I grin. “It is crazy. I’m fucking in love too.”
“That’s my girl.” He takes our coffee mugs and sets them down before pulling me into his arms.
“And part of me never wants this feeling to level out. All I want to do is make love to you and paint, and all the other stuff can follow.”
“Let’s fit some eating and sleeping into that agenda.”
“Okay. I will.”
I look at the clock. “Speaking of which, I need to jump in the shower and get to work. Why don’t you lie back and rest some more?”
He surprises me by flopping back on the bed. He takes the pillow I was using and curls it under his arm, pressing his face into it and taking a deep breath. “I can still smell you.” He smiles and closes his eyes.
After I’m dressed and ready, I go to kiss him good-bye, but he’s sound asleep again. So I write him a note and leave it where my pillow was.
My love,
Thank you for my surprise visit last night. There’s nothing better than waking with you in my bed.
I miss you already.
Love,
Ava
Just after seven that evening, I pull open my front door and gape at the sight of Max. He’s wearing pressed jeans with boots and a beautifully tailored jacket over a black T-shirt. He’s holding an enormous bouquet of garden roses in various stages of bloom.
He offers them to me. “These are from my garden.” He smiles as his gaze skims over me.
“Oh, these are gorgeous,” I sigh, as I take the flowers and head to the kitchen to find a vase. “I love garden roses.”
He smiles, his head held high. He’s a different man from last night. He looks rested, his eyes are bright, and he’s freshly shaven. I want to run my tongue along the sharp angle of his jaw and taste his gorgeous lips. It’s moments like this that I can’t believe he’s really mine.
He stands behind me as I fill the vase with water at the sink. Pulling my hair back, he gently kisses my neck and inhales deeply. “You look beautiful tonight, Ava.”
I turn around slowly. “And you look handsome, Max. I have to wonder with all this special treatment…what are you trying to do to me?”
He laughs as he pushes my hair over my shoulders and strokes the side of my face. “We’re taking it slow tonight, although seeing you like this makes dinner sound very uninteresting.” He slides his hands around to my backside and pulls me up against him.
“What’s the occasion tonight?”
“Anytime I’m with you is special,” he says softly. “But we haven’t been on a real date yet, Ava. So, I’m taking you on a real date.”
“Are we going back to Dupars or The Apple Pan?”
“No, I had something more upscale in mind.”
“But I love those places,” I say with a pretend pout.
“Next time. Tonight, I’m going to wine and dine you at a fine establishment. If things go right, I may even seduce you at the end of the evening.”
“Honestly, Max?” I wave my hand up and down from his head to his feet. “One look at you, my gorgeous man, with your armful of roses, and the seduction was a done deal.”
“You’re not going to distract me, woman. I’m on a mission here…real date, remember?”
I raise one eyebrow, sashaying away from him and grabbing my jacket and purse.
Max drives to Hollywood and pulls up in front of Café des Artistes, where he’s reserved a corner table on the patio. The waitress with a seductive smile, tattoos up her neck, and a killer body, flirts with my man unabashedly, and Max doesn’t give her the time of day. He only has eyes for me.
We order a bottle of wine and linger over our meal, holding hands and talking quietly. I don’t know when I’ve ever felt so happy and so adored. We finish by sharing a chocolate soufflé.
Back in the car, instead of going home, Max drives to Los Feliz, winding his car up a hill. I’m curious, but don’t ask questions, so I can prolong the mystery. When we get to the top, he pulls into the parking lot at the Griffith Observatory.
“Have you ever been up here?” he asks, as he opens my car door.
“No.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat.”
He takes my hand and we walk through the planetarium, a great old art deco building perched on a hill above Los Angeles. There’s nothing like viewing the stars and planets to put things in a broader perspective. The various displays intrigue me, but the real thrill is when he takes me to the walkway behind the building.
It’s a clear crisp night and the city lies before us, a jewel box lit from within. It sparkles and hums with energy.
“Wow! This is unbelievable,” I gasp, as I lean over the rail. The view sweeps north to south and all the way to the ocean, a rolling blanket of twinkling lights.
He nods. “It’s one of the best views in the city.”
He wraps his arm around me and pulls me closer. We sit down on a nearby bench and gaze at the city below.
“This has been a great evening. Really top-notch, Max.”
He grins happily. “So, I’m doing this date thing right?”
“I’ll say.” I guess he really hasn’t dated for a long time, since casual hook-ups don’t count in my book.
He runs his free hand up and down his thigh. He’s nervous about something, so I wait patiently.
“You know, I had my session with Cara this afternoon.”
“Yeah, how’d it go?” I try to sound as casual as possible.
“We talked about trying to find balance when I’m overwhelmed.”
“Like how you felt coming back from Santa Fe?”
He nods. “You know, Ava, I’m never going to be fixed. My issues are something I will deal with for the rest of my life. I still can’t forgive myself for how I fucked up when you were meeting with Nick. I was completely out of control. But I want to get a handle on it—use the tools I’ve learned so that when I start to lose my grip, my reaction won’t be so bad.”
Is he trying to scare me away? I shift on the bench nervously.
