Work of Art ~ the Collection (19 page)

Midday Sunday I check my emails that I haven’t looked at since the robbery. There’s an email from Jonathan sent Friday.

Ava,

You’ve become a source of inspiration in so many ways. I look forward to sharing the dream I had about you last night. It was beyond exquisite.

Jonathan

My whole body flushes. Was he drinking when he wrote this? That’s how I’d written off the scene in front of the restaurant. Maybe he’s actually serious about pursuing me. I just don’t get it—he’s an older, sophisticated man. Why me? I hope this isn’t a sport with me in the crosshairs. I squirm. I’d better send some type of answer right away.

Jonathan,

Sorry for the delay in responding. As it turns out my apartment was robbed Friday night, and with all the frenzy, I haven’t checked emails.

It’s nice to hear I’m inspiring dreams . . . I’m intrigued.

Ava

He responds immediately.

Ava,

I’m so sorry to hear your news. Can I do anything to help?

I leave for NY in the morning and am gone all week, but am completely reachable via phone or email.

Remember, whatever you need . . .

Jonathan

The kindness of his words is comforting and there’s a smile on my face while I respond.

Jonathan,

I’m fine, but thank you. Let’s talk when you return.

Safe travels,

Ava

I’m relieved to get a break from dealing with Jonathan in person. I’m overwhelmed and can’t handle anything complicated right now.

Instead, I wonder what Max is doing. I should call him to thank him again for helping me Friday night.

When I call, a woman answers. She has one of those breathy voices.

I fight the urge to hang up. “Is Max there?”

“He’s working in the studio,” breathy voice replies.

“Let me guess . . . he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, will you tell him Ava called to thank him again for Friday night
?” Take
that,
art babe.

As I hang up, I’m fairly certain Max will never get my message, but I hope I ruffled art groupie’s feathers enough that she’ll give him a bad time anyway.
Damn him.

Monday at the gallery, I immerse myself in my work to shake the lingering feeling of loss and violation from the robbery. Everyone’s especially doting, which I appreciate, considering how raw I am. Jess calls and offers to take me out to dinner Wednesday night. It’s times like this I’m grateful for my makeshift family. Even Sean takes me aside.

“Hey, my friends and I are going to a club tonight. Why don’t you come?” He smiles sweetly.

“Who are you seeing?” I ask, not sure I’m in the mood to go out anyway.

“Wrecked at the Whiskey. My friend Charlie saw them in New York last week and said they were wicked.” He grins broadly.

I smile. “Hmm,
wicked
. Well, let me see if I’m up for it later, okay? Thanks for thinking of me, Sean.”

“Anytime,” he says and it gives me comfort to know he means it.

I spend most of the afternoon working on a press release for Adam that involves some internet research. One of the sites we follow,
Art Happenings
, has a write-up on the opening last Saturday night for the
30-Year Retrospective Show
at the Museum of Contemporary Art. My curiosity wins, and I scan the photos, hoping I don’t find anything.

Damn it, Max! This is my personal hell
. . . his gray blue eyes burn through the screen and right to my core, taunting me. His arms are thrown around two women in very short, low-cut dresses. I read the caption: Elise Dupre, Maxfield Caswell and Sarina Wolfe. I recognize the names of the women, both infamous art groupies. Sarina was married to a famous sculptor until he caught her having sex in his studio with his hunky assistant. Now she’s determined to take full advantage of her freedom and reputation.

It’s like he’s throwing our conversation in the car back in my face, and I wonder which one was breathy voice on the home phone Sunday.

This picture was taken within twenty-four hours of when he’d pulled me into his arms to soothe me when I couldn’t sleep, the same day he made me breakfast and told me about his mother. And what about our conversation about his womanizing? The sting is sharp, and I hold my breath and grab the edge of my desk. Will my Max torture know no bounds

The anger lights another fire under me, so when I get home from work I make a pot of coffee, skip dinner and plow into the book project. I want to be done with this job and get off this wonky roller coaster with Max. The tug and pull bulldozes my confidence and my pride.

At midnight, after I’ve wrapped up chapter four, I decide to email a particular section to him, as I’m uncertain about some of the facts.

Max,

Please check this section for accuracy and get back to me with any changes.

That’s it, plain and simple. I’m done with the drama with Max. I’m going to be all business from now on.

He emails me back within minutes.

Are you mad at me? Why so abrupt? Are you okay?

I’m a little surprised that he cared about the tone of my email. I email him right away.

This afternoon I stumbled upon another picture of you with your art babes from Saturday night. I guess it disappointed me after everything we’d talked about and the time we spent Friday and Saturday. I’m assuming the art groupie who answered your home phone on Sunday didn’t give you the message I’d called either.

The inbox chimes. Before I read his reply, I hesitate, imagining that he’s pissed off. I can almost feel his anger singe my fingertips as I caress my keyboard. I open his message.

What do you want from me, Ava? Who are you expecting me to be? Because it sounds like I’m always letting you down, and that isn’t good for either one of us.

I can picture him running his hands through his hair, his eyes squinting and his jaw set. He makes me feel rash and impulsive, like speeding down the highway without headlights.

You’re right, Max. It’s not good for either one of us. Let’s take a break, and we can try this friendship thing another time. I’ll just work directly with Jonathan and you can do the same. Thanks in advance for your help in giving me the opportunity to work on this project.

