Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  I’m not giving up this easily. I take my time getting dressed and strategize what I’ll say to him. At least, by the time I amble down to his sanctuary, he’ll have had time to calm down. I make a pit stop in the kitchen for two bottles of beer before I slowly cross the front garden.

  The energy of the studio reminds me of my first dramatic visit there, and the memory makes me nervous. The music is pounding against the walls. As I step to the open doorway, I can see him furiously working. When he violently drags the brush across the white surface, the muscles flex angrily across his naked back. I’m not sure if he’s painting the canvas or trying to cover up his demons with the dark streaks. Perhaps both.

  The light skims over the fine film of sweat across his back. Despite his obvious tension, he moves with a grace edged with fury. Even when he’s living up to his father’s nickname for him, asshole, he’s so damn hot.

  I experiment. I take several steps inside, so I’m within his peripheral vision. I wait silently, knowing he can see me, and his next stroke across the canvas is slower, less brutal. He pauses, and, with a sigh, puts the brush in the water jar and picks up the remote to turn the music down until it’s a whisper in the background.

  I walk over and hand him the beer. We both take a swig, and he looks at me carefully with narrowed eyes.

  “The last girl I took to lunch with my dad, he ended up marrying.”

  My mouth falls open. None of my strategies anticipated that scenario.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, it happened so fast my head’s still spinning. I would’ve never taken her along, but he insisted I bring a girl. She was one of the better-looking art groupies. It’s not that I was heartbroken or anything . . . It was the damn principal of the matter, Ava.”

  “That’s so horrible.”

  “Yeah, their marriage lasted less than a year. She ran off with her personal trainer and still ended up with a million-dollar settlement. And I haven’t talked to the fucker since.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I couldn’t give a flying fuck, but if you think I’m taking you to meet him, you have another thing coming.”

  I feel a flush of rage move up my neck. “What? Do I get no credit here? I’m suddenly in the same league as one of your vapid art sluts?”

  “Did he try to charm you on the phone? Did he call you beautiful and ask if you had a boyfriend?”

  “Yes, so?”

  “It’s like throwing a sweet lamb into the hungry lion’s den. The lamb doesn’t stand a chance once she’s under his spell.”

  Did the blowjob suck out his brains as well? I’m so mad, everything has a fiery red glow.

  “So, now I’m a stupid lamb? I’m so weak-willed that any good-looking man with money can win me over, no matter that I’m in love with you?”

  “Why can’t you just understand my side of this? Why are you being so damn difficult?”

  “So, now I’m difficult because I don’t want to be categorized as having the brains and fortitude of an art groupie? Well, this stupid lamb, who I’ll remind you is your girlfriend—which makes you a fucked up lion—has had enough of this conversation.”

  I walk to the desk and set my beer down.

  “I know I said I’d stay for dinner, but I have a to do list at home two pages long, and you need to paint and blow off some steam and come to your senses. I’ll call you in the morning and, hopefully, you’ll remember then who you’re speaking to.”

  “Fine!” he barks angrily.

  “Yeah, fucking fine.”

  I give him a final dirty look and storm out the door. The music blasts from the studio right on my tail. If I’m not mistaken, it’s even louder than before.

  Asshole.

  After throwing my stuff in the overnight bag, I get to my car in record time. I’ve driven all the way through the canyon and am about to get on the freeway when my phone rings. Of course, it’s him.

  “I’m sorry, Ava.”

  “You should be.”

  “I never want you to think that I compare you in any way to those girls. I was just so pissed off about my dad. He brings out the worst in me.”

  “I know that. I was just hoping maybe there could be some type of healing between you two. Would it be that hard to try a little?”

  There’s a long pause, and I wonder if we’ve been disconnected. He finally clears his throat.

  “Look, as much as I despise the man, I also know I owe him. He’s the one who told you about Aunt Ann, which brought you to Ojai. In a crazy way, he’s responsible for getting us together. For that alone, I should probably tolerate a meeting with him . . . just this once.”

