Becoming His Muse, Part Three

by KC Martin

I give her a strange look. “You’re advising me to wait until my father ‘dies off’?”

  “No, just his kind. With those particular values and standards. Act as if they don’t matter.”

  “I have been. Look where it’s gotten me.” I wave my arm to encompass my surroundings.

  “Hey! I like my run down brownstone.”

  “You know what I mean. Alone, ostracized, and sleeping on the couch in my cousin’s den. This is not how I thought I’d end up.”

  “This isn’t the end, Ava. You’ll have your come back.”

  I harrumph and turn the TV on.

  ***

  Toward the end of the week, I still haven’t made much progress on my come back.

  Sometime after lunch on Wednesday, Thursday or Friday, I don’t even know which day it is, Tess interrupts my TV marathon. I barely stir from my nest of cushions and pillows.

  “Ava, there’s someone who looks a lot like George Clooney downstairs.”

  “He doesn’t know I’m here.”

  Tess laughs and chucks a pillow at my head. “I’m glad your sense of humour is coming back but I am being serious. Who is that guy?”

  “George Clooney? He’s an actor who—

  “—Ava!”

  I slowly drag myself up from my prone position on the couch. Tess grabs the remote and turns off Storage Wars.

  “You might want to brush your hair,” she says.

  I don’t even bother to tie up the terry cloth robe I borrowed. It hangs open over my Sponge Bob Square Pants pajamas, also borrowed.

  “I don’t need to impress anyone, even if it is George Clooney.” And I know it’s not, but as I head toward the foyer, it occurs to me who it might be.

  Outside on the cement landing stands a man in a suit carrying two envelopes. I open the door. He turns.

  “Hello, Lowell.”

  “Wow. Ava.” He looks me up and down. “I suppose I should have expected something like this.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Why?”

  “Can I come in?”

  I push the door open wider and then shuffle toward the tiny living room off to the right. Lowell closes the door behind him.

  “Lisle sends her regards.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And Sukira has been wondering why you haven’t visited her at her studio yet.”

  I shrug before plopping down in the overstuffed and very threadbare plush velvet armchair. Lowell sits in the middle of the couch across from me.

  I suppose I should be curious about why he’s here — like, why would he bother to come all the way from New York? Surely, not to convey Lisle’s regards or to repeat Sukira’s invitation — but the fog I’ve been in for days is slow to lift.

  He sets his two envelopes on the chipped coffee table and looks around the room. “Reminds me of my college days,” he says with a sigh.

  “I imagine the memory of college days is far more pleasant than the days themselves.”

  He stares at me for a minute or two and then folds his hands in his lap. “Do you know how long I’ve known Logan O’Shane?”

  I don’t move a muscle but I feel a whole sub-skin reaction throughout my body when I hear his name.

  “Ten years.”

  Lowell looks around the room, but he doesn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. It’s as if he’s looking into the past. He smiles.

  “Boy, did he have a chip on his shoulder when I first met him. It’s still there, but it’s softened and filled in considerably.” He makes eye contact with me. “He used to be a big drinker, but I helped him tone that down. I saw his talent back then, and I could foresee him ruining it if he kept going down the destructive path he was on.”

  He pauses before continuing. “One thing about Logan is that when he makes a change, he sticks to it. With my help, he stopped binge drinking years ago. And he managed to quit smoking this past year. I think you had a lot to do with that.” He smiles at me now.

  “What’s your point, Lowell? That Logan’s capable of change even though he hates it?”

  “A little bit.”

  I sit up straighter and ask, “How did you find me?”

  With a slightly embarrassed bark of laughter he says, “Well… Let’s see. First I went to meet with your Dean.”

  “Dean Ascott, why?”

  “I’ll tell you about that in a minute. He wasn’t terribly helpful. At least not until he left the office to get something and I managed to get a look at your file.”

  “You looked at my college records?”

  “Only to get an address.”

  “My address? Why?”

