Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  “My dad’s class ring and gold watch. Grandma’s pearl earrings. Oh . . .” I sink further, as if an invisible weight is pushing down on my shoulders. “The last thing I put in there was a letter from my mom.”

  He tips his head to the side with a curious expression. “Is she still alive?”

  I let out a long sigh. “I have no idea.”

  I take another sip of my wine. I don’t want to talk about my mom right now. Max waits patiently and I’m hoping he won’t ask what I may not be ready to tell.

  “There was so little to hold onto . . . and now it’s been taken. It feels like my past has been stolen. None of my things will mean anything to the thieves. It’s only cash to them. But I’d give anything to have it back.”

  More tears fall, but I’m calmer now that I’ve finished. It’s cathartic to let it all out.

  Max reaches over and pulls me close. He rubs my arm and runs his fingers through my hair. As we sit silently, his touch relaxes me and my eyelids grow heavy as the exhaustion of unleashing so much emotion hits me.

  “You know Ava,” he finally says, “I had no idea what you’ve been through.” He shakes his head. “And I’m so sorry for what you’ve lost tonight.”

  Instinctively, I slide closer.

  “But do you know what’s most significant about what you’ve told me? Your memories of your family are what’s important, not the stuff they left you. You’re lucky because they loved you, and they had a chance to tell you. Losing the letters doesn’t take any of that away. You’ll always have the memory of what they said in those letters, and they’ll always live in your heart. You don’t need the stuff to know it’s true.”

  And even though I don’t want to hear that now, somewhere deep in my heart a tiny part of me knows he’s right. We stay on the couch, and as Max quietly comforts me, my eyes finally close and I fall into a deep exhausted sleep.

  When I wake, it’s dark and I hear the sound of the ocean in the distance. I sit up, but don’t recognize my surroundings. The T-shirt I’m wearing isn’t mine, so I check a little more. At least the bra and panties are mine. Where are my clothes? The memory of Max holding me on the couch comes back. Did he change me and put me to bed? I’m horrified and I break out in a cold sweat. The feeling is unnerving and familiar, and my heart starts racing wildly. Recognizing the signs of a panic attack coming on, I take deep breaths to calm myself. I get out of bed to see if I can find Max.

  I step into a hallway with a terra-cotta tiled floor, dimly lit with old wrought-iron light fixtures. There are large paintings on each wall. At the end of the hall are double doors made of intricately carved dark wood. They’re just open enough for me to stick my head through and look inside.

  A dim light in the corner allows me to take in the details of the room. French doors are wide open and its sheer curtains flutter in a cool breeze that carries the sound of the ocean inside. In the middle of the room is a large four-poster bed with heavy velvet drapes hanging on the sides. Despite the carvings on the bed frame and the velvet curtains, the decor is very masculine.

  When I spy Max, I sigh. He’s covered with sheets, but I can still see he sleeps with abandon. He’s diagonal on the bed, his arms outstretched and his wild hair a halo against the pale pillow. I slowly walk to the edge of the bed. To see him like this—so peaceful, so beautiful, stirs something inside of me.

  “Max . . . Max,” I say, trying not to startle him awake, and wait a moment before I try again. After I’ve said his name a dozen times, he finally opens his eyes.

  “Ava,” he says groggily and looks at the clock. “Are you okay?”

  “Sorry to wake you, but . . . I’m trying to fight off a panic attack. I’m so shook up from what happened.”

  “Of course you are,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Can I get you something? Do you want me to sit up with you?”

  “No, but would it be okay if I stay in here while you sleep? Maybe I could lie on the other side of the bed?” I ask meekly.

  “Sure . . . as long as you’re comfortable with that. Why don’t you try to get more sleep too?” He scoots over to the right side of the bed and lifts the sheets and blanket on the other side so I can get in. When I sink down into the bed, I marvel at how soft the sheets are. I sigh, immediately feeling so much better with him near.

  He settles back down and I lie there, frozen by the tension floating between us.

  “Are you okay?” he finally whispers.

  “Yeah, I guess I’m still nervous. I’ll be fine.” I roll onto my side, facing the open French doors to let the ocean breeze soothe me.

  “Come here,” he says quietly. He curls his arm around my waist and pulls me to him until we’re spooning. As he holds me, he caresses my head and whispers in my ear, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Everything’s okay.”

  Being in his arms and feeling safe and cared for is heavenly. I settle into a deep, calm sleep.

  When I wake up, I feel rested, despite the night I endured. The ocean air is healing and this bed’s probably the best I’ve ever slept in. I amuse myself remembering Riley’s prediction that I would be in Max’s bed sooner than I thought. I don’t think this is what she had in mind though.

  I turn toward Max, but his spot is empty. I feel a little abandoned without him here, but then decide it makes the morning less awkward not to have to wake up in his arms and then try to compose myself. There’s a note on his pillow.

  Went for a run on the beach, be back soon.

  -M

  Peeling the sheets back and stepping out of bed, I take a long stretch. I decide to find the kitchen and see if he’s made any coffee.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I stand under the arch leading into an open room. Floor to ceiling shelves full of books line the walls, and there’s a large fireplace on the left wall. French doors open to the front garden and provide a direct view of the koi pond and fountain. On one side of the room, an oversized antique wooden desk covered with piles of papers, books and an Apple laptop is angled to look out on the garden.

