Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  “Yeah, I can see how it complicates things. Of course this is L.A. and everyone sleeps with everyone. It’s how business is done. Well, be careful, baby. Take your time until you know what’s best for you.”

  As we pull up to my apartment, he says. “Too bad you can’t combine Jonathan and his hot desire with Max, your friendship, and his stunning looks . . . then you’d really have the dream boyfriend.”

  “You’ve got that right,” I say and sigh as I hug him good-night.

  The next day is slower at the gallery, and I find myself thinking about Max too often for my own good. I wonder if he’s purchased a new camera yet and if we’re still going to Huntington Gardens this weekend. I’m curious if he’s started working on the thrift shop paintings series. I can’t wait to see what he does.

  Will he be at the Getty event on Friday? If so, what’ll he think when he sees me with Jonathan? And I keep wondering with dread, who he’ll come with if he does go. My mind reels with the possibilities.

  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

  My 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 a
ny 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?”

  “How about a portrait of Jess in her crazy studio?”

  “No, I’m not painting Jess . . . it would make her big head swell even bigger. Hmm, I know . . . who was that artist that painted the naked girls and had them roll around on his raw canvas?”

  I have a wicked smile, sensing what’s coming. “Oh yeah, I can’t remember his name either.”

  “Well, you could come over and we could do that.”

  “Watch it, buster.” I’m playfully stern. “Besides, I’m not allowed in your studio, remember?”

  “Oh, I’d make an exception for that,” he says with a mock serious tone.

  “Hey, wasn’t this supposed to be my painting? I think you should be the one naked and rolling around on my—what did you call it—raw canvas?”

  “We could do it together.”

  I almost choke. “Ahh, you’re getting me all hot and bothered. I’m going to need a cold shower when you’re done.”

  “Well, if you had a boyfriend, you wouldn’t need a cold shower.”

  “Am I hearing correctly? Is Maxfield Caswell giving me relationship advice?” But before he can respond, I quickly change the subject. “By the way, I was at Jess’s yesterday and saw the shelves you put up for her. That was very sweet of you. She also told me that you’re letting her and Laura hold their wedding at your house.”

  “Yeah, well I’m not always an asshole.”

  “Funny, that’s exactly what Jess said.”

  “Besides, I can’t stand seeing that crazy crap all over her studio floor. I have no idea how she gets anything done in there.”

  “Yeah, it’s crazy all right. Do you know she asked me to be her maid of honor for the wedding?”

  “Is she going to make you wear one of those ugly synthetic bridesmaid dresses?” He knows Jess better than that, but he’s being provocative.

  “Hopefully hoop skirts will be involved.”

  We laugh together and, as the minutes pass, our conversation rambles. I close my laptop, turn down my lights and stretch out on my bed. My cell phone battery gives me a warning, and I look over at my clock. We’ve been talking for almost two hours. I yawn and burrow further into my pillows.

  “Hey, sleepyhead, it sounds like it’s your bedtime.”

  “I’ll have you know that I got in bed over an hour ago. But I’m pretty tired . . . so I’ll let you get back to your painting.”

  “Okay, Ava, sleep tight.”

  There’s a long pause as if neither of us wants to hang up.

  “Good-night, Max,” I whisper, my eyes already half closed. “It was really fun talking to you tonight.”

  “Hmm,” he hums. “Good-night, angel.”

  As my eyes fall shut, a con
tented feeling descends over me. I’m lured to a peaceful dreamland void of art groupies and bitchy editors . . . just Max, me, and all the warm feelings nestled between us.

  The next morning, I wake up in a really good mood. The weather’s great, unusually warm for April. It’ll be nice for our outing to the Huntington Gardens tomorrow. I have to admit, my long conversation last night with Max left me uninspired about seeing Jonathan tonight, but while I take my morning shower, I still plan what I’m going to wear this evening.

  That evening, when I pull up to Spago, Wolfgang Puck’s flagship restaurant in Beverly Hills, the attendent drives Jonathan’s car away. He waits as I finish up with the valet. I can tell he’s appraising me, his gaze moving over me from head-to-toe as I approach. As I step up to him, he nods and his face lights up with a smile. I feel a flush work its way up from the top of my breasts, trailing along my neck and up to my cheeks.

  “You look lovely, Ava,” he murmurs. He rests his hand on my shoulder and kisses me on each cheek. When we move inside, the host immediately takes us to a table. There’s a floor-to-ceiling glass wall where you can watch the executive chef and team perform their magic in the kitchen.

  We make small talk, and after reviewing the menu, Jonathan orders a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. He orders salmon, while I choose scallops, and we agree to share an endive and apple salad to start. I have to admit, his confidence and command are very sexy.

  He notices me watching him and peers over his tortoise-shell glasses. “A penny for your thoughts, Ms. Jacobs.”

  “Do you eat here frequently? I get the sense that everyone knows you.”

  “Yes, it’s one of my favorites.” He tucks some loose strands of my hair behind my ear and gently caresses my earlobe before resting his hand on the table.

  A shiver runs down my back.