“I guess what I’m saying is that I want to be the best person I can be, not just for me, but for you. I want to be the kind of man you deserve.”
I curl my hand in his. “You know I won’t tolerate what happened in Santa Fe. But when I see you trying, it makes me want to help you through your rough times.”
He exhales a deep breath and gently squeezes my hand.
I bite my lip and twist my hair between my fingers. “I just don’t always know how.”
“Sometimes it’s as simple as being there. Like last night. You didn’t try to fix anything or analyze me, you were just there…for me.”
He sighs and then turns to me. “You know what else Cara told me?”
I shake my head.
“That I need to work hard and focus on being the best boyfriend I can be for you.”
“Oh, I’m liking her,” I tease, although I’m pleased by what she said.
“You know, for a lot of years, I only had myself to answer for. And artists are naturally narcissistic—we think we have something important to say, and we focus inwardly in order to create. It’s inherently selfish when you think about it.”
“Well, I suppose you could say that. But it takes courage to make art and stand behind it. I admire you and your work, but I think you know that.”
“Yes, but I guess what I’m trying to say is that I feel guilty that you’ve been the one to keep pulling me out of harm’s way. You’ve seen and learned things about me I would never want someone to know, and yet here you are…still loving me.”
I smile. “You inspire me, Max.”
“I can’t understand how I could be lucky enough to win you, let alone hold onto you.”
“But you’ve taken care of me, too. I need you more than you know, Max. We can be there for each other.”
He sits up straighter, as if my need for him is a revelation. Judging from the way his eyes light up, the idea seems to agree with him.
“Cara says I need to take things slowly, but my heart and my mind want to race ahead, Ava. I want to take care of you. I want to give you the world.” He sweeps his hand across the city view. “I already have to fight the urge to be with you 24-7.” He pauses, and then shifts his gaze back at me. “I wish you’d live with me.”
I try to stifle a gasp. “You want me to move in?”
“Desperately…but that wouldn’t be taking things slow, would it?”
I laugh softly. “No, that would be foot-to-the-floorboards fast.” I lean in closer. “But I love that you want me to. One day—”
But before I can finish, he kisses me, and there’s so much emotion behind the kiss that I feel stripped of any hesitation. I fall into him, our “big love” making me forget for a moment that we’re two separate people.
Perhaps one day will be sooner than I think.
Chapter Eighteen / The Writing on the Wall
The object isn’t to make art, it’s to be in that wonderful state which makes art inevitable.
~ Robert Henri
“How do you feel about interviews?” Mysterious Max asks on the phone.
Is this a guessing game? I cock my head to the side to figure out what he’s getting at. “Like, in looking for a job? I don’t have much experience with that.”
“No, I mean, how would you feel about interviewing me?”
I laugh at the idea of it. “That would be fun. Why do you ask?”
“The marketing guy from Taylor and Tiden called. They want to film a segment of you interviewing me in my studio to promote the book.”
“In your studio? And you agreed to that?” I don’t try to mask the disbelief in my voice.
“Yeah, I’m nervous about it, but it’ll be good for the book.”
“Well, if you’re willing to do it, there’s no way I’ll turn you down.”
“Good, because they want to do it this week. I told them about your day job, so they agreed to do it this Saturday.”
“This Saturday! What do I need to do to get ready? Am I writing the questions? What do I wear? Geez!”
“Slow down, sweet thing! They’ll call you in the morning to go over all that.”
“I’m anxious, Max.”
“Oh, don’t be. It’s you and me being you and me. It doesn’t get better than that.”
On Saturday, I drive to Malibu, wearing my best jeans and a cerulean blue fitted tee. Apparently, cerulean blue looks optimal on video. They want the whole thing to have a very casual, cool vibe.
When I arrive at the house, there’s a bustle of activity, and I’m swept into the breakfast room where the makeup artist is set up. She puts so much effort into working me over that I comment about it, but she grins and shakes her head, so it must not be so bad.
The director comes in near the end to prep me. He explains that the serious discussion and viewing of Max’s paintings will be done separately with a voice-over. So, for this segment they’ll use a handheld camera because they want a fun “meet the artist” approach. Although they’ve given me a list of unconventional questions, they also encourage me to go wherever the moment takes me.
If he only knew, I think. The “moment taking me” could involve Max taking me on top of his desk.
Max and I purposely avoid each other before the shoot, not wanting to “out” our relationship. I smile when he gets his natural shine powdered for the camera, but otherwise, I ignore him.
I’m finally called to the studio. It’s lit up with bright lights on telescoping stands, and there are more paintings than usual stacked around the two facing walls.
They hook us up with little microphones and hide the wires in our clothes before positioning Max and me on stools. Next come lighting and sound checks. When everything is set, the director motions to the cameraman and asks me to start by revealing a secret about Max.
My first couple of attempts are awkward, so Max leans over and whispers in my ear, “Why don’t you tease that damn camera like you tease me, Ava?”
I lean back, surprised. “Tease?”
He winks with a crooked grin.
Newly inspired, I nod to the cameraman and they roll again.