  An old Asian rug frames the sitting area that has a pair of oversized worn leather chairs facing the fireplace. I almost swoon. This is my fantasy room. I can imagine sitting here for hours with a favorite book, the fire roaring and the French doors just parted so I can hear the water cascading into the pond. I wonder if Max realizes how lucky he is to live here.

  I wander around a bit more until I find the kitchen, and note that everywhere I look there are piles of books, both art and literature. I have to wonder how the busy artist and party boy has time to read.

  I’m rewarded with a pot of coffee already brewed. I help myself to a mug, and then wander out on the patio facing the beach. Leaning on the railing, I gaze at the ocean and watch a kayaker cut across the low horizon. Something catches my eye and I focus on the water in time to see two dolphins leap out of the water and dive in again. They repeat the motion three times with incredible grace until the water is quiet again.

  Finally, I gaze along the shore, taking in the jagged, rocky coastline of Malibu. The beach is still quiet except for a lone jogger gracefully moving my direction as he runs along the water’s edge. As he comes closer, I recognize him. Max is barefoot, wearing a pair of navy board shorts and apparently nothing else. I watch him run up to the beach in front of the house. He stops and stretches for a moment, and then I lose sight of him as he moves to the gate leading up to the houses.

  He bounds into the kitchen and stops when he sees me leaning against the kitchen counter.

  He smiles. “Hey sleepyhead. I see you found the coffee.”

  I’m desperately trying to regain my focus to answer him. It’s one thing to see Max partially disrobed at a distance on the beach. But the sight of him so close with a thin glistening layer of sweat across his beautifully-defined body combined with the bright look in his eyes and color in his cheeks renders me speechless.

  Finally, I manage to ask, “How was your run?”

  His smile widens. “Great, it
’s a beautiful morning, perfect weather.” He takes a mug from the cupboard and fills it with coffee. “How are you feeling this morning?” His expression softens as he studies my face.

  I run my fingers through my bed hair. “Well, much better than last night. I’m really sorry I woke you up in the middle of the night, but I slept so much better. I hope you were able to go back to sleep.”

  “I slept like a baby.”

  I feel my cheeks turn red and he smiles.

  He refills his water bottle at the sink. “I’ve already mixed up some pancake batter. Let me jump in the shower and then I’ll make breakfast.”

  “Shower,” I repeat, distracted with the idea of Max naked with water flowing over him.

  “Care to join me?” he teases playfully.

  I grin. “Join you? Oh my, Max.”

  He backs out of the room, his hands outstretched. “Last chance!” he teases and then he heads upstairs.

  I sit down in the booth at the end of the kitchen facing the patio, drink my coffee and consider running upstairs to surprise Max in the shower, but then the darkness starts to settle in my mind, and I wonder how many of the art groupies have been in that shower with him. Suddenly, the idea loses all of its appeal. But I still allow myself the luxury of picturing him in the steam, rubbing soap all over his body before the water rushes over him.

  Minutes later, he’s back in the kitchen taking a griddle out of the cupboard and removing various ingredients from the fridge. He has a perfect command of the kitchen. As I look around, I note a big bowl of fruit and various well-used cooking appliances.

  “Was your mom a good cook?”

  “Yeah, she loved to cook and she always took me with her to the local farmers markets. She wanted me to know how to cook too. I guess she figured it would make me more desirable to the female population.”

  “Like you needed help in that area.”

  He smiles. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  After we finish stacks of pancakes with bacon and drink our orange juice, I ask him if he has a picture of his mom. I follow him into the living room and he takes a framed black and white print off the mantle.

  “It’s my favorite,” he says softly as he hands me the picture. It’s a photograph of Max and his mom on the beach. He looks to be about twelve or thirteen and she has her arm draped over his shoulder. What’s most striking is the photographer caught them laughing as they look at each other, and you can feel how much they love each other. They’re both good-looking, but they aren’t posing like models. They’re just happy and laughing, enjoying each other.

  It takes my breath away to realize he had that, and now she’s gone. From the various things he’s said, she obviously adored him and made choices in her life for the benefit of Max. She was a beautiful woman, but what mattered was Max and being a good mom. My mom was like that once. We’ve both lost so much.

  “She’s beautiful, Max,” I sigh, handing the photo back. “You can tell in this photo how much you two adore each other.”

  He nods silently and carefully sets it back on the mantle.

  “Is it hard living here since this was her home once too?” I feel bold asking him this, but everything in this house tells me something about Max, and I want to learn more.

  “You know, even though she decided to raise me in the city, she loved this house and put a lot of herself into it. As a matter of fact, this is where she primarily lived after I went to college.

  In the beginning, the first couple of years after she died, I kept everything the same. I guess it was a shrine, and I couldn’t bear to let anything go. But I realized it kept me in a state of mourning. It was time to move forward. I changed a lot of the interior and hung new art, both my friends’ and mine. All the changes made it easier. But as for the house itself, I find comfort in the connection I have with her here. She loved this place . . . designed the garden and put so much love into this house. I feel it whenever I’m here.”