  “He knows he’s not been a good dad, Max. He really just wants another chance.”

  “But, Ava . . . I’ll go postal if he hits on you.”

  “Well, I get that, but I’m in love with you, Max. Madly, rabidly, ferociously in love with you, and no one messes with that. If he tries to, I will set him straight immediately. And if he doesn’t correct himself, we’re out of there. Done.”

  He’s silent.

  “Do you understand me, Max?”

  “Sorry, I got distracted by the ferocious part. That put all kinds of pictures in my head . . . You can imagine. I want you to come back.”

  “No, I can’t come back. I have to be to work early tomorrow, and it’ll be easier from my place. We have less than a week until we leave for Barcelona, so I’ve got to stay focused.”

  He sighs long and deep. “Okay, okay, but you know you’re the lion in this relationship. Just saying . . .”

  When we pull up to the valet at the Beverly Hills Hotel to meet his dad in the Polo Lounge, Max Jr. is benefitting from some extra anti-anxiety medication.

  I’m not surprised to see that his father is gorgeous. He’s older and more weathered than Max, but they have the same eyes, height, and wicked smile. Although Max Sr. does initially pull out all the stops and flirt with me shamelessly, I give a little speech about how thrilled I am to meet him, since his son is the love of my life, the man the sun rises and sets on, the cream in my coffee, the fuel for my fire. When we’re settled in our prime booth location, Max Sr. tests the waters with Max.

  “So, this art thing seems to be working out for you, son.”

  “Art thing? Yes, my art thing is working out quite well, thanks for noticing.”

  “Well, our girl Ava sent me a copy of the book you did together. I was impressed. You’ve done a lot of work, and you did it between all of your partying.”

  I give Senior a harsh look and subtly shake my head. We aren’t going to last much longer if he doesn’t stop provoking him.

  “Our girl? She’s my girl, Dad, and we’re keeping it that way.” Max is fuming.

  “And he doesn’t party anymore,” I say for good measure.

  “No, I don’t.”

  His father lifts one brow and a slow smile pushes the corners of his mouth up. “So, your Ava has straightened you out. I’m impressed. You’re damn smarter than me in many ways, Max. You always have been. Looks like you’ve figured out how to keep a good woman. I threw all my charm at your girl before I understood she was yours, and she clearly only has eyes for you.”

  “He’s so good to me, Mr. Caswell. You’d be proud if you knew how he takes care of me.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it, Ava, because I can see that this is the real deal.”

  Max smiles and pulls me close.

  “Okay then!” he booms after the waiter presents our drinks. “I’m putting in my request early. I want a granddaughter, my own little princess, and I don’t want to hear a damn thing when I buy her the moon.”

  My hand never leaves Max’s, even when the food is served and I have to eat with my left hand. I’m relieved to see the conversation shift when Max Sr. wants to hear all about Max’s work in the Barcelona show and our plans for the trip. He even recommends his favorite restaurant in Barcelona, Cinc Sentits, and insists that we go as his guests.

&
nbsp; By the time we say our goodbyes, Mr. Caswell, with only the slightest shade of jealousy, actually looks happy for his son. I get into the car knowing that although Max is still extremely wary of his father, a small step has been taken.

  What I don’t anticipate is how my show of loyalty and total devotion affects him. When we return to Malibu, he lures me up to the bedroom and makes love to me with a passion like Romeo on his wedding night. The best part is that we don’t have to fear the light of dawn like the star-crossed lovers did. The morning belongs to us too.

  A few days later, I flip through the SkyMall Catalog, marveling at the garden gnomes, vibrators posing as back massagers, and motivational posters. The flight attendant serving drinks is still a few rows away, so I turn to Max.

  “If you love me, truly love me, you’ll buy me one of these.” I point to the full body Snuggie that has pockets for a remote control.

  “Sorry, honey. Even my love has its limits. If you ever wear that, I’ll never be able to fuck you again.”

  Not willing to risk it, I quickly tuck the magazine back in the seat pocket.

