Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  The thought of exploring Santa Fe with Max, Jess, and Joe makes me smile. I think about all of us in New York, and it’s stunning how much has changed in such a short period of time.

  I wind a lock of my hair around my fingers.

  “Max . . . Can I ask you something?”

  “Well, go ahead and ask, and we’ll see if I want to give you an answer.”

  “Are you on antidepressants or something now?”

  There’s a long pause. “Why do you ask?”

  “I was thinking about something Dylan said—how different you are since you’ve come back. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it if you are.”

  He pauses. “Yes, I am. It took a while for the effects to kick in though, so I’m just now starting to feel the benefit. They’re definitely taking the edge off.”

  “That’s good. I’m glad they’re helping.”

  “You know, I’ve tried them in the past, and they either didn’t help or they made things worse. One round turned me into a zombie. I wasn’t acting crazy, but I was completely flattened out . . . it took away all my creative energy. I couldn’t stand it. This time, Ann found a real good psychopharmacist who’s worked with my psychiatrist to put me on a lower dose of a new drug that doesn’t fuck with my art. I’ll just have to see how it goes, ’cause I don’t want to stay on this stuff forever.”

  I smile, glad he trusts me with such private information. “Sounds like you’re in good hands.”

  “I am. Look, I understand why you’re curious, Ava, and for the record, I’d rather have you ask questions than to wonder and never ask. Is there anything else you’d like to know . . . anything else you’ve heard?”

  I don’t want to lie to avoid upsetting him. “I’ve heard stuff.”

  He takes a deep breath. “Okay, let’s talk about it.”

  “When you disappeared, I heard about possible disorders, mental stuff . . .”

  “Asperger’s? Bi-polar? Manic depressive? All of the above?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “I’m a case. But I don’t want a diagnosis in the Asperger’s spectrum or anything else to define me. It may make some things harder, and I have my low points, but it’s nothing I can’t overcome. Do you believe me?”

  “I believe in you.”

  “Good. I want you to know that my being better isn’t just the medication. I’m also trying really hard to focus on what I care about now and have a purpose.”

  “Yes, a purpose.” I’m really happy he sounds so positive.

  “And I’m working really hard on being happy. It sounds crazy doesn’t it—working hard to be happy. I need to stay away from the things that bring me down or get me off track, and spend time with the things and people that mean the most to me. On that note, are you free Sunday?”

  My heart sinks, remembering my plans with Jonathan. “Actually, I have plans on Sunday, but let’s plan another day.”

  “Okay, well maybe next weekend.” His tone is deflated, and he gets off the phone quickly.

  God, I feel bad about bursting his bubble when he’s doing so well. One step forward, two steps back.

  Friday morning, Brian calls me into his office. “Ava, you have got to see the pictures from Wednesday night. Thomas and I had such a blast!”

  I look at his laptop screen. “Remind me what that was? You go to so many functions, I can hardly keep up.”

  “I know, I live such a fabulous life!” He laughs while he clicks through the photos. It looks like every model and young actress in Hollywood was there. “It’s that new show at MOCA, The Collision of Art and Fashion. It’s such a great idea, even if it’s probably just a thinly-veiled ruse to up ticket sales in this lagging economy.”

  I pull up a chair.

  “Girlfriend, look at this shot of Thomas with Kate Moss!”

  “No way, I love her!” I lean in closer. This is Max’s dream event—the type of opening he would attend and be photographed with models or actresses. My heartbeat accelerates.

  “So, did you see Max there?” I ask, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

  “Funny you should mention Max. I knew he was back, and I was sure he’d be there. But I never saw him, not even in the event photos. Let’s see if we can find him.”

  The anxiety as he clicks on each photo is indescribable. I’m convinced as every image pops up on the screen that I’ll see him with his arm around some beautiful creature. But by the time we get to the end of the website’s post on the event, it’s clear he hadn’t attended, for he certainly would’ve been photographed.

  Brian clucked. “Well, what do you know? The Romeo of the art world has been put out to pasture.”

