Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  I look over at Lizzie, who’s re-focused on her salad, now dropping in the toasted pine nuts as she sings to herself.

  After lunch, we have a little chat as I tuck her in for her nap.

  “Mommy, are Leo and Pablo still coming over tomorrow?” She makes a face like she just bit into something sour.

  “Yes, why Sweet pea? Is there a problem?”

  “I’m really mad at Leo.”

  “Really? I thought he was your best friend? Did you have a fight?”

  “He said his momma was a better artist than Daddy.”

  I laugh to myself. That’s Jess’s boy all right.

  “Well, what Leo will learn is that there is no such thing as better in art. Just like no one color is better than another.”

  “But I like yellow best, Mommy. It’s better than the others.”

  “That means it’s your favorite, baby, that doesn’t make it better than the other colors. I love purple best. It just means yellow is your favorite and purple is mine.”

  “And what’s Daddy’s favorite?”

  “You’ll have to ask him, but my guess is that it changes with his mood.” I laugh to myself. Oh, if she only knew.

  “Butterfly kiss, Mommy,” Lizzie reminds me before I get up to leave. When I was young, my mom used to give me butterfly kisses by fluttering her eyelashes against my cheek. Lizzie giggles as I do the same for her before I pull the blanket up around her. I stand in the doorway, watching her close her eyes and relax.

  When I head back downstairs, I find Max on the couch debating with someone on the phone. I only have to listen for a bit to realize that he’s talking to Dylan. I can feel Max’s tension rise the longer they talk. I step behind him and start rubbing his shoulders and running my hands through his hair. Almost immediately, I can feel his mood shift. When they sign off, he pats the cushion next to him. I curl up by his side.

  “What’s up?” I stroke his thigh as he sighs, letting his head fall back.

  “I’m just feeling so much pressure. I’m glad that Dylan has made all this headway into the Chinese market and finding serious new collectors, but I’m starting to feel like I can’t keep up. Plus, there’s so much I need to do with the foundation.”

  “Is it me, or has he gotten even more ambitious since he and Riley had the twins?”

  “It’s not just you. He was telling me right after he got Riley home with the babies that the weight of providing for his kids’ future really hit him.”

  “Well, is there anything I can do to lower your stress? Maybe there are other things I can take off your plate so you can focus solely on painting? I can help with the foundation stuff too.”

  “You’re a love to ask, but aren’t you going to be going into pre-production meetings soon to develop the new season? You’re going to be as busy as I am. We’ll need Delia here with Lizzie full time.”

  “Well, I wanted to talk to you about that. You know my contract is up for renewal. What do you think about me talking to Jackson about taking some time off? I could work on the new book from home, and then have a lot more time for Lizzie and to support you with what you need.”

  “Are you sure you’d want to do that? You wouldn’t miss the TV stuff?”

  “I’m tired, and Sweet pea is growing up so fast. I’d love to have more time with her. And you’ve always supported me with my work. I’d like to do more to help you. Besides, Jackson said I can do a few specials to keep my foot in the door. Last season was particularly rough, so he said they’re half-expecting me to take a break.”

  “Well, Lizzie and I would love to have you around more. I think it’s a great idea, but only if it’s really what you want to do.”

  “I’m sure. Okay then, I’ll call him this afternoon.”

  He turns toward me and frames my face with his hands. His gaze is intense, as if he’s looking right into my soul.

  “I love you, woman . . . so damn much.”

  “I love you too.” When our lips meet, it’s like warm honey on my lips. All the love radiates through me until even my little toe is ready to play footsy with his.

  He pulls me closer and touches me just so, and before you know it, I’m straddling him as he kisses me, his hands weaving through my long hair.

  “What do you think?” His eyes twinkle as his hands graze my breasts. He starts to slowly pull my shirt open.

  “She’s a really good napper.”

  “Just like her mommy.” His hands cup my breasts, his thumbs teasing my nipples.

  “And she’s up there, and we’re down here.” I kiss his neck and nip his ear lobe with my teeth.

  “We could be quiet.”

