Work of Art ~ the Collection (18 page)

Finally, I gaze along the shore, taking in the jagged, rocky coastline of Malibu. The beach is still quiet except for a lone jogger gracefully moving my direction as he runs along the water’s edge. As he comes closer, I recognize him. Max is barefoot, wearing a pair of navy board shorts and apparently nothing else. I watch him run up to the beach in front of the house. He stops and stretches for a moment, and then I lose sight of him as he moves to the gate leading up to the houses.

He bounds into the kitchen and stops when he sees me leaning against the kitchen counter.

He smiles. “Hey sleepyhead. I see you found the coffee.”

I’m desperately trying to regain my focus to answer him. It’s one thing to see Max partially disrobed at a distance on the beach. But the sight of him so close with a thin glistening layer of sweat across his beautifully-defined body combined with the bright look in his eyes and color in his cheeks renders me speechless.

Finally, I manage to ask, “How was your run?”

His smile widens. “Great, it’s a beautiful morning, perfect weather.” He takes a mug from the cupboard and fills it with coffee. “How are you feeling this morning?” His expression softens as he studies my face.

I run my fingers through my bed hair. “Well, much better than last night. I’m really sorry I woke you up in the middle of the night, but I slept so much better. I hope you were able to go back to sleep.”

“I slept like a baby.”

I feel my cheeks turn red and he smiles.

He refills his water bottle at the sink. “I’ve already mixed up some pancake batter. Let me jump in the shower and then I’ll make breakfast.”

“Shower,” I repeat, distracted with the idea of Max naked with water flowing over him.

“Care to join me?” he teases playfully.

I grin. “Join you? Oh my, Max.”

He backs out of the room, his hands outstretched. “Last chance!” he teases and then he heads upstairs.

I sit down in the booth at the end of the kitchen facing the patio, drink my coffee and consider running upstairs to surprise Max in the shower, but then the darkness starts to settle in my mind, and I wonder how many of the art groupies have been in that shower with him. Suddenly, the idea loses all of its appeal. But I still allow myself the luxury of picturing him in the steam, rubbing soap all over his body before the water rushes over him.

Minutes later, he’s back in the kitchen taking a griddle out of the cupboard and removing various ingredients from the fridge. He has a perfect command of the kitchen. As I look around, I note a big bowl of fruit and various well-used cooking appliances.

“Was your mom a good cook?”

“Yeah, she loved to cook and she always took me with her to the local farmers markets. She wanted me to know how to cook too. I guess she figured it would make me more desirable to the female population.”

“Like you needed help in that area.”

He smiles. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

After we finish stacks of pancakes with bacon and drink our orange juice, I ask him if he has a picture of his mom. I follow him into the living room and he takes a framed black and white print off the mantle.

“It’s my favorite,” he says softly as he hands me the picture. It’s a photograph of Max and his mom on the beach. He looks to be about twelve or thirteen and she has her arm draped over his shoulder. What’s most striking is the photographer caught them laughing as they look at each other, and you can feel how much they love each other. They’re both good-looking, but they aren’t posing like models. They’re just happy and laughing, enjoying each other.

It takes my breath away to realize he had that, and now she’s gone. From the various things he’s said, she obviously adored him and made choices in her life for the benefit of Max. She was a beautiful woman, but what mattered was Max and being a good mom. My mom was like that once. We’ve both lost so much.

“She’s beautiful, Max,” I sigh, handing the photo back. “You can tell in this photo how much you two adore each other.”

He nods silently and carefully sets it back on the mantle.

“Is it hard living here since this was her home once too?” I feel bold asking him this, but everything in this house tells me something about Max, and I want to learn more.

“You know, even though she decided to raise me in the city, she loved this house and put a lot of herself into it. As a matter of fact, this is where she primarily lived after I went to college.

