The Masterpiece (Work of Art #3)

by Ruth Clampett

  “Maxfield Caswell,” I whisper, shaking my head.

  He gives me that lazy, sexy smile. “I like mirrors. Do you understand what I’m saying now? What you do to me? You’re beautiful and hot, Ava.”

  I decide to stop fighting the flattery, so the adoration continues. His hands are under my shirt, and I think it’s time for a break from packing. “Yeah, I think I’m finally getting it, handsome. I’m hot—really hot,” I say with a playful grin.

  “Yes, you are. And that’s only one of the reasons why I’ll put up with a year of you in New York and us having to circle our wagons since my fucking ex-girlfriend is back. ’cause one day you’ll return home and marry me. And when you do, I’ll have a big mirror facing our bed.”

  “Really?” I whisper.

  “Oh, yes,” he says darkly, as he kisses me. “And the things I will do to you, girl.” He kisses me again. “As you watch…”

  “Yes?”

  “I promise you, it’ll be worth the wait.”

  Chapter Fifteen / The Flickering Light

  You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes.

  You can steer yourself in any direction you choose.

  You’re on your own. And you know what you know.

  You are the guy who’ll decide where to go.

  Oh, The Places You’ll Go ~Dr. Seuss

  “What are you doing?” I turn to Max as he takes the ticket from the machine.

  “Parking.”

  “Yeah, I see that. You aren’t just dropping me off?”

  “No, I want to walk you in. It will give me a few more minutes with you.”

  “But you know how it is at the airport—you can’t go in past security.”

  “I don’t care. I hate those rushed curbside hugs. I want a really good hug today.”

  “Well, for all this effort, you’re getting a big kiss too.”

  “See, never question my strategy, woman.”

  “Okay, I’ll remember that.”

  It’s funny how, in these moments, you don’t care that you’re surrounded by a buzzing swarm of anxious travelers and overzealous security guards. All you care about is your man pressed tightly against you and kissing you like you’re all that matters in the world.

  He holds me extra long before we finally separate.

  “Call me when you arrive, okay?”

  “I will.” Feeling my usual preflight nerves, I check my watch. “I better get moving.” I smile and kiss him one last time before I turn to hand the TSA agent my driver’s license and boarding pass.

  Rather than leaving, he watches me as I wait in the security line. After I load the plastic trays with my stuff and pass through, I turn. In the distance, I see he’s still standing there, looking positively lost. I step to the side and call him on my cell phone.

  “Are you okay?” I ask gently.

  “Are you?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Ugh, what are we going to be like when I really leave for the actual move?”

  “You mean after Paris? ’Cause, isn’t this the real move?”

  “Well, I’m pretending that it isn’t, so I don’t start sobbing. So what will that good-bye be like?”

  He runs his fingers through his hair. “It’ll be like a scene in a movie where I’m yelling for you not to go and security is dragging me out the doors.”

  Why can I picture this in my mind and totally believe it could happen?

  “You’re killing me here, Max. Next time, maybe you should dump me on the curb.”

  “Don’t say that. Look, I’ll be good. He walks backward as he holds the phone. See, I’m leaving. But one last thing before I do.”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you, Angel.”

  “I love you too.”

  That afternoon I’m standing in the hall of my temporary New York housing anxious to see the place I’ll be living in. Maybe seeing it will make everything feel more real.

  “Ms. Jacobs, right?” The man in the gray sweater with a matching gray complexion looks down at his clipboard.

  “Yes, Ava.”

  “Right, I see here. Originally, you were moving in in a few weeks, but now it’s been pushed up to as soon as we finish painting and cleaning the carpets.”

  “Yes, and I appreciate you showing it to me early. I just arrived, and my hotel’s a few blocks away. I want to see the space to figure out what I still need.”

  “No problem.”

  He pulls out a large ring of keys, lifts them up to the designer lights, and examines each one as I wait patiently.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, where’re you from?”

  “L.A.”

  He chuckles. “People from L.A. have the hardest time. They’re used to a lot more living space. But, still, this is pretty good, and it’s in a great neighborhood. Even though this is temporary housing, some people end up staying here when they see what’s available out there.”

  He finally finds the key and pushes open the door.

  He isn’t kidding about the size of the space. I have spatial shock. Seriously. My bedroom at home is larger than this whole apartment, and don’t get me started comparing this to Max’s house. I mean, French doors looking out over the Pacific Ocean? This place has narrow windows with a view of the office building across the street where I watch the busy worker bees doing their tasks. It’s similar to what I’ve experienced in almost every New York hotel room I’ve stayed in, but it feels so much different knowing this will be my new home, even if it’s temporary.

  “So, this is your living room,” he says grandly, as he waves at a sleek love seat and armchair with a contemporary cherry wood coffee table in front of it.

  The carpets are high-end Berber wool in a warm taupe. A flat screen T.V. is perched on a high-tech media cart. There’s a framed black and white print of the Statue of Liberty at sunset above the couch, perhaps to remind me where I am, in case I forget.

