhelmed to receive the most exceptional gift of my life, those feelings are superseded by the stunning recognition that the angel has my face. I’m Max’s angel.

I take several breaths to calm myself. When on earth did he paint this? What depth of emotion would cause him to not only do the painting, but give it to me? Much less importantly but curiously, how did he get it to dry and then framed so quickly? The whole thing represents an extraordinary effort.

I see a note in the pile of wrapping, pick it up, and slowly open it.

Dear Ava,

I stayed up all night, painting this for you. Maybe now you’ll understand.

Max

I hold up the painting and shift it slowly in the light, trying to comprehend all that he could’ve meant with those words. Then it occurs to me to turn it over. Sure enough, he has written something on the back.

Ava, I believe Edward Rochester said it best:

I knew you would do me good in some way, at some time. I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you; their expression and smile did not strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing.

Thank you, Ava, my angel.

Max

Okay, now I’ve melted.

I’m but a mere puddle on the floor.
Jane Eyre
is my all-time favorite story.

It occurs to me that Max is more like Rochester than my initial impression of Heathcliff. Either way, it’s starting to feel as if my life has become a Brontë sisters’ drama.

I carry the painting to the living room and carefully place it above the fireplace, leaning it against the wall. I stand back and gaze at it, my heart racing and tears brimming my eyes. It’s almost too much to believe. I need to call him right away, but opt to cautiously text first.

Max, the painting, the flowers, I’m completely overwhelmed and unbelievably touched.

He responds immediately:

Are you ready to talk?

I dial his number.

“Wow, Max. You really know how to say thank you,” I say when he answers.

“By completely overwhelmed, I hope you meant in a good way?”

“Yes, of course. I’ve never received such an extraordinary gift. I’m crying right now, if you must know.”

“Don’t cry, Ava.” His tone is gentle and soothing. “I don’t want to make you feel bad anymore. You scared me yesterday. I didn’t think you had it in you to yell like that, to get that mad.”

“Yeah, I surprised myself. I was so wound up when I couldn’t reach you. And then I was terrified I’d done the wrong thing by convincing the Matthews to give you another chance. I had no right to involve myself like that.” I take a long breath. “So when you freaked out, I just lost it.”

“How could you have done the wrong thing, Ava? You’re my angel,” he states categorically.

I decide to shelve the weird angel talk for later. “Yes, well, angel or not, it wasn’t my place . . . it just happened so fast, and I made a split second decision to help you.”

“Thank God you did. I was able to convince Stephan that I appreciated his initial support of me and would do anything in my power to regain his respect. I was able to explain the events of that day and the evening of the disaster, and I gave him another perspective of my intentions. I feel good about it and hope the bridge has been mended.”

“Oh, I’m glad for that, Max.” I let out a sigh of relief.

“Today at noon, I got a call from Lisa Forrester, the curator at MOMA, and she told me they want to include me in their feature exhibit early next year.”

I could hear the joy in his voice. If he’d been here, I would’ve grabbed and hugged him.

“I’m so happy for you! It’s a dream come true, isn’t it?”

“If you only knew what this means to me. Well . . . it’s everything, and it would’ve never happened without you.”

I’m quiet because I know it’s true, and the satisfaction in knowing that is another gift I can hold in my heart.

He clears his throat. “I wish I could redo that whole scene in my studio. I feel horrible that I got so angry and yelled at you.”

“You were pretty scary. Is it true no one comes into your studio?”

“Yes. Making art’s such an intimate act that I hate anyone watching. I always struggled with it in my studio classes at school, but it’s gotten worse over the years.”

“Well, I did surprise you,” I admit.

He laughs. “Yeah, I’m not good at surprises either.”

“Noted. But I don’t put up with yelling, understood?”

“Agreed. So, I want to do something to celebrate. I thought I’d get some friends together for dinner, maybe tomorrow if we can get it figured out. Will you come?”