  “And fast.” I shut my eyes and smile as he kisses the swell at the top of my breasts.

  “Not too fast,” he groans, as I rock my hips provocatively. I lift up so that I can slip my hand between us and grasp him through his jeans.

  “You feel so good,” I sigh, as I palm him while he undoes his buckle.

  He lets out a loud moan.

  Her little voice is stern. “Mommy, why are you hurting Daddy?”

  Damn! Before we turn to look at our girl, with her Shirley Temple pout and hands on her hips, we share a horrified wide-eyed look.

  I lift up enough so Max can buckle his belt without her seeing. At the same time, I pull my shirt closed.

  “Sweet pea, Mommy wasn’t hurting Daddy.”

  “Daddy sounds like he’s hurt. Are you okay, Daddy?”

  He coughs, looking horrified. “Yeah, baby girl, Mommy was just giving me a massage and I moaned because it was helping me feel better.”

  She raises her eyebrows, clearly not buying it. We concluded a while ago that Lizzie is much smarter than either one of us.

  “I didn’t hear a thing—she’s never that quiet,” I whisper with frustration as I shift off his lap.

  “Yeah, suddenly she’s stealthy,” he agrees quietly, as he pulls a throw pillow across his lap. “I have a new nickname for her—mini-Ninja.”

  “Don’t give her any ideas,” I say, before turning back toward our little one who is still in a stand-off, her tiny arms now folded across her chest.

  “What are you doing out of bed anyway, Elizabeth? You’re supposed to be napping.”

  “I needed to ask Daddy what his best, favorite color was.”

  “And that couldn’t wait until after your nap?” I ask, exasperated.

  She shrugs her shoulders.

  “Come on, Lizzie,” I say, as I get off the couch and take her hand. “You know this is nap time, and if you don’t nap, you aren’t going to have art time with Daddy.”

  “Okay,” she says, understanding what’s at stake. She smiles at Daddy and waves. Her studio visits with him are her favorite time and, I suspect, his too.

  We’re a few steps up the stairs when we hear Max call out.

  “Blue.”

  We both turn back to see him smiling.

  “Your favorite color is blue?” I ask, curious.

  “Why blue, Daddy?” Lizzie says.

  “’cause it’s the color of my baby girl’s eyes.”

  “Is it time yet, Mommy?” She rubs the last bit of nap from her sleepy expression.

  I smile as I watch her drink her juice and nibble on her crackers.

  “Five more minutes, Sweet pea. Let’s finish this book first.”

  As soon as Lizzie was old enough to walk and express herself with words, she made it clear she wanted to spend every possible moment in the studio with Max while he painted. At first, he was so proud and delighted, but he quickly realized that it made it almost impossible to get work done. So we created a compromise where she had a date with him for thirty minutes any day that he was working. There were times their dates would last an hour, or once only five minutes when Lizzie started to have a meltdown because she wanted to paint on one of his finished canvases. But, for the most part, we tried to keep to a strict schedule because it made all of our lives easier to navigate. There is Daddy-time in the st
udio and Lizzie/Daddy time in the studio.

  I notice he’s rotated his work on the walls when we step inside. There’s a mix of color studies and a few pieces from previous series that he didn’t want to give up. I asked him once why he kept Rock, Paper, Scissors up in the studio, a painting that was part of a series inspired by children’s games. He painted it when Lizzie was about two. It was one of his only groups of work that had harsh reviews, even though he really loved it. He explained to me that it continues to hang over his desk both to humble and inspire him. He stays true to his art, insisting he’ll never paint for the critics, and I admire him for that.

  The little artist’s ridiculously fancy easel is next to his. I made a fuss when he bought it, but she’s very proud of her easel, and she loves to paint next to him. The sounds of the Benny Goodman Orchestra float through the air as Sweet pea bounces with excitement.

  After helping her put on her smock, I linger in the doorway while she pulls out her paint set. He already has fresh water and brushes on her taboret.

  “What shall we do today, baby girl?”