  “Your kitchen is over here.” Despite the fancy granite counter and stainless details, the kitchen looks like the galley on an airplane. There’s a microwave and coffeemaker with a tiny built-in refrigerator below. Even the sink is miniature. He opens up a cupboard to show a small collection of white plates, bowls, and coffee mugs.

  “No stove?”

  “No, just the burners for heating up soup or boiling water; most people do take out.”

  “The bedroom is back here.” The double bed fills the room. When Max visits, I don’t think he’ll fit on this mattress. The only other furniture is a tall narrow dresser and a bedside table with a lamp. The bedspread is a contemporary design in various shades of beige. I hate beige; something about it makes me want to scream. I find consolation in the idea that at least I can replace the bedspread.

  Gray guy watches me as I peek inside the small closet and marble-walled compact bathroom.

  “If I stay longer, can I hang art on the walls?”

  “We would prefer you didn’t. We’d have to patch and repaint, and then charge you a crazy amount of money.”

  “I see.”

  “The cleaning service comes once a week. You can have them more often for an additional fee.”

  I have to admit, the place feels very clean, but that adds to the sterile feeling.

  We walk back into the “living room,” and he slaps the top of a little table with a matching chair. “You can eat here or use it as a desk. The Internet hook up is here, and comes with the package, although most people use the wireless.” On top of the table is a notebook that he lifts and fans through. “Here’s a reference notebook we’ve put together about all the places you’ll want to know about in the area—dry cleaners, best bagels, drug store, gym, etc. There are takeout menus and maps of nearby neighborhoods. Everyone picks up and delivers.”

  “Thanks, that’ll be helpful.”

  “Most deliver really late, in case you work long hours.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Th
at’s pretty common around here.” He shrugs. Gray Guy has seen it all. “Well, that’s about it. Okay, ready to go?”

  My heart thumps and I try to figure out what’s freaking me out the most—the overabundance of beige, the framed faux artwork where my Max Angel painting should hang, or is it that I’ve never felt more alone and terrified in my life?

  “Actually, would you mind if I took a moment longer to myself?”

  He gives me a quizzical look, but nods. “I guess that’s okay. The door will lock behind you, so just make sure you close it tightly.”

  When Gray Guy leaves, I sit on the edge of the couch and watch the office workers sit at their computers while the tears stream down my face. The emotions hit me in large waves until I’m sobbing.

  What am I doing here? What have I gotten myself into?

  After getting enough toilet paper off the roll to gather my tears, I fish out my cell phone and call Jess. The sound of her voice immediately grounds me.

  “Hey, girl! How’s New York?”

  “Jess,” I sigh and take a deep breath. It catches in my throat.

  “Oh no. What happened, Ava?”

  “Nothing happened really; it’s just that I’m sitting in the bleakest little shoebox that will soon be my temporary housing. And, Jess?”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m not sure I can do this.”

  “Oh, I see. The hard part is finally hitting you. You’re in this empty plain shoebox, wondering why you left your beautiful life for this leap in the dark.”

  “Yes, yes.” I’m relieved she understands.

  “But, baby, the bright beautiful light hasn’t hit you yet. Yes, you’re going to have some dark moments like this, when you’re lonely or insecure or exhausted or angry. But you have to remember that this is the path to the extraordinary. Your journey’s just begun, so you can’t give up yet.”

  “You make it sound like a magical journey.”

  “Well, it fucking is! Do I really need to convince you? Look, we just need to find you a better place to live—fast. If you don’t call some of the friends whose numbers I gave you, I’ll call them and have them chase you down and take you out. You’ve got to push through this, Ava.”

  “Well, I guess it’s too late to get out of it anyway. The contracts are signed.”

  “Yes, but you’ve got to set the shoebox aside, and remind yourself why you’re there. You do want to do this show and work with all of these artists. You’re going to bring their lives and work to the public. How fucking cool is that?”

  “You’re the best friend ever, Jess,” I say as my spirits lift. “It was just so hard saying good-bye to Max this morning. He looked so lost. Can you do me a favor and check on him later?”

  “Sure. Have you called him yet?”

  “Right after I arrived. He was painting, but he took the call right away. He’d been waiting to hear from me.”

  “You know, Ava, you need to remember that although he may be in agony over the temporary separation, he’s really proud of you. I wish you could’ve heard him explain the job to Laura. He’s your biggest fan.”

  I’ve just returned to my hotel room when Max calls, and he jumps right into a conversation like we’ve just hung up from our last one. My head is still spinning from the talk with Jess and seeing the apartment. I sit on the edge of the bed to focus.

  “I’m not sure whether to be furious or to celebrate,” he says.

  “Why, what happened?”

  “Your lawyer, Jackson, just called me about our Paris trip.”

  I feel a fury building. “Are you serious? Why would he call you to talk about Paris without discussing it with me first? I’m his client!”

  “I understand that, but he needed an answer from me first. Before you call and chew him out, let me explain.”

  I take a deep breath. “I’m listening.”

  “I guess the owner of the ArtOneWorld network is tight with the head of the Pompidou, and he reached out to them on our behalf.”

  “Oh, shit. They didn’t mess up your meeting, did they?”