I hit send.

Despite being dramatic and emotional, my response feels satisfying for about five seconds, then I start wondering if I’m truly ready to let go of
art guy
.

Loud music starts howling from my cell phone.
Damn, I have to change that ring tone
. I grab the phone and slam it back down on the table without answering it. How pathetic that the worst thing I can do is not take his call? He definitely has the upper hand.

I watch my phone until the voice mail blinks and then listen to his message.

Come on, Ava. I don’t want to
not
talk to you. I don’t want to
not
be friends. Don’t do this. Can you pick up the phone? I’m not going away that easily. Make me understand what it is you want. ’cause I sure as hell don’t know what that is. Call me, Ava. Damn it. Call me.

Damn.
There’s nothing like drama at one in the morning on a workday. I reply via email and attach the photo of him with his art groupies.

Character, in the long run, is the decisive factor in the life of an individual.

~Theodore Roosevelt

It’s bitchy, but at this point, does it matter? I hit send.

I close my eyes and imagine his reaction. I’ve already soaked the bridge with gasoline and thrown a simmering match on it. I stare at my screen for at least ten minutes, hitting the receive messages button every ten seconds.

Nothing.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so tired.

“Hey, Ava, check this out!” Sean sounds so pleased.

I squint at his screen. “What does that say?” I study a snapshot of a plate glass window with hot pink writing scrawled across it.

“Get a clue . . . this ain’t fucking mall art,” he says, reading from the screen.

Lovely.
I say to myself. “What’s that from?”

Sean reads the description from the news report. “
Artist Maxfield Caswell took offense to the opinions of some of the collectors who attended Everett Callis’ art opening last night. He used his companion’s lipstick to make his feelings clear on the window of the gallery. He was escorted out by security.”

“Hey, Sean, can you send me a link to that story?” I ask calmly. My fingers itch to forward that gem, but it’ll have to wait until I’m home. Once I’m in my apartment, I practically run to my laptop. I copy the photo and description from the article into a new email to
art boy,
and whip out my new quote.

You can out-distance that which is running after you, but not what is running inside you.

~Rwandan Proverb

I’m halfway done heating up my Lean Cuisine meal when the email prompt dings.

What happened to my ally—the one who once stood up for me against the uninformed, uneducated dregs of the art-collecting community? Have you joined the other side?

What a clever attempt at emotional manipulation. I dish it right back.

No Max,

I applaud your sentiments and defense of Everett’s work. I just think you didn’t have to come off like a psycho sensationalist by scrawling (with lipstick) on the gallery window in a fit of fury. The photo of security dragging you off is
not
flattering. People will be expecting you to cut off your ear next.

I congratulate myself on my crazy artist reference.

Well, at least I’d be in good company. And things worked out pretty good for Van Gogh in terms of his place in the art world
.

So posthumous fame is what matters to Max? Should I be surprised?

Yeah, but long after he was dead. As I’m sure you know, he only sold one painting during his lifetime and shot himself at thirty-seven. He isn’t exactly a role model.

I take my dinner out of the microwave to cool before checking to see if he responded to my last comment.

Oh Ava, I’m sure
you
know historians are now disputing that. But regardless, let’s get to the crux of the matter. This is about the lipstick, isn’t it? You’re jealous of the girl
.

The ass is right, but I’ll never admit it.

Don’t you wish.

I close my email and tear into the new chapter. At least these fits of anger help propel me through the writing. At this rate, I’ll be done in a few weeks.

Later, I meet Jess at TBY’s in West Hollywood for dinner.

“So, is Max making you nuts yet?” she asks as she licks some salt off the edge of her margarita.

I moan. “How did you know? We aren’t even talking, just having an ongoing argument via email. Some days I hate his guts.”

She looks concerned. “Those are pretty strong words, Missy. What’s he done anyway?”

“I’m not even sure. He has the ability to get under my skin. He can be so sweet, like when he helped me after the robbery. But then he reverts back to his trashy side, which pisses me off, and we lose whatever ground we’d gained. During the good times, we’re close and I get addicted. He’s my own drug. The highs are so damn good.”

“But then . . .”

“But then it all goes to hell. I just have to accept I can’t be friends with him. Yet when I think of not talking to him or seeing him, I feel bad. What the hell’s wrong with me, Jess?”

She shakes her head and groans. “This is what I was fucking worried about. I should’ve cut him off at the knees and stopped the book project. Damn it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I warned him, but Max is so fucking stubborn. You’re the perfect girl for him, Ava, and he knows it on some level, and it really freaks him out. He’s acting out in all kinds of crazy ways. He’s created a life where he never has to be dependent on a woman again. That’s why he goes for the art sluts, because in a million years he’d never get involved with one.”

“Perfect? Well, it’s not like I’m looking for a boyfriend or pursuing him in that way.” I cross my arms.

“I know that, and he knows it too. Look, how long have we been friends? In all that time I’ve watched you avoid getting involved with anyone. It’s like a sport with you. You’re almost as bad as he is.”

“I don’t think I’m that bad.”

“Well, regardless, some people can’t be together and they can’t be friends either. Maybe that’s how it is for you and Max. Or you can accept each other, flaws and all, and be friends.”

I nod, trying to imagine my life without Max in it. What if we really can’t be friends?