Work of Art ~ the Collection (23 page)

That evening, as I revise a section of the book, my computer tings with an email. It’s from Max and titled
Ava Sunday.
I hold my breath as I double click on the message.

He’s sent a high res image that slowly reveals itself starting at the top of my screen.
Is it my impatience, or is this taking forever?
I want to shake my laptop to get it to hurry it up.

It’s a black and white photograph, and as it loads, the picture has a textured, hand painted look on the edge of the image. He must have manipulated the file. There are hints of color washed into the black and white. The top of a head starts to download and then a forehead with a wave of dark hair. I take a sharp breath . . .
it’s me.

Next come my eyes, large and bright, their corners crinkled happily. I didn’t realize my lashes looked so full. Next comes my nose, but when I finally see my lips, I smile, remembering how my dad called me Rosebud when I pouted because of my lips. Max has caught me holding back a laugh as my hands delicately frame my face.

I can’t remember why my hands are in this position, but I’m looking right at him, so this is a shot I must’ve been aware of. There’s a flirty playfulness in my expression, and it reminds me how happy I felt.

When the bottom of the photo finally loads, there’s something written underneath.

Beautiful Ava~A Perfect Sunday

I fall back on the couch, moaning. This guy’s killing me. How can I stay friends without any benefits with a guy who does this? Surely he knows what he’s doing. I email him.

Subject: A Perfect Sunday

Max,

Thank you for my picture. You have such a talent for bringing out the best in me.

Ava

He responds quickly.

Yes, it was a perfect day.

And without a doubt you bring out the best in me.

I’m glad you like your picture. That’s how I see you—beautiful, mysteriously textured and layered.

Are we still on for Huntington Gardens on Saturday? Dylan wants to come and bring Riley. I’ll pick you up at eleven. Don’t forget to bring your camera.

M

How should I respond to this unbelievably sweet email? I decide to be brief.

I’ll be ready.

Until then,

Ava

As I try to refocus on my work, I can’t push this version of Max and the longing that he’d want to be my better half out of my mind. This Max is everything I want and, evidently, everything I can’t have. The resulting agony has become part of me. It flavors the tone of my voice and sears the edge of each breath. I carry it close like a wounded animal I’m intent on saving.

Chapter Sixteen / Check Please

Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.

~André Malraux

M
y cell phone rings in the morning at eight sharp, and I study it warily, not recognizing the incoming number.

“Ava? Phoebe from
Art-trA
. . . Jonathan asked me to call,” a woman says sharply.

“Yes, hi, Phoebe,” I say as I stretch out my arms. “Jonathan explained the situation yesterday with the deadlines being moved up. He said you’d be working with me to get the project done.”

“Yes, I’ve read what you’ve submitted so far, and we have a lot of work to do. Jonathan also said I need to work around your day job. I’m booked the next couple of nights. How about Saturday?”

Uh oh . . .
I don’t like her bitchy tone. “Ah, actually I’m busy Saturday, but I’m free Sunday.”

She lets out an irritated huff. “Okay, Sunday. Why don’t you come over here in the morning at ten, that way I can get in an early Pilates class before we meet. I’ll email you the address.”

“Okay, I look forward to it,” I lie unabashedly.

Pilates early Sunday morning? Why would you do that when you could sleep in?
She must be a case. This could be potentially hellish, but working with her is a means to an end, and I need to get this project done.

Laura is out of town for a film shoot and Jess is lonely, so I offer to bring dinner over and hang for a while. I stop at Chin Chins, Jess’s favorite, and buy an assortment of Chinese food.

When I get there, she’s working in her studio, so I step over to the burgundy velvet chaise not far from her easel. Like everything else in the studio, the chaise is splattered with paint, so I run my hand over it to make sure all the paint is dry before I stretch out.

I love the chaos of her studio. She has at least a hundred reference photographs haphazardly pinned up on the wall behind her desk and more than a dozen paintings at various stages of completion around the studio.

But that’s just the beginning. To walk into Jess’s studio is to enter a mad hatter’s warehouse. There are numerous strands of paper lanterns crisscrossing the ceiling and a 1950s mannequin in the corner wearing an elaborate feather headdress and nothing else. There are garden gnomes, beach balls, empty birdcages and several pinball machines. A hammock hangs in the corner, suspended from the ceiling. In the opposite corner is a nine-foot-tall Bob’s Big Boy statue someone must have kidnapped from the front of a restaurant. There’s an antique rocking horse, a bobble-head collection, and strands of Mardi Gras beads draped on every surface.

For a long time, I was tempted to nominate Jess’s studio for one of those home organization reality TV shows that clean out your house while publicly humiliating you. But eventually, I learned that the eclectic clutter inspires Jess, and far be it from me to slow down her prolific output. She did admit that Laura was a minimalist, and she’d break out in hives if she spent longer than a minute in Jess’s studio.

I sit quietly and watch her work. She’s adding detail to a small area of the canvas, and her focus is absolute.

Eventually, my attention wanders, and I notice new modular shelving on the far wall, already holding cans of brushes, jars of paints and a dizzying array of small props—everything from a human skull to a Peanuts metal lunchbox featuring Charlie Brown and Snoopy.

“Are those shelves new? I don’t remember them.”