  “One night off does not a retired art-babe pursuer make,” I point out, trying not to feel too hopeful.

  “I suppose you’re right, but if there was ever a party the old Max would’ve been the life of, this was it. The pretty ladies were drinking and dancing on the tables by the end of the evening. If I were straight and single, I would’ve had my choice of delicacies . . . better than a Vegas buffet.”

  As I walk back to the printing studio, I feel a complicated mixture of emotions. I’m proud Max avoided a party that would’ve encouraged the wrong behavior. If that was a test, he passed with flying colors. Knowing that makes me feel even worse for turning him down for Sunday. I’ll think of something special to do next week.

  On my way home from work, I notice a striking billboard, and it gives me an idea. I fire up my laptop as soon as I get home.

  To: Max Caswell

  Re: Question of the Day

  Are you a Harry Potter fan?

  A few minutes later, I get a response.

  From: Max Potter

  Re: My Occlumency skills must have worked because I blocked your mind from knowing I was captain of the Quidditch team during my brief stint at Hogwarts.

  Of course I’m a fan. How can you be a creative person and not appreciate Harry Potter?

  Why do you ask, my little muggle?

  I laugh with delight . . . who would’ve pegged Max as a Harry Potter fan? As if I needed another reason to like him.

  From: Ava Weasley

  Re: Hogwarts . . . in your dreams . . . you big muggle you!

  So, you think you’re using Occlumency against me? . . . Don’t get Snape-ish with me, mister.

  The reason I asked is that I’m loonier than Luna Lovegood for Harry Potter, and there’s a marathon of midnight showings at the Arclight of all the Harry Potter movies, and I never saw book five. I was thinking of casting a spell on you and dragging you with me next week. It’d be my treat. I’ll even splurge for the chocolate frogs and butter beer.

  From: The big muggle with the magic touch

  Re: looking for my wand

  You are the fire in my goblet. If you can cast a spell on me, can I cast one on you?

  As for our movie, shall we travel via broomsticks, or can I pick you up in my enchanted car?

  From: the little muggle with big ideas

  Re: If we can’t ride the Hogwarts Express

  . . . then by all means, the enchanted car. I promise not to wear my robes, and I’ll try to keep the fan-girl stuff to a minimum.

  When we finally sign off, I’m happy that my idea worked out. An escape to a movie is just what we need.

  Riley and I have a busy day planned for Saturday, starting with manicures and pedicures first thing in the morning. From there, we’ll make a final stop at a designer resale store to find a less-expensive dress for Riley.

  At first, the designer resale store looks like a waste of time. We’re getting ready to leave when I spot a dark green velvet gown hanging on the restock rack near the dressing rooms. It’s beautiful, it’s on sale, and looks to be Riley’s size.

  “Ava . . . this is perfect! Keep your fingers crossed that it fits,” she says happily as she heads to the dressing room.

  When she emerges from the dressing room she swivels back and forth to examine herself at variou
s angles. “Oh my God, I love this!”

  I admire her as she slowly turns. “Wow, Riley, you look gorgeous.”

  She grins. “I’m calling Barney’s right now to give up the dress they’re holding. Come on, girlfriend, I’m taking you out for a really nice lunch with the money you just saved me!”

  After we’re seated outside on the beautiful patio at Il Cielo on Burton Way in Beverly Hills, we order kir royales to celebrate and split a lemon pasta with shrimp and a chopped Italian salad.

  I look over and see Riley twisting her napkin in her hand.

  “Do you really think I look okay in that dress for tonight? I really want to make the right impression with Dylan’s parents. When we met a few weeks ago, I was worried they didn’t like me.”

  I narrow my eyes as I hold up my index finger. “First of all, you look amazing in that dress. Secondly, how could his parents not like you?”

  She sighs with a pout. “They just didn’t seem that friendly.”

  “Give it time. A lot of parents are protective of their kids. They’ll come around.”

  She bites her lip and still looks tense until the champagne from the kir royale starts to really kick in.

  “So, will Dylan be wearing a tux?” I ask.

