Work of Art ~ the Collection (61 page)

He wraps his arm around me and pulls me closer. We sit down on a nearby bench and gaze at the city below.

“This has been a great evening. Really top-notch, Max.”

He grins happily. “So, I’m doing this date thing right?”

“I’ll say.” I guess he really hasn’t
dated
for a long time, since casual hook-ups don’t count in my book.

He runs his free hand up and down his thigh. He’s nervous about something, so I wait patiently.

“You know, I had my session with Cara this afternoon.”

“Yeah, how’d it go?” I try to sound as casual as possible.

“We talked about trying to find balance when I’m overwhelmed.”

“Like how you felt coming back from Santa Fe?”

He nods. “You know, Ava, I’m never going to be
fixed
. My issues are something I will deal with for the rest of my life. I still can’t forgive myself for how I fucked up when you were meeting with Nick. I was completely out of control. But I want to get a handle on it—use the tools I’ve learned so that when I start to lose my grip, my reaction won’t be so bad.”

Is he trying to scare me away?
I shift on the bench nervously.

“I guess what I’m saying is that I want to be the best person I can be, not just for me, but for you. I want to be the kind of man you deserve.”

I curl my hand in his. “You know I won’t tolerate what happened in Santa Fe. But when I see you trying, it makes me want to help you through your rough times.”

He exhales a deep breath and gently squeezes my hand.

I bite my lip and twist my hair between my fingers. “I just don’t always know how.”

“Sometimes it’s as simple as being there. Like last night. You didn’t try to fix anything or analyze me, you were just there . . . for me.”

He sighs and then turns to me. “You know what else Cara told me?”

I shake my head.

“That I need to work hard and focus on being the best boyfriend I can be for you.”

“Oh, I’m liking her,” I tease, although I’m pleased by what she said.

“You know, for a lot of years, I only had myself to answer for. And artists are naturally narcissistic—we think we have something important to say, and we focus inwardly in order to create. It’s inherently selfish when you think about it.”

“Well, I suppose you could say that. But it takes courage to make art and stand behind it. I admire you
and
your work, but I think you know that.”

“Yes, but I guess what I’m trying to say is that I feel guilty that you’ve been the one to keep pulling me out of harm’s way. You’ve seen and learned things about me I would never want someone to know, and yet here you are . . . still loving me.”

I smile. “You inspire me, Max.”

“I can’t understand how I could be lucky enough to win you, let alone hold onto you.”

“But you’ve taken care of me, too. I need you more than you know, Max. We can be there for each other.”

He sits up straighter, as if my need for him is a revelation. Judging from the way his eyes light up, the idea seems to agree with him.

“Cara says I need to take things slowly, but my heart and my mind want to race ahead, Ava. I want to take care of you. I want to give you the world.” He sweeps his hand across the city view. “I already have to fight the urge to be with you 24–7.” He pauses, and then shifts his gaze back at me. “I wish you’d live with me.”

I try to stifle a gasp. “You want me to move in?”

“Desperately . . . but that wouldn’t be taking things slow, would it?”

I laugh softly. “No, that would be foot-to-the-floorboards fast.” I lean in closer. “But I love that you want me to. One day—”

But before I can finish, he kisses me, and there’s so much emotion behind the kiss that in that moment I feel stripped of any hesitation. I fall into him, our “big love” making me forget that we’re two separate people.

Perhaps
one day
will be sooner than I think.

Chapter Eighteen / The Writing on the Wall

The object isn’t to make art, it’s to be in that wonderful state which makes art inevitable.

~ Robert Henri

“H
ow do you feel about interviews?” Mysterious Max asks on the phone.

Is this a guessing game?
I cock my head to the side to figure out what he’s getting at. “Like, in looking for a job? I don’t have much experience with that.”

“No, I mean, how would you feel about interviewing me?”

I laugh at the idea of it. “That would be fun. Why do you ask?”