In the beginning, the first couple of years after she died, I kept everything the same. I guess it was a shrine, and I couldn’t bear to let anything go. But I realized it kept me in a state of mourning. It was time to move forward. I changed a lot of the interior and hung new art, both my friends’ and mine. All the changes made it easier. But as for the house itself, I find comfort in the connection I have with her here. She loved this place . . . designed the garden and put so much love into this house. I feel it whenever I’m here.”

I look into his eyes and offer him a tender smile. It hits me how much he’s shared—deeply personal thoughts I imagine he’s shared with very few people, if anyone. And although he’s avoiding getting physically intimate with me, I take comfort in the thought that I’m becoming an important friend. He certainly proved what kind of friend he could be last night.

I look down at my makeshift nightgown and decide it’s time to get dressed.

“Where are my clothes?”

“They’re in the top dresser drawer in the guestroom,” he answers, revealing nothing.

“I’m so embarrassed that you had to change me and I didn’t even wake up enough to know it.” I look down.

He huffs. “You should be embarrassed. That outfit was pretty damn tight . . . I had a hard time getting it off. And that lingerie . . . where did you go last night dressed like that anyway?”

I turn red. “I met Jonathan for drinks to talk about the book.”

“You wore that to meet Jonathan?” His eyebrows knit together and his hands tighten into fists.

His tone feels like he’s implying I did something wrong.

“What the fuck is wrong with his office anyway? You guys always go out for drinks. Is he hitting on you?”

I blush even more thinking about Jonathan and his seductive talk, but that’s the last thing I’d tell Max. “We’ve only met three times, and once was in his office! Besides, why does it matter?”

“I don’t like it and I don’t trust him.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Look at you and your art groupies. What are your intentions with them? Should
you
be trusted?”

He glares at me silently.

“Seriously, tell me . . . who are you to pass judgment on Jonathan’s intentions?” My anger builds and my mouth won’t stop moving. “I know what this is. You have no interest in me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me because then your
angel
won’t be around to watch over you.”

As soon as I say it, I feel really bad considering the guy just spent most of the last twenty-four hours taking care of me. I desperately wish I could take it back.

He looks like I’ve kicked his puppy and my stomach sinks with regret.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean
that,
Max. I’m just so freaked out about things right now.”

“Forget it,” he mumbles.

Great. He’s shut down
.

“Look, I have work to do. So why don’t you get ready and I’ll drive you home. I already spoke with Dylan this morning and he’s going to arrive at your apartment when Riley does. They’re going to be there by two. Jay dropped off the keys and temporary alarm code this morning.” He turns away.

We both remain silent as I head upstairs.

The silence continues as Max deftly maneuvers his Porsche through the winding canyons above Malibu. By the time we’re on the freeway shooting toward L.A., I’m feeling even more like an ungrateful bitch. I finally gather up my courage to speak.

“Max?”

Silence.

“I feel awful about what I said . . . I just don’t understand why you jumped all over me for my meeting with Jonathan. But I don’t care about that right now.”

I look at him and he glances my way before turning back to the road. At least he’s listening.

“I can’t or won’t ever forget what you did for me last night. I was in such a state and you dropped everything to help me.”

Dropped.
I smile inwardly at the picture I’ve painted of his date, the assumed art groupies, being dropped—
hopefully from a high elevation.
I can’t seem to help feeling jealous when it comes to him. I look at Max and refocus.

“You were kind, and took such good care of me. That says so much about the kind of person you are, not the famous artist, but the person you are inside.”

His face relaxes and he takes a deep breath. I hope he’s considering what I’ve said.

I take a chance and touch his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Max. Please forgive me.”

He clears his throat. “Just so you know, I think you’re overstating the womanizing thing.”

“Okay. Maybe I assumed wrong about the girl you were with when we talked on the phone last night.”

He purses his lips and shakes his head. “You think you have me all figured out, but I think you just don’t understand me.”