“Uh-huh, Max helped me get those up today. They’d been lying in pieces on the floor for two weeks, and he’s so good at that shit. Besides, he hates the crap all over my floor, so he had an agenda.”

“Max?” I ask, amazed he would take the time to do that for Jess.

“He was being interviewed for a documentary at a studio on Melrose this morning, so we met for lunch and he came by and helped me.”

“I’m surprised.”

Jess laughs. “Oh, he’s not always an asshole. Sometimes, he can be a real sweetheart. As a matter of fact, he was going to help me with some more stuff, but Dylan called and needed to meet with him right away about a new gallery show.”

It occurs to me that Max is a lot busier than I even realized. “Does he always have a lot of meetings and interviews?”

“Frankly, I don’t know how he has time to paint anymore. He’s the “it” guy, so everyone wants a piece of him. He told me he ends up painting late into the night, so he hardly gets any sleep.” She shakes her head and scowls. “That isn’t good. It’s really wearing him down. I was worried about him a couple of weeks ago. I thought he was losing it. But he seems better this week, so I don’t know . . . maybe he’s okay.”

Jess stops painting, and as she cleans the brushes, I go inside to set out the food. Jess’s kitchen is surprisingly streamlined, except for the backsplash above the counter, which she custom designed. It’s a swirling mosaic of tiny pieces of broken tile and glass beads. It was Laura’s trade-off for the pristine granite countertops. The entire house reflects a series of compromises between them, and they’ve made it all work.

As we dive into our vegetable fried rice with tofu, spring rolls, almond chicken and chow mein noodles, Jess excitedly tells me about their plans for a wedding. Max has generously offered the use of his house in Malibu, as long as they promise to keep the guest list under seventy-five. They plan to do the ceremony on the beach and the party at the house.

“Ava, I was serious before. Will you be my maid of honor?”

I give her a hug. “Of course! I’m so flattered you asked me.”

“Well, you know you’re the baby sister I always wanted. And you were supportive of Laura and me when our other friends didn’t believe in us.”

“And look at you now.”

“I’m one lucky bitch. Oh . . . no prissy wedding showers! Okay?” She’s beyond adamant. “A group of us can do a spa day or go drinking one night, but no idiotic shower.”

“Understood.” It’s good to throw out tradition once in a while, and what better place than a lesbian wedding?

As I gather my things to head home, Jess asks me how it’s going with Max’s book.

“You know, he talked about you a lot at lunch today,” she mentions casually.

“Hopefully nothing too awful.”

“No, he seems to think you have a unique effect on him. He says he’s happier when you’re around. I don’t know what that means exactly, but I’m glad to know he’s spending time with someone who’s a good influence, not those vapid women who suck the life out of him.”

“Yeah, well, he still goes off on a tangent sometimes—saying I’m his savior or something—but for the most part, everything’s easier between us now. Besides, I may not have a lot of free time to see him or anyone in the next few weeks. The book project’s been moved up two months, and Sunday I’m working with Jonathan’s prize editor to get things lined up. She’s some bitchy broad named Phoebe. I don’t think it’s going to be fun.”

“Phoebe . . . what’s her last name?” Jess frowns.

“I don’t know, but I think she’s going to be tough to work with.”

“Well, let me know after you meet. I used to know a whack job named Phoebe who worked in publishing, but she moved away.”

The next night, my writers’ group beats me up a little for not submitting a new story, but they ease up when they hear about my new deadline. Why do I still feel like a failure? Someday, I hope to learn how to give myself a break and not always be so critical of myself.

When I get home, I decide I need the comfort of my flannel PJs and a bowl of chocolate ice cream to lift my spirits before I get to work.

I’ve been staring at my laptop screen for at least ten minutes without a single thought or idea when my cell phone rings.

“Hey, Max.”

“Ava, whatcha doing?”

“Thinking of you again.” I pause for dramatic effect. “Seriously, I’m trying to work on your book, but I think I have writer’s block.”

“I’m that inspiring,” he teases.

“Yes, surely this is your fault.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m going through the same thing tonight—artist’s block. I’ve been looking at this canvas for over an hour and haven’t felt inspired to commit brush to paint to canvas yet.” He clears his throat. “I know, why don’t you paint this canvas, and I’ll write!”

I laugh. “That’d be rich. Stick figures are as good as my drawing skills get.”

“Don’t knock that idea. Remember Keith Haring’s work? He was famous for painting those outlines of little men.”

“And when you take over my writing project, what will you say about this artist I’m writing about? He’s quite the handful, you know.” I whistle softly.

“Oh, who is he?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“Maxfield Caswell.”

“
The
Maxfield Caswell?” He says with a dramatic flourish.

“The one and only.”

“Oh that’s easy . . . he’s so fucking brilliant. That’s really all you need to say.”

I giggle. “Max Caswell is so fucking brilliant. The end.”

“That works.”

“Wow, I should’ve talked to you earlier. I could’ve been done weeks ago. Instead, I have to spend my Sunday with some bitch editor who wants to slice and dice up my writing.”

“Do you want me to call Jonathan and tell him to back off?” His tone gets darker and he sounds hot, offering to come to my defense.

“No!” I insist, despite his hotness. “Besides, now with this new deadline, I’m probably going to need her help.”

“Okay, now that we’ve got your work figured out, do you have any ideas for my painting?”