  “Mmm, you know I have a thing for a man in a tux, Ava. I don’t know how I’m going to keep my hands off him.”

  “Oh, I agree, there’s nothing better than a good looking man in a tux . . . especially when it’s so different from how they normally dress.”

  “Can you picture art boy in a tux?” she asks, twirling her fork in her pasta. “Maybe next year we can get him to come.”

  “We’ll see . . .” I’m distracted by the mental picture of Max in a tux. I can only imagine how that would be my undoing.

  After the bill’s been paid, we wind our way out of the patio. Just before we reach the valet stand, we run into Joe, Jess and Max’s artist friend. The girl with him is very pretty. He’s got a huge grin, and he’s holding her hand like he’s won the lottery.

  “Hey, Joe.”

  “Hi, Ava, good to see you.” He gives me a quick hug.

  “This is my girlfriend, Xio.”

  I smile and then introduce Riley.

  “How’s the art world treating you?”

  “Pretty damn good. As a matter of fact, we’re here celebrating because I just sold my monumental painting at a great show in New York.”

  “Congratulations! That’s so exciting. Do you know who bought it?”

  “Yes, she actually invited me to her brownstone after it was installed. Man, what a place she has . . . I heard she comes from a family of major real estate developers or something . . . big money. Anyway, her name’s Heather Alistair. She used to be active in the New York art community before she got sick a few years back. She’s been off the radar for a while. I’m glad she’s finally doing better.”

  “Alistair? Is she any relation to Jonathan Alistair, the publisher of Art+trA? We worked together on Max’s book.”

  “Oh, yeah, I believe he’s her husband.”

  What the hell . . . ? My lunch is suddenly in my throat, and I hear my mother’s voice in my head. Women who sleep with married men are whores. I grab Riley’s arm to steady myself.

  “Husband?” Riley asks. “Are you sure? Maybe . . . he’s her ex? He lives in L.A., after all.”

  Joe shrugs. “Yeah, could be. I didn’t see any sign of him, and she never mentioned him . . . but I know they were married at one time, because I remember reading about them.”

  “Was she wearing a ring?” Riley lifts her left hand and wiggles her ring finger.

  “She had on a big old mother of a ring, but I’m a guy . . . I don’t remember what finger it was on.”

  Xio laughs.

  The blood drains from my face and the sidewalk spins.

  “Riley, we’re late. We’ve got to go,” I whisper under my breath, hoping she’ll hear me.

  “Okay, well it’s been great meeting you, but Ava and I are late, so we’re going to head out now.”

  There’s a flurry of good-byes before I stumble to the valet stand.

  No, no, no, no, no! I feel like screaming. I imagine my eyes are bugging out like a character in a Tim Burton movie.

  After we get in the car, Riley pulls away from the valet and finds a place to pull over down the street. She takes a strong authoritative stand. “Ava, calm down. You have no reason to think he’s still married. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring, he lives here, he’s never mentioned her . . . don’t you think if he were still married, Max or Adam or Jess would know about it?”

  I take a deep breath. Maybe she’s right. I should ask him before I have a nervous breakdown. I take my cell phone out of my bag, but Riley snatches it from my hand.

  “Not yet! You need to calm down first and tell me what you’re going to say before I give you the phone.”

  My stomach churns and I double over and take a series of deep breathes. I sit up and look out the passenger window as Riley speeds along. Why in the hell is my life so complicated? Why can’t I just find a nice man to date like Riley did . . . someone who isn’t a sex-obsessed philanderer or an intense high-strung artist? I’m going to join a goddamned convent and never look at another man.

  More deep breaths. I focus on finding my center, whatever the hell that means. “Okay Riley, I’m ready. Give me my phone.”

  “What are you going to say?”

  “That I need to talk to him. I’ll be really sweet, I promise. I don’t want to tip him off that the news is bad, because I need to see his eyes when he tells me, either way.”

  Riley studies me carefully and then slowly hands me the phone.

  “Okay, sweet and calm.”