“Hi, I’m Ava Jacobs, the author of Unspoken Truths, here to interview my favorite subject, the brilliant artist Maxfield Caswell. But first, I have to tell you a secret.” I jump off the stool and walk closer to the camera with my finger poised in front of my pursed lips. “Shh, we’re in the artist’s studio, and you know what? He hates having anyone in here.”
“You’re right about that,” Max says from behind me.
“So, today should be fun, ’cause I think I’ll get him good and riled up. I mean, we’re all over his studio.” I wave my arms toward the paintings and his easel.
“Cut!” the director bellows.
I immediately steel myself for a chastisement for such a stupid intro.
“Perfect!” he yells.
I gape in disbelief.
“We want fun, Ava, just like that…something that will appeal to younger art enthusiasts, since that’s the demographic for the book.”
I love the idea of having fun with it, so I gently tease and taunt Max. And he gives it right back, even pushing me off my stool at one point. We both end up laughing, as if we’re the only people in the studio.
“What was the best thing Santa ever brought you?”
“A hamster. I named him Van Gogh because he had a deformed ear. He was smart; I even taught him to paint. He would scamper over my paint box and then put his little footprints all over my drawing pad. My mom even let me host an art show for him during one of her dinner parties.”
I’ve never heard this story, and I’m charmed. “So, you were his manager, shaping his career and whatnot?”
“Yeah, until the cleaning lady stepped on him. Just like Van Gogh, his life was short, but remarkable.”
“So, if you could go back in time and live any artist’s life, who would you choose?”
“Back how far? Like Andy Warhol’s time?”
“Any time, you could be Michelangelo during the Renaissance in Italy.”
“Yeah, right. How long did it take him to paint that ceiling on his back?”
“Fussy artist.” I turn toward the camera and shake my head. “He turns down being one of the great art geniuses from history, because his arms might get tired.”
His eyes light up as he raises his index finger. “I know! Theodore Geisel.”
“You mean Dr. Seuss? Cat in the Hat? Sam I Am? Are you toying with me, Caswell?”
“Seuss was a genius! Oh, the Places You’ll Go! is one of the best books ever, and the art’s trippy.”
“True, but that’s still an unexpected choice. I was thinking you’d pick Francis Bacon or someone upbeat like that.”
“Well, the thing about Seuss is that his books kind of messed me up as a kid, but in a good way. Besides, think about it…do you know a kid in America who wasn’t influenced by his work? Get ’em young, I say.”
“So, I see you pay attention to the demographics of your fan base.”
He shrugs with a crooked smile. “Doesn’t every artist? If they don’t, they should.”
At the end, I toy with him in a provocative way.
“Let’s talk about the lifestyle of a contemporary artist living in L.A. I hear you live quite the life, Mr. Caswell.”
He narrows his eyes and smiles crookedly. “So they say. Are you implying that I’m that kind of artist?”
I flip my hair over my shoulder. “The kind that invites women to see your etchings? No, but should I?”
He makes an exaggerated, sexy face.
“There’s your warning ladies.” I roll my eyes, cross my arms, and walk toward the camera again. “The man seems insatiable. But, lucky for us, the same can be said for his appetite to create thought-provoking art. Check out Unspoken Truths to learn more about Maxfield Caswell and his work.”
I turn back toward him. “Thanks, Max, for letting us into your ver
y private studio.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiles broadly as he picks up his paint brushes. “Now, please tell these guys to leave so I can have my fortress of solitude back.”
“Fortress of solitude? What a grand name!”
“Hmm…why don’t you stay behind and we can rename it.”
“I just might.” I turn and wink at the camera.
“Cut!”
“Was that all right?” I ask the director.
He looks at Max and they both roll their eyes.
“Was that really your first time on camera?” he asks with a skeptical look.
“Yes, why?”
“Well, I can promise you, it won’t be your last.”
That evening, Max takes me out to celebrate at Bonne Foi. We’re giddy from the success of the shoot, so over French food and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, we talk about our hopes and dreams, not just for his book and my career, but for the other adventures we’d like to share.
Remembering my conversation with Aunt Ann, I ask him about Paris, and he lights up. By the end of his Parisian stories, he promises me that one day soon he’ll take me to the City of Light.
After dinner, we get into the car. He grins while he starts up the engine. As we drive back to his house, I shift in my seat so I’m facing him.
“You were amazing today, Max…with all those people in your studio and the chaos of the shoot, you managed to be as charming as ever.”
“Just charming?”
“What were you going for?”
“Hot…I wanted to be hot,” he says playfully, as he pulls up to his security gate off the highway.
“Oh, well, that’s a given, handsome. You can’t avoid being hot even when you try. You’re hot when you’re happy, sad, aggravated…even angry. This is just something I have to deal with 24-7…all that unbelievable hotness.” I run my hand along his pants and stroke his muscular thigh suggestively.
“That hot?” he asks, laughing softly.
I slide my hand between his legs and slowly tease upward. “You know, it’s not fair that I have to deal with getting scorched from all that heat. It’s damn distracting. The want is overwhelming…we’re lucky that I haven’t spontaneously combusted by now.”
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