  “How much longer until we land in Barcelona?”

  “Thirty minutes less than last time you asked. So . . . eleven more hours.”

  “All right, smarty pants.” I look out the window and then turn back. “Hey, can I ask you something about your dad?”

  He shrugs.

  “Why did your parents get divorced?”

  “Nothing too clever . . . the obvious reason.”

  “He screwed around?”

  “Yeah, the first time it was with some actress on one of his shows . . . a one-night stand. After much drama, Mom forgave him, but made it clear that if it ever happened again, there would be no second chances.”

  “How soon was the next time?”

  “I think a couple of years later. Another actress. It really broke her heart. Even though the split was immediate and final, she still cared about him until the day she died. She may have even still loved him. But she couldn’t take the betrayal.”

  “I understand,” I say softly, thinking about what it must be like to love someone that much and suffer such disappointment.

  “The worst part is that he loved her like crazy and never got over it. Every once in a while, he would go on a bender, call her, and beg for her to take him back.”

  “That’s so sad.”

  “Yeah. At the wake, he told me his greatest regret in life was losing her. She was the best thing that ever happened to him, and he didn’t deserve her.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I agreed with him.” He shifts in his seat to face me. “You know, Ava, he gave me some advice at the Polo Lounge.”

  “What was that?”

  “He told me that you were a keeper . . . that you reminded him a lot of Mom. And if I didn’t hold onto you with everything I had, then I was an asshole.”

  “Really? And what did you say?”

  “I told him it takes one to know one.”

  I smile, secretly amused that Max Sr. got the word asshole into the conversation after all.”

  “Well, that’s some advice.”

  “Certainly the best advice he’s ever given me. Not that he would be able to tell me how to hold onto you. His track record in that area is abysmal.”

  “Maybe that’s why he’s the perfect person to give you that advice. He knows the alternative. I think that’s part of why he wanted to see you and try to rebuild a relationship. Maybe he’s at that point in life, thinking about what he’s done in the past, and what he wants the rest of his future to be.”

  I lean closer and smile sweetly. “I think he wants to get to know his son as a man. And not just a man, but a very fine man.”

  “Who has a very fine woman.”

  I weave my fingers into his and squeeze.

  He lifts our hands and kisses mine gently.

  I nod to the flight attendant serving beverages one row away.

  “And this very fine woman would like a drink.”

  “I think that can be arranged.”

  When he flashes his big smile at the flight attendant, I can almost hear her panties combust. I laugh and settle back in my seat, ready to enjoy the show.

  By the time we disembark in Barcelona, I feel like I’ve lived an entire life on that plane. It’s early morning, but it feels like it should be night. Luckily, we get through customs quickly, grab our bags, and get a taxi to our hotel.

  Hotel Neri is housed in a gothic palace tucked on a smaller street near the cathedral. With velvet drapes and softly lit hallways, it has the reputation of being one of the most romantic places in the city. Yet, when we check in for our separate rooms, we’re reminded of our ruse pretending we aren’t a couple. So much has happened since Dylan talked us into it that the idea is even more irritating now. Max looks pissed off, which confuses the hotel clerk, but in an effort to lighten his mood, she makes some adjustments on the computer so we can at least be on the same floor.

  He huffs. “We have a lot of work to do, and we need to be close to each other.”

  I smile and remain silent, accepting my room key with a nod.

  “Two rooms. What a waste of money,” I comment, as we get into the tiny elevator. “When I agreed to pretend we weren’t involved, I wasn’t thinking it would mean separate rooms.”

  “Yeah, it was your bad idea. Let’s cancel one of them now.” He moves to press the down elevator button.

  “No, Max, that would make things even more obvious, and you know this wasn’t my idea. I’ll just leave my stuff in my suite and mess up the sheets so it looks like I’m there, in case the staff gets nosy for some reason. Anyway, it might be good to have a backup room . . . in case I get mad at you.”

  He raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms over his chest. “I see, so now you need backup.”

  “Don’t get worked up. I was joking.”