  I look into his eyes and offer him a tender smile. It hits me how much he’s shared—deeply personal thoughts I imagine he’s shared with very few people, if anyone. And although he’s avoiding getting physically intimate with me, I take comfort in the thought that I’m becoming an important friend. He certainly proved what kind of friend he could be last night.

  I look down at my makeshift nightgown and decide it’s time to get dressed.

  “Where are my clothes?”

  “They’re in the top dresser drawer in the guestroom,” he answers, revealing nothing.

  “I’m so embarrassed that you had to change me and I didn’t even wake up enough to know it.” I look down.

  He huffs. “You should be embarrassed. That outfit was pretty damn tight . . . I had a hard time getting it off. And that lingerie . . . where did you go last night dressed like that anyway?”

  I turn red. “I met Jonathan for drinks to talk about the book.”

  “You wore that to meet Jonathan?” His eyebrows knit together and his hands tighten into fists.

  His tone feels like he’s implying I did something wrong.

  “What the fuck is wrong with his office anyway? You guys always go out for drinks. Is he hitting on you?”

  I blush even more thinking about Jonathan and his seductive talk, but that’s the last thing I’d tell Max. “We’ve only met three times, and once was in his office! Besides, why does it matter?”

  “I don’t like it and I don’t trust him.”

  “That’s rich coming from you.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Look at you and your art groupies. What are your intentions with them? Should you be trusted?”

  He glares at me silently.

  “Seriously, tell me . . . who are you to pass judgment on Jonathan’s intentions?” My anger builds and my mouth won’t stop moving. “I know what this is. You have no interest in me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me because then your angel won’t be around to watch over you.”

  As soon as I say it, I feel really bad considering the guy just spent most of the last twenty-four hours taking care of me. I desperately wish I could take it back.

  He looks like I’ve kicked his puppy and my stomach sinks with regret.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, Max. I’m just so freaked out about things right now.”

  “Forget it,” he mumbles.

  Great. He’s shut down.

  “Look, I have work to do. So why don’t you get ready and I’ll drive you home. I already spoke with Dylan this morning and he’s going to arrive at your apartment when Riley does. They’re going to be there by two. Jay dropped off the keys and temporary alarm code this morning.” He turns away.

  We both remain silent as I head upstairs.

  The silence continues as Max deftly maneuvers his Porsche through the winding canyons above Malibu. By the time we’re on the freeway shooting toward L.A., I’m feeling even more like an ungrateful bitch. I finally gather up my courage to speak.

  “Max?”

  Silence.

  “I feel awful about what I said . . . I just don’t understand why you jumped all over me for my meeting with Jonathan. But I don’t care about that right now.”

  I look at him and he glances my way before turning back to the road. At least he’s listening.

  “I can’t or won’t ever forget what you did for me last night. I was in such a state and you dropped everything to help me.”

  Dropped. I smile inwardly at the picture I’ve painted of his date, the assumed art groupies, being dropped—hopefully from a high elevation. I can’t seem to help feeling jealous when it comes to him. I look at Max and refocus.

  “You were kind, and took such good care of me. That says so much about the kind of person you are, not the famous artist, but the person you are inside.”

  His face relaxes and he takes a deep breath. I hope he’s considering what I’ve said.

  I take a chance and touch his shoulder. “I’m sorry
, Max. Please forgive me.”

  He clears his throat. “Just so you know, I think you’re overstating the womanizing thing.”

  “Okay. Maybe I assumed wrong about the girl you were with when we talked on the phone last night.”

  He purses his lips and shakes his head. “You think you have me all figured out, but I think you just don’t understand me.”

  “You’re right about that. I don’t understand you. I guess I’m pushing because there’s something about you that makes me believe you’re much more than who you present to the world. The party-boy artist with little regard for women . . . I don’t think that’s the man Elizabeth raised.”

  He’s silent, but his fingers tighten over the stick shift as he focuses on the road.

  I turn and watch the scenery blur by.

  He clears his throat and says, “How about this—I think we should call a truce. I have to admit that, as guilty as I’ve felt about all that you’ve done for me since we met, maybe last night helped even up the score a little.”

  I nod. “I’ll say, but don’t be expecting any thank-you paintings. I don’t have your talent so, unless unintentionally primitive art is your thing, I’ll have to think of something else.”

  “Well, how about if you write something . . . something about me—like for an art book? That more than evens things out.”

  I smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

  When he pulls up to my apartment, he hands me the keys and alarm instructions.

  “Will you be okay?” he asks tentatively.

  “Yes, I think so. Thanks.” I hug him, pressing my face into the curve of his neck. He softens a little as I hold him.

  As I step out of the car, he says, “You know, Ava, I’m glad you called me last night . . . and that I could be there for you.”

  I turn back and, with a grateful smile, I gaze at my beautiful, hopelessly complicated friend.

  “Me too, Max. Me too.”

  Chapter Thirteen / Get a Clue

  Those are my principles, and if you don’t like them . . . well, I have others.