  “I’m getting to that, just give me a sec. Of course, he wouldn’t give me your home address so I snuck a peek—”

  “—You went to my house?”

  I’m sitting up in my chair now, a hand on each of the arm rests. I can’t picture Lowell and my father meeting face to face.

  “I was planning to but—”

  “—Why?”

  “Ava, will you let me finish a sentence?”

  “Oh, sorry.” As I fold my hands in my lap and try to be patient, I notice I am wearing Sponge Bob pajamas. I start to blush with embarrassment, but it’s a little too late for that. I attempt to pull the robe closed to cover those crazy googly eyes, which must be a little distracting to the impeccably dressed agent sitting across from me.

  “In the end I didn’t have to go to your house because someone came to me.”

  “Someone?”

  “A lovely young man by the name of Warren Simmonds.”

  “What?”

  Lowell nods. “Apparently, he contacted Logan’s publisher in an effort to reach him and they put him in touch with me. He explained what he wanted—”

  “—Which was what?”

  Lowell holds up a hand to shut me up. I bite my lip.

  “It turned out that we both wanted the same thing.” Before I can interrupt again he says, “Some kind of reconciliation between you and Logan.”

  I’m very confused. “Warren wants that?”

  Lowell appraises me again and sighs heavily. “I think what he wants is for you to get back on track, to be happy again, and maybe get dressed before noon like other people.”

  Tess must be giving Warren daily reports behind my back. I haven’t returned any of his calls so maybe I’m partly to blame.

  As Lowell adjusts his tie, I pull my borrowed robe tightly across my chest and purse my lips. “This is not my finest moment. I’m well aware of that.”

  “The same is true for Logan. I’ve never seen him in such a state.”

  Despite my best efforts to remain detached, I feel an inkling of curiosity. As I let it rise to the surface it grows in intensity until it becomes concern, and then it expands like a rash until I’m at the brink of the love I’ve been suppressing for weeks.

  With a catch in my voice, I say, “I don’t care.”

  Lowell raises an eyebrow. I know I don’t sound very convincing. I turn away and bite my thumbnail. Quietly, I say, “I don’t want to care.”

  “Look, Ava. I know that what’s gone down has been painful, embarrassing on so many levels, has strained your relationship with your family, put your degree in jeopardy, and possibly shattered your love for Logan and your dreams of moving to New York.”

  I look at him, feeling a fiery temper uncurling in my belly. “What do you know of my love or my dreams? Did you hear it from him? Well, he stomped all over everything I cared about.” My voice is rising in pitch. “I know about Jesse, Lowell. And the baby. Tell him that when you see him next. Tell him he’s a liar and a cheat and—”

  “Jesse Myers? That’s old history, Ava.”

  “Not that old. And he kept it a secret.”

  “On purpose? I don’t see why he would.”

  “Because he’s a cowardly, lying seducer, that’s why.”

  Lowell sighs and shakes his head. “I didn’t realize you were so angry, Ava.”

  I cross my arms a
nd scowl.

  “Do you even know why you haven’t heard from him?”

  “Because he’s a selfish, exploitative bastard! He left me, Lowell. He just ran away!” I start to shake and tremble, with rage or despair I’m not quite sure. Maybe both. “That night Derrick and Casey played their stupid video and when I turned around, he was gone. At that terrible moment, he wasn’t there for me.”

  But Warren was. He was my rock that night. And Ruby helped me. And my cousin Tess has seen me through these dark, foggy days. Where has Logan been?

  “It’s partly my fault, Ava,” says Lowell quietly and seriously. He clears his throat. “I called him that night. Because his mother died. I had him booked on a flight to Florida at midnight.”

  “What?” I freeze with disbelief. That’s not possible. In a squeaky voice, I say, “The night of my art show?”

  Lowell nods. “Brain aneurism. Logan was devastated.” Suddenly I feel terrible. Terribly, horribly, emotionally selfish. An ache spreads through my body as this news penetrates my awareness.

  “But why didn’t he tell me. Why didn’t he call?” I whisper.