  “Ironically, they did the opposite. I guess this guy convinced his connection that they have big plans for me on the network, and they’d like to include the Pompidou as part of it. Anyway, long story short, they’ve come up with some joint project around the Americans in Paris show, with me as one of the artists.”

  “But I thought you said that being part of that Pompidou show was a long shot.”

  “It was, but now thanks to ArtOneWorld’s proposal, it appears to be decided. So, now our meeting will just be a formality.”

  I’m speechless, and after all the upset of less than an hour ago, I’m still shaky and not sure how to process this news.

  “Hello, Ava? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here. I’m just stunned. Are you okay with this?”

  “Honestly, I’d be an idiot not to be thrilled about it. Look, in many ways art is a business like any other business—people at the top doing deals and manipulating things for mutual benefit. ArtOneWorld had already planned a special on the Pompidou show, and they liked our taped interview, so perhaps they really did have plans for me. Honestly, this is easier to accept, knowing the Pompidou had already contacted me, and I was being considered. Who’s to say they wouldn’t have chosen me to be part of the show anyway?”

  “That’s true.” My mood brightens.

  “So, this means our trip gets pushed back several weeks, and ArtOneWorld has you when they need you during the most critical dates.”

  “And you’re not even mad about it,” I say, teasing him.

  “Other than not seeing much of you before Paris. Your initial schedule is going to be especially heavy, and I have a lot of work I need to get done for the meeting with them.”

  “The price of success,” I say softly with a sigh.

  “As I warned you, but we’ll figure out a weekend or two, and in the meantime, anticipating the week in Paris will take the sting out of the time apart.”

  I love that he’s now the one talking me into how we can make our separation work.

  “I’m so proud of you, and wish I was there so we could celebrate, Max. This is huge for you!”

  “I’m proud of us both. Apparently, you’re my lucky charm.”

  “And you’re mine.”

  Bright and early the next morning, a young man gestures dramatically as I approach him in the hotel lobby. “The fabulous Ava Jacobs!”

  “And you are?” I laugh. With his dazzling smile and devilish look, I can’t help but immediately like this guy.

  “I’m William Remington Worthy the third, but you, my dear, can call me Billy.” He gives me a sweeping bow.

  Definitely gay. His blond hair is parted in the middle and pushed back by the sunglasses on top of his head—all adding to his slamming seventies look. He grins and snaps his gum. I’ve found my first new friend in New York.

  “I’m your production manager and all around go-to guy. If you’re sweet to me, I’ll show you the best way to charm our moody director; I’ll tell you when wardrobe picks out something that makes your ass look big on camera, and I’ll steer you to the best salons for Brazilian waxes. In other words, I’m your flamboyant and essential right hand.”

  I curtsy. “Well, how do you do, Billy? I’m so very pleased to meet you.”

  He loops his arm through mine and walks me out to the waiting car. “I can tell already, we’re going to be best friends!”

  Before he opens the door, he gives me my first piece of advice. “Be nice to Cecilia. If she likes you, your life will be as charmed as a Disney movie. If she doesn’t, it’ll be more like Chucky Returns.”

  I slip into the car next to a woman with a tight ponytail and black thick-framed glasses. She’s texting on her iPhone. She finally looks up.

  “Hi, Cecilia, I’m Ava. Great to meet you.”

  She examines me over the top of her glasses. “You just earned brownie points for being on time. I can’t tell you h
ow much I disdain waiting while the talent curls their eyelashes or whatever the hell they do while I wait.”

  I give her a sincere look. “Well, I was raised to believe that being late is rude.”

  “Great, then we’re going to get along just fine.” She turns back to her vibrating phone, and Billy nudges me and gives me a wink and a smile. And as we whiz along Fifth Avenue, the first blush of hope that things are going to be all right settles over me.

  The day isn’t too rough. We visit the studios we will shoot at tomorrow. Cecilia confirms with the crew where scenes will be staged, while I continue my crash course on the artist’s work and history. I am already familiar with Jarod, the first artist, but the second, Astrid, not so much, other than the reviews of her work I’d read on the Internet.

  Our first day of shooting is intense. With each new challenge, I have to fight back my inner terror. I can’t tell if Cecilia is happy with my work or not, and I try not to let that freak me out. The number of retakes she calls for don’t seem that excessive, but what do I know? I’m sure if I’m not cutting it, they’ll let me know. I just keep telling myself that if I keep my eyes and ears open and ask a lot of questions, I will learn more every day.

  Travis stops by the studio at unexpected times and lingers like a virus you can’t shake. The way he stares at me is unsettling. I can’t get a true sense of what he thinks of me. During one visit to the craft truck to get a bottle of water, I find myself next to him.

  “How’s it going, Travis?”

  He gives me a small smile and cool stare. “You tell me, Ava.”

  What an ass. Can’t he say something encouraging?

  My fingers tighten around the water bottle, but I give him a big smile. “Awesome. I think everything’s going great, thanks!” And then I turn on my heel and return to the set.

  During a break later that day, I impulsively call Nick, my editor from Ransom.

  “Hi, Ava. What’s up?”

  “I just had a moment—it’s kind of hard to explain—but I wanted to thank you.”

  “Thank me? Are you okay? How’s the show going?”