  As it is, once we throw our bags down, the exhaustion of jet lag hits us. We curl up together and take a long nap on Max’s big bed in his ultra-contemporary fancy-pants suite. We wake up late in the afternoon, disoriented, but after a shower and unpacking, we’re ready to go explore. After all, we have work obligations for the museum the rest of the trip, so this is our time to play before our schedule is filled.

  Barcelona is a captivating city with a youthful, modern energy. Strolling down Les Ramblas, we pass every type of eccentric character. Street musicians and performers walk alongside throngs of tourists and locals. We stop at Café de l’Opera, a nineteenth-century Parisian-style café with murals and decorative flourishes that take you back in time. After a light snack, Max orders an espresso, and I get their famous hot chocolate, a decadent warm liquid pudding. Ambrosia for the gods.

  Next, we wander through the Barri Gòtic quarter and visit the Cathedral of Barcelona, a fourteenth-century Catalan Gothic church. It echoes with quiet whispers and it’s dimly lit inside. The otherworldly ambiance makes me think of my parents. I purchase three red glass votive candles from the front and light one for my dad and one for my mom, hoping that I’ll see her again one day. Max lights one for his mom, and before we leave, I say a silent prayer as he gently holds my hand.

  Our final sight-seeing stop for the day is at the Museu Picasso, which encompasses five medieval mansions linked together. Although Picasso spent much of his life in France, he was born and raised in Spain, and Barcelona was one of his favorite places in his homeland. Naturally, the Spaniards are very proud that one of their own grew up to be the greatest painter in modern history, and this museum celebrates that fact.

  The exhibit hall is unique, as it houses a huge collection of his early works, including paintings he did at the age of thirteen. There are also wonderful drawings he rendered of street scenes around Barcelona and, of course, major works created throughout his long prolific life.

  We spend a long time wandering through the exhibits. I’m intrigued by his blue period, which took place while he lived in Barcelona.


  Max is incredibly excited and energized by our visit. “I’ve also been to the Picasso Museum in Paris, which has many of his famous paintings, but this museum is really unique. There’s nothing quite like it,” he says enthusiastically. “You truly get a sense of how the young protégé became one of the greatest artists of his time.”

  I nod, delighted by his passion. “It does really show his evolution wonderfully.”

  “Can you believe he saved all of this stuff, even from when he was a boy, and now it’s all here for everyone to enjoy in a museum? It’s amazing.”

  “I bet, one day, you’ll have your own museum full of all of your art, including your childhood sketches.”

  His eyes spark with desire. “Well, then it’s a good thing Mom saved all that stuff.” He laughs awkwardly, as if he’s embarrassed to hope for such a thing, but I can see the wheels turning in his brilliant head.

  For dinner, we end up at a tapas restaurant recommended by the concierge. We get small tastes of various Spanish favorites: shrimp fritters, ceviche, stuffed tomatoes, Spanish ham on foie gras toast, and artichoke rice cakes with manchego cheese. I’m into my second glass of vino tinto when the jet lag hits me again. Max jokes with me to keep me awake, but gives up, and practically has to carry me back to the hotel. I don’t even remember getting into the bed.

  Hours later, I open my eyes. The room is dark except for the reflection of the outside streetlights giving the sheer curtains on the tall windows a platinum glow. It takes a long moment for me to realize where I am and that Max isn’t next to me. In his place are ripples of sheets that have been peeled back. I’ve kicked off the sheets and lie on my side, nude.

  I hear him breathing . . . deep and ragged. In the dim light, I see movement. As my vision adjusts, I spy Max sitting in the armchair next to our bed.

  Gloriously naked, his legs spread and his head leaned against the back of the chair, he slowly strokes himself as he watches me. It’s incredibly erotic, and my desire for him overwhelms me. When our eyes meet, he moans and strokes himself.

  The sight of him instantly arouses me, and I lick my lips as his hands move over what’s mine. His cock looks so commanding from this angle, and I want him badly. I look up, my expression burning.