  “You truly don’t know?” Lowell searches my eyes, seemingly surprised to find me so confused.

  I shake my head and watch him quizzically. I could understand if Logan was devastated and grieving. Maybe he didn’t want to talk to anyone.

  Lowell leans forward.

  “Your father, with his legal finesse, managed to get a restraining order to keep Logan away from you.”

  “What?” Now I’m sitting straight up in my chair.

  Lowell holds up his hands. “The last thing I want to do is add more strain to your family dynamics, but you need to know that he would have tried seeing you or calling you if he could have.”

  I am shocked. My anger bubbles back to the surface and this time it’s directed at my father.

  “You came all this way to tell me that?”

  “Partly. But there’s something else I need your help with. Oh, and I brought you a letter.”

  I inch forward. “From Logan?”

  He nods. The thought of a letter from Logan is like a lifeline and I feel my fingers twitch in anticipation of holding it. I glance at the large envelopes on the table, wondering which one contains the letter.

  “Even a letter breaches the restraining order so you have to promise to keep it secret.”

  “I’m good at that.” I’m anxious to read the letter, but Lowell also said there’s something he needs my help with.

  “There’s another reason you’re here?”

  “Yes, the matter closest to my heart. Apparently, the college, represented by the firm Nichols, Baines and Woodrow is suing our publisher to claim the rights to Logan’s novel.”

  My ears perk up. That’s my father’s firm.

  “Why?”

  “They think they have a case because Logan wrote most of the manuscript on campus while in their employ. It’s not as if they plan to do anything with the manuscript. It’s his best work to date and they want to bury it.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” No doubt my father’s the mastermind behind that suit, in cahoots with Dean Ascott. My anger and indignation are beginning to solidify inside me.

  “Logan’s in such a bad state he says he doesn’t care, he’ll just write another book, but I care. This book is good, Ava. It’s important.”

  He pushes the thick envelope toward me and says, “I brought you a set of galleys, in case you’re interested.”

  “Galleys?”

  “It’s the last proofed copy before the manuscript goes to the printer.”

  I look at the thick envelope. Inside is the story that Logan was working on the whole time we were together?

  Lowell reaches for the other, thinner envelope and opens it. A white business envelope slips out when he removes some pages. I wonder if the white envelope is my letter. I call on all my patience not to seize it and rip it open immediately.

  Lowell scans the pages he’s holding. “These here are the early reviews for the new book.”

  He reads selected lines.

  “O’Shane’s most daring and provocative work to date.”

  “Surprisingly, full of genuine heart.”

  “Expect the unexpected here. Still as raw and forceful a talent as ever he was, but softer edges are at play, and a sense of hope we’ve not yet seen.”

  “Award-winning writing.”

  “The character of Anna is fascinating and shows a whole new depth of character development from this already accomplished writer.”

  I open the thick envelope. Inside is a bound sheaf of 81/2 by 11 pages that I have to turn sideways to read, as each page shows two book pages. I flip a few pages and alight on the dedication.

  To A.N, who inspired every sentence you are about to read. And opened my locked heart.

  I feel a lump in my throat. It’s not until I push the bound sheaf away that I notice the title: Stealing Stars.

  “I don’t know if I can read this.”

  “You don’t have to,” says Lowell. “But based on the early press, the public, Logan’s fans, deserve the opportunity to read it. It’s good, Ava. Really good. You should be proud of yourself.”

  “Me?”

  “We both know Logan wouldn’t have reached this calibre if he hadn’t met you.”

  “I can’t take the credit for his work. He did it. They’re all his words.”

  “But they are inspired words. Will you help me get them into readers’ hands?”

  “What can I do?”

  “I don’t know. Talk to your father, or Dean Ascott?”

  I nod. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lowell stands up and re-buttons his jacket. “I should go. I’ve got to get the next train back to the city.” He leaves the pages and envelopes on the coffee table but picks up the white envelope.

  “Your secret letter,” he says, handing it to me. I clutch the precious rectangle.