  My hands shake as I run my fingers over my phone to find his number. I take another breath and hit send. The call goes directly to voicemail, which doesn’t surprise me since he’s probably still on the plane to L.A. Despite my dark mood edged with hysteria, I use my sweetest, sexiest voice.

  “Hi Jonathan, it’s Ava. I’m really looking forward to seeing you. Anyway, something important has come up and I’d love to hear your thoughts on it. So, if you could call me as soon as you get in, that would be great. I’ll be waiting.”

  Mission accomplished.

  Riley regards me with a steely resolve and nods, assuring me that if Jonathan’s played me, she’ll be right by my side ready to take the bastard down.

  Chapter Eight / The Other Woman

  Deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.

  ~ Oscar Wilde

  “You said Jonathan’s on a plane, right?” Riley asks, as we drive to the salon.

  “He usually takes the later flights from New York.”

  “So, you probably won’t hear from him until late at best. This is a conversation you need to have in person. It’s good that you’re supposed to see him tomorrow.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have left that message.” My stomach churns with renewed vigor.

  “The message didn’t give anything away. But you need to figure out a way to get your mind off it until then. As I said earlier, there’s a good chance he isn’t married, and if that’s the case, you don’t want to make yourself sick and ruin your whole evening.”

  Damn, I’d managed to push tonight’s event out of my head. It’s the last thing I want to do now. I plot ways to get out of going, but the anger sets in. Riley’s right. Why should I let this potential mess ruin my evening? I pull myself up by my bootstraps. I’m going to have a good time tonight if it’s the last thing I do. I can face the real or imagined firestorm tomorrow.

  Luckily, my dashing hairdresser, Leo, is a sympathetic ear, and between his pampering nature and colorful stories, the ghost of Jonathan’s ex-wife or wife begins to evaporate in the blow-dried air. Leo is a cross between Vidal Sassoon and the character Warren Beatty played in the movie Shampoo. He’s very British and ambitious, but most importantly, he loves . . . and I mean loves women.

&nbs
p; He gives me a sexy Lana Turner style with a deep side part and soft waves falling around my face and shoulders. He growls softly as he holds up the mirror for my final review.

  “You are gorgeous, Ava!”

  God, I love this man.

  By the time we leave, I’m feeling two-hundred-percent better.

  Riley and I have never gone to this type of event together, so when we get home, the bonding over grooming becomes an event in itself. We lay out our dresses and accessories, then apply our makeup. By the time we zip each other up in our gowns, we look pretty damn good. Riley helps me put on the diamond pendant necklace and earrings Katherine loaned me for the evening.

  I do a final check in the full-length mirror. Katherine’s vintage Valentino dress fits me like a glove. It’s a shade of claret, not quite burgundy, with a band of tiny glass beads wrapping around my torso at the bust and waistline. The back is cut low, and the bottom half is a gathering of the lightest, most fluid chiffon. As I move around the apartment, it swirls at my feet.

  Riley opens the front door when we hear a knock. Dylan steps inside, looking very handsome in his tux.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” he says as he moves toward Riley with that look in his eyes. “You’re breathtaking.”

  “So are you,” she replies, as he wraps his arms around her and kisses her gently. When he releases her, she twirls around.

  “Do you like the dress? Ava found it for me.”

  “It’s perfect,” he says, smiling.

  Riley gestures to me. “Doesn’t Ava look great?”

  “Hey, Ava. You look really nice. I didn’t mean to ignore you, but you know I only have eyes for my baby.”

  I smile. “As it should be. I’m ready when you guys are.”

  “Shall we?” Dylan gestures to the door. Riley and I grab our evening clutches and wraps and step outside. On the porch, Riley stops and gives me a hug.

  “What’s that for?”

  “I’m really proud of you for coming . . . and you look fantastic, by the way.”

  “Gee, thanks. I’m proud of me too, but you can bet I’m going to start Googling Jonathan and his ex as soon as we get home from this shindig. Meanwhile, I’m going to do my best to push it out of my mind and have a good time.”