  “Tell me the story again, Daddy, about the little girl with the pet sea serpent.”

  “The one that she kept in her swimming pool?”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “Okay. You paint the serpent while I tell the story.”

  “I can’t paint the sea serpent, Daddy . . . I don’t have any brown paint.”

  “Why does the serpent have to be brown?”

  “That’s what Uncle Dylan told me. He said serpents are brown.”

  I grin from the doorway. Oh, this ought to be good.

  “Okay, Lizzie, here’s our life lesson for today. Don’t ever take artistic direction from an art dealer; they only care about what sells.”

  “What’s an art dealer?”

  “Someone who takes the artist’s paintings and sells them to people so that the artist can stay focused on painting, not selling. But enough about that, paint your serpent any color you want . . . yellow, red, with polka dots or stripes . . . anything.”

  “What would you do, Daddy?”

  “Well, the last time I remember painting a sea serpent he was green with orange nostrils and purple fins, but that was my serpent. I want you to do your very own idea.”

  She dips her brush in the blue and gets to work.

  It’s early evening when I navigate my way down the stairs slowly in my new heels and dress. As I reach the bottom, I see Max crouched down next to Lizzie looking through her little backpack. She’s having her monthly sleepover at Grandpa’s, so he’s doing a final check on her stuff.

  Watching him with her like this pulls at my heart. Being a dad has grounded Max in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. The intensely volatile man of our early days together is a distant memory. He wants to be the best man he can be for his little girl, and we all benefit as a result.

  “I don’t see Lambie, Lizzie. Can you run upstairs and see if he’s still on your bed from your nap time?”

  “Okay, Daddy.” She nods before she scampers upstairs. Max and I both know she won’t sleep well without Lambie. When she was a baby, we accidently left him in Grandpa’s New York apartment and didn’t realize it until the plane had taken off returning us back to L.A. Lizzie’s world may as well have ended, and Max was unrelenting on the airplane credit card phone until one of the building’s housekeepers found him. The doorman Fed-Exed Lambie home overnight.

  “Oh, my.” Max’s gaze slowly moves over me as his lips curl up in appreciation. “You look beautiful.” He stands up and approaches me, slowly taking in my new dress and the extra care I’ve taken on my hair and make-up. Running his hand down my arm, he kisses me on the cheek. “I’m one lucky man.”

  “You’re looking pretty hot yourself, handsome,” I reply, as I reach up and straighten his tie. “We haven’t dressed up this much in a while. It’s kind of fun.”

  “Well, I’ll remind you that you said that when we get cornered at the museum event. I can only take so much of those artists trying to charm you.”

  “And I can only take so much of their girlfriends trying to charm you.”

  “So the secret Caswell escape signal will be allowed tonight?” he asks with one eyebrow cocked.

  I nod. “Besides, I don’t want to be late for our reservation at Soho House.”

  On the drive to Grandpa’s, I coach Lizzie while Max drives. I can tell he’s trying hard not to laugh at our absurd conversation.

  “Now, Sweet pea, remember our agreement that you’re going to stop asking Grandpa for things. Daddy had to send away the landscape person that showed up last week with plans to build a duck pond in our yard.”

  “But I love ducks, Mommy, and Grandpa said he wanted me to have ducks.”

  “That’s not the point, baby. We just don’t get everything we want in life. We can visit duck ponds; we don’t have to have one.”

  “You go, Momma . . . you’re on a roll,” Max says in a low voice.”

  I elbow my husband, who can be an enabling father to our indulged child.

  “Maybe Grandpa can have the pond at his house? His backyard is huuuge!”

  “Elizabeth, are you listening to me?”

  “Well, Grandpa said that he wants to give me every little thing that my heart desires.”

  I turn toward Max. “You’re going to have to have another talk with him.” It’s great we take her to the food pantry to sort the food for the needy and have her pick out her toys to give to less fortunate kids when she gets new ones, but that doesn’t counteract all of the ways he spoils her.

  He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I’ll talk to him, but he warned us he was going to be like this.”