“The marketing guy from Taylor and Tiden called. They want to film a segment of you interviewing me in my studio to promote the book.”

“In your studio? And you agreed to that?” I don’t try to mask the disbelief in my voice.

“Yeah, I’m nervous about it, but it’ll be good for the book.”

“Well, if you’re willing to do it, there’s no way I’ll turn you down.”

“Good, because they want to do it this week. I told them about your day job, so they agreed to do it this Saturday.”

“This Saturday! What do I need to do to get ready? Am I writing the questions? What do I wear? Geez!”

“Slow down, sweet thing! They’ll call you in the morning to go over all that.”

“I’m anxious, Max.”

“Oh, don’t be. It’s you and me being you and me. It doesn’t get better than that.”

On Saturday, I drive to Malibu, wearing my best jeans and a cerulean blue fitted tee. Apparently, cerulean blue looks optimal on video. They want the whole thing to have a very casual, cool vibe.

When I arrive at the house, there’s a bustle of activity, and I’m swept into the breakfast room where the makeup artist is set up. She puts so much effort into working me over that I comment about it, but she grins and shakes her head, so it must not be so bad.

The director comes in near the end to prep me. He explains that the serious discussion and viewing of Max’s paintings will be done separately with a voice-over. So, for this segment they’ll use a handheld camera because they want a fun “meet the artist” approach. Although they’ve given me a list of unconventional questions, they also encourage me to go wherever the moment takes me.

If he only knew,
I think. The “moment taking me” could involve Max
taking
me on top of his desk.

Max and I purposely avoid each other before the shoot, not wanting to “out” our relationship. I smile when he gets his natural shine powdered for the camera, but otherwise, I ignore him.

I’m finally called to the studio. It’s lit up with bright lights on telescoping stands, and there are more paintings than usual stacked around the two facing walls.

They hook us up with little microphones and hide the wires in our clothes before positioning Max and me on stools. Next come lighting and sound checks. When everything is set, the director motions to the cameraman and asks me to start by revealing a secret about Max.

My first couple of attempts are awkward, so Max leans over and whispers in my ear, “Why don’t you tease that damn camera like you tease me, Ava?”

I lean back, surprised. “Tease?”

He winks with a crooked grin.

Newly inspired, I nod to the cameraman and they roll again.

“Hi, I’m Ava Jacobs, the author of
Unspoken Truths,
here to interview my favorite subject, the brilliant artist Maxfield Caswell. But first, I have to tell you a secret.” I jump off the stool and walk closer to the camera with my finger poised in front of my pursed lips. “Shh, we’re in the artist’s studio, and you know what? He hates having anyone in here.”

“You’re right about that,” Max says from behind me.

“So, today should be fun, ’cause I think I’ll get him good and riled up. I mean, we’re all over his studio.” I wave my arms toward the paintings and his easel.

“Cut!” the director bellows.

I immediately steel myself for a chastisement for such a stupid intro.

“Perfect!” he yells.

I gape in disbelief.

“We want fun, Ava, just like that . . . something that will appeal to younger art enthusiasts, since that’s the demographic for the book.”

I love the idea of having fun with it, so I gently tease and taunt Max. And he gives it right back, even pushing me off my stool at one point. We both end up laughing, as if we’re the only people in the studio.

“What was the best thing Santa ever brought you?”

“A hamster. I named him Van Gogh because he had a deformed ear. He was smart; I even taught him to paint. He would scamper over my paint box and then put his little footprints all over my drawing pad. My mom even let me host an art show for him during one of her dinner parties.”

I’ve never heard this story, and I’m charmed. “So, you were his manager, shaping his career and whatnot?”

“Yeah, until the cleaning lady stepped on him. Just like Van Gogh, his life was short, but remarkable.”

“So, if you could go back in time and live any artist’s life, who would you choose?”

“Back how far? Like Andy Warhol’s time?”

“Any time, you could be Michelangelo during the Renaissance in Italy.”