“You’re right about that. I don’t understand you. I guess I’m pushing because there’s something about you that makes me believe you’re much more than who you present to the world. The party-boy artist with little regard for women . . . I don’t think that’s the man Elizabeth raised.”

He’s silent, but his fingers tighten over the stick shift as he focuses on the road.

I turn and watch the scenery blur by.

He clears his throat and says, “How about this—I think we should call a truce. I have to admit that, as guilty as I’ve felt about all that you’ve done for me since we met, maybe last night helped even up the score a little.”

I nod. “I’ll say, but don’t be expecting any thank-you paintings. I don’t have your talent so, unless unintentionally primitive art is your thing, I’ll have to think of something else.”

“Well, how about if you write something . . . something about me—like for an art book? That more than evens things out.”

I smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

When he pulls up to my apartment, he hands me the keys and alarm instructions.

“Will you be okay?” he asks tentatively.

“Yes, I think so. Thanks.” I hug him, pressing my face into the curve of his neck. He softens a little as I hold him.

As I step out of the car, he says, “You know, Ava, I’m glad you called me last night . . . and that I could be there for you.”

I turn back and, with a grateful smile, I gaze at my beautiful, hopelessly complicated friend.

“Me too, Max. Me too.”

Chapter Thirteen / Get a Clue

Those are my principles, and if you don’t like them . . . well, I have others.

~Groucho Marx

T
aking a deep breath, I enter my apartment. After the alarm shuts off without a problem, I survey the living room with the fresh perspective of a new day. It makes me feel better to focus on the beauty of the room, even with the bookshelves emptied on the floor and the furniture askew. I look up at Max’s angel painting on the mantel and feel a wave of joy that his precious gift is still there.

As I put things away in the living room, I remember back when Riley and I painted three of the walls brown and one turquoise. Because of Riley’s persistence, we spent several days stenciling a paisley pattern in a slightly lighter shade onto that turquoise wall. The effect was beautiful.

The turquoise and brown retro rug with large sixties-style flowers that Riley found set the tone for the room. She has such a great design eye. Eventually, we upgraded our furniture from hand-me-downs to low chenille couches and an eclectic group of lamps. We also framed several prints of art given to me by various artists. The overall ambience is very sophisticated.

I’m slightly calmer when I finish sliding the last piece of furniture back into place. At least one room is almost restored, sans a TV and computer.

As I start putting the kitchen back together, Riley and Dylan come in the front door. Riley still freaks out, even though Dylan has already broken the news to her and we had a conversation earlier on the phone.

I rush over and we hug tightly.

“Oh, Ava!” she wails, “I can’t believe we were robbed. You must’ve been terrified to come home alone at night to this.”

“Yeah, it was horrible. I couldn’t reach anyone and started flipping out, but then I called Max and he came right over.”

Riley’s brows knit together with a worried look, and she reaches over and squeezes my hand.

“Riley, he was really great.”

Dylan looks relieved. “Hey, Dylan. Thanks for being here for Riley.”

He wraps his arms around her from behind. “Of course.”

Riley surveys the living room.

I groan. “Your computer . . . I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t believe it . . . and I’d finally paid it off. At least I backed everything up on my laptop before I left. It would’ve sucked even more if I’d lost all that work. That’s one relief at least.”

Her somber expression doesn’t make it easy when I remind her to check her bedroom and make a list of what’s missing. She and Dylan head down the hallway. After we’ve finished our list of stolen goods, Dylan agrees to sleep over for a couple of nights until we feel settled again. He heads out to buy some beer and pick up dinner, while Riley and I do the last bit of work to get our bedrooms in order.

I keep hoping as I put each item back in its place that I’ll discover my precious box, but with the last drawer replaced, I have to accept the loss once more.

It’s no surprise that my attempt at sleep that night is dark and fitful. I fight my way through a dream where a sinister character shadows and haunts me. Every time I try to escape his grasp, his spindly fingers press me back beneath his black cloak.