  When we get to Grandpa’s mansion in Bel Air, Lizzie tears through the grand entry and long hallway, straight into the media room to find him. I rush along behind her, so I arrive just in time to see her jump up into his arms.

  “Grandpa!” she squeals.

  “My princess has arrived! Are you ready for our big date tonight?”

  “What movie tonight, Grandpa?”

  “How does Citizen Kane sound?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry, Mama, I was joking. We’ll see that next year when she’s much older.” He grins. “It’s going to be my job to make sure our girl knows all the classics.”

  I should’ve known better. That man loves to tease me.

  “How about Mary Poppins?” he asks.

  “That’s more like it.”

  Max joins us and gives his father a hug. I ask Lizzie to help me unpack her overnight bag upstairs, so Max can give his frequent gentle lecture to the overindulgent grandpa.

  I carry Lizzie’s little suitcase upstairs. Her room links to the guestroom where Delia, our nanny, stays whenever Lizzie spends the night at Grandpa’s. In this opulent princess bedroom, the canopy bed is a confection of pink tulle trimmed with silk roses. There’s a mural of a castle set in a country landscape on one of the walls. I still hate this princess conspiracy that corporate America created so they can merchandise to little girls, but Cas’s designer was unrelenting. Of course, I’ve compensated by doing her room at home like a jungle, complete with homemade vines draped across the blue sky ceiling and simple furniture from Ikea. Her stuffed animals look right at home in the earthy setting.

  I hand Lizzie her toiletries bag and instruct her to leave it on the bathroom counter.

  “Okay, promise Mommy you will let Delia brush your teeth tonight and tomorrow morning before Daddy and I pick you up.”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “And say all your please and thank yous to Grandpa and Delia.”

  “I will.”

  I pull her into my arms and hug her tight. “I love you, Sweet pea.”

  “I love you too.” She takes my hand, and we head downstairs to see what our two favorite men are up to.

  “So what the hell, now every museum event has a red carpet?” Max scowls as he drives up to the
valet.

  “Everything is about Hollywood and entertainment. Even Vogue doesn’t use models, but actresses, on their covers now,” I say.

  Once we’re out of the car, we steel ourselves, and I link my arm with his before we step forward. The explosion of flashes is blinding, but I keep the smile plastered to my face as we pause to pose.

  “Max Caswell and Ava Jacobs have arrived,” One host announces into his microphone. “Let’s see if we can get the most adored couple in the art world to come say hello.”

  Max pulls me closer. I know this makes him really tense. He’s never gotten used to it. I take a deep breath and subtly pull him toward the man in the tux, so we can get it over with. Honestly, I doubt I’ll get used to this part of our life either, but it’s part of the business we chose to be in.

  “Oh, good folks, they’re coming over. World famous artist, Max Caswell and his gorgeous wife, media art darling, Ava Jacobs! Max, we just heard about the foundation you’ve started to support art programs in public schools.”

  I squeeze his arm to silently say, see, aren’t you glad now that we stopped?

  Max smiles cordially and explains the importance of bringing art to kids in schools where it’s been abandoned—that some of the great talents of tomorrow are languishing in schools that don’t even offer art due to budget cuts. They will only have a chance if they’re encouraged and given an opportunity to show what they can do.

  I watch him while he talks about this project so close to his heart, his passion evident in every word and gesture. I love him so much in moments like this it takes my breath away.

  “And Ava, we loved the special you did with the First Lady showcasing her and the President’s favorite American artists. What was that experience like for you?”

  “Amazing really. She’s so thoughtful and knowledgeable about art that I was able to get past being overwhelmed with who she was and just enjoy our conversations.”

  “Well, you two certainly have a lot of fabulous things going on. Thanks so much for stopping.”

  “Our pleasure,” Max says, before we move away.

  The rest of our time at the event is spent saying hello to people we know and talking the business of art. This is work, so we work it. My favorite moment is when I look over and realize that Max is deep in conversation with Jonathan and his new wife, Katiana, the curator for MOCA. My, how things have changed, I laugh to myself before I join them.