“Yeah, right. How long did it take him to paint that ceiling on his back?”

“Fussy artist.” I turn toward the camera and shake my head. “He turns down being one of the great art geniuses from history, because his arms might get tired.”

His eyes light up as he raises his index finger. “I know! Theodore Geisel.”

“You mean Dr. Seuss?
Cat in the Hat? Sam I Am
? Are you toying with me, Caswell?”

“Seuss was a genius!
Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
is one of the best books ever, and the art’s trippy.”

“True, but that’s still an unexpected choice. I was thinking you’d pick Francis Bacon or someone upbeat like that.”

“Well, the thing about Seuss is that his books kind of messed me up as a kid, but in a good way. Besides, think about it . . . do you know a kid in America who wasn’t influenced by his work? Get ’em young, I say.”

“So, I see you pay attention to the demographics of your fan base.”

He shrugs with a crooked smile. “Doesn’t every artist? If they don’t, they should.”

At the end, I toy with him in a provocative way.

“Let’s talk about the lifestyle of a contemporary artist living in L.A. I hear you live quite the life, Mr. Caswell.”

He narrows his eyes and smiles crookedly. “So they say. Are you implying that I’m
that
kind of artist?”

I flip my hair over my shoulder. “The kind that invites women to see your etchings? No, but should I?”

He makes an exaggerated, sexy face.

“There’s your warning ladies.” I roll my eyes, cross my arms, and walk toward the camera again. “The man seems insatiable. But, lucky for us, the same can be said for his appetite to create thought-provoking art. Check out
Unspoken Truths
to learn more about Maxfield Caswell and his work.”

I turn back toward him. “Thanks, Max, for letting us into your very private studio.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiles broadly as he picks up his paint brushes. “Now, please tell these guys to leave so I can have my fortress of solitude back.”

“Fortress of solitude? What a grand name!”

“Hmm . . . why don’t you stay behind and we can rename it.”

“I just might.” I turn and wink at the camera.

“Cut!”

“Was that all right?” I ask the director.

He looks at Max and they both roll their eyes.

“Was that really your first time on camera?” he asks with a skeptical look.

“Yes, why?”

“Well, I can promise you, it won’t be your last.”

That evening, Max takes me out to celebrate at Bonne Foi. We’re giddy from the success of the shoot, so over French food and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, we talk about our hopes and dreams, not just for his book and my career, but for the other adventures we’d like to share.

Remembering my conversation with Aunt Ann, I ask him about Paris, and he lights up. By the end of his Parisian stories, he promises me that one day soon he’ll take me to the City of Light.

After dinner, we get into the car. He grins while he starts up the engine. As we drive back to his house, I shift in my seat so I’m facing him.

“You were amazing today, Max . . . with all those people in your studio and the chaos of the shoot, you managed to be as charming as ever.”

“Just charming?”

“What were you going for?”

“Hot . . . I wanted to be hot,” he says playfully, as he pulls up to his security gate off the highway.

“Oh, well, that’s a given, handsome. You can’t avoid being hot even when you try. You’re hot when you’re happy, sad, aggravated . . . even angry. This is just something I have to deal with 24–7 . . . all that unbelievable hotness.” I run my hand along his pants and stroke his muscular thigh suggestively.

“That hot?” he asks, laughing softly.

I slide my hand between his legs and slowly tease upward. “You know, it’s not fair that I have to deal with getting scorched from all that heat. It’s damn distracting. The want is overwhelming . . . we’re lucky that I haven’t spontaneously combusted by now.”

He quickly parks and hauls me out of the car. “Don’t combust before I get you upstairs. I have special plans for tonight, and these plans require every lovely inch of you to be intact.”

He leans into me, and I feel his erection—the unmistakable proof that he’s as turned on as I am. “Special plans?”

“Just you wait and see. After I undress you and carry you to our bed, you’ll find out just how charming
and
hot I can be.”