  “Did he say anything about me when he gave it to you?”

  Lowell meets my questioning gaze. “Whenever I’ve mentioned your name this past week he has the same cryptic response: “the muse has to choose.” That’s all he ever says.”

  Lowell opens the door, ready to head out, but then he turns back. “Oh, something odd happened the other day. He tossed his Fedora off the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  He shrugs in a what-do-you-make-of that kind of way and then walks down the steps.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  I climb into my unmade bed and carefully peel open the white envelope. My heart skips a beat when I see Logan’s handwriting. I remember the first time I saw it scrawled inside his signed book.

  Before I read the words, I look at the shape of the letters. Row upon row of inky waves undulate across the page. The images of his words to me. Containing the voice of his heart, I hope. I focus my eyes on each letter, the way they are arranged in certain sequences to make words, and I begin to read.

  Dear Ava,

  I’m sitting at my desk in my apartment in Soho. Outside the window, tree branches arc and unfurl their leaves. These branches were covered in snow when we were last here together. Not here, exactly. We didn’t look out this particular window together, and I’m sorry for that. I want to tell you why.

  Up until last week someone else was living here. A woman names Jesse Myers. I ran away from her like I ran away from you. I’m very sorry on both counts, but for very different reasons.

  Jesse and I lived together for six years. Nearly a year ago, she told me she was pregnant with my child, a child I didn’t want, which I know sounds terrible but was true. I did not want to be a father. I couldn’t stand the idea that there was any chance at all I might end up like my father. Jesse knew this. She still wanted the baby. So I suggested we get married. We went through the early motions, but neither of us were happy.

  I’m sorry I never told you this. I probably should have, but I felt as if I were being given a
chance to start over when I went away to teach, and when I met you.

  When Jesse miscarried, I was secretly relieved, which I know sounds terrible but was true. She knew it. She knew I was broken. I think she hoped that having a baby might fix me, change me, help me move past the past. We argued for weeks, talked about breaking up, and then I had to go away to give this reading at your college. It was a relief to get out of the city, away from Jesse and our broken relationship, which we both knew was unsalvageable. When Dean Ascott offered me the position as writer-in-residence, I jumped at the chance to avoid going home. It sounds cowardly, I know. And for that I’m sorry.

  It was Jesse I was talking to outside the gallery at Sukira Lyn’s opening. I had a chance to tell her I was sorry. I had a chance to tell her about you. She’s the reason we didn’t stay at my apartment. I told her she could stay there while I was away teaching and writing. She’s gone now. She’s with another man now, a man who’s not afraid to have a child.

  My mother died, Ava. My mother died and I wanted to run to your arms and cry into your breast and let all of the burdens of the past fall from my shoulders. But by then mayhem had broken out at the gallery, Warren had his arms around you, and Lowell had booked me a plane ticket that I needed to race to make. By the time I’d been to the hospital and the funeral home, I’d been notified of the restraining order. I called Dean Ascott and tried to take the blame for everything. I never wanted you hurt by any of this. I’m used to hurt. I wanted to take it all on. I was more than willing to be the bad guy if it meant you could be free of shame and blame. But that’s never how it goes. Everybody ends up hurting.

  I don’t blame your father for hating me. I understand he wants to protect his only daughter, but he should know I’m not a danger to you. I won’t bother you again after this letter. Leave the restraining order in place if you like. Maybe it’s a good thing. It will keep me from breaking a promise to myself. My promise to never bind your wings, to let you fly free and be the amazing woman you are.

  I may have been the teacher and you the student but I know I learned more from you than you ever could have learned from me. You changed me, Ava. You made me a better man. You made me want to be a better man. And that’s why I left. Because I can’t be a better man. I’m too broken. That part of me didn’t change. What did change is that I know it now, and I will not seek to break others anymore. I’m sorry if I broke you. Some of the things I said and did were so rough, so arrogant, so much more about protecting myself than trusting you. I’m sorry for all of that. You were my last muse. My last and greatest inspiration.