The Unveiling (Work of Art #2)

by Ruth Clampett

  I sigh and turn back to my laptop on the desk. Max, in low-slung jeans and a white T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, leans against the arched doorway of the library. With his bare feet, scruffy five-o’clock shadow, and wild hair, he’s a Bruce Weber photograph come to life. I want a big black and white print of him looking just like this to hang above my bed. I swallow the flames, not wanting to provoke him if he’s geared up and working.

  “Hi, handsome. What’s up?”

  “I can’t work…I keep thinking about you and wondering what you’re doing.”

  “I’m distracting you? We make a pair—I’m struggling to focus on my project, and you catch me standing here thinking about you too. Maybe I should go home so we can both get our work done.”

  He frowns. “I don’t want you to leave. Maybe you could come write in the studio while I paint. We could try it and…see how it feels. See if it’s too weird.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. The first time I entered his studio, he was yelling for me to get out.

  He holds out his hand. “Come on. Grab your laptop.”

  Tentatively, I follow him across the yard. He puts his arm over my shoulder as we step inside. Mozart’s 2nd Flute Concerto in D plays on the stereo and the windows are open, the studio happily bright with light.

  The calmness is a stark contrast to my memory of Jess, Dylan and I standing in front of his ravaged paintings. Now he’s in the progress of creating a large painting full of hope instead of despair.

  He gently takes the laptop out of my hands and places it on the desk under the north-facing window. He plugs it in and lifts the screen.

  “There,” he says, a big smile on his face. “You’re good to go.”

  I don’t say a word as I walk to the desk and settle into the chair. I figure if I write and stay quiet, we may be able to make this work.

  The soft sounds of painting—the brush tapping against the water tin and the swish of the bristles moving across the canvas—blend with Mozart’s Concerto. A feeling of contentment settles over me as I realize how happy I am to be in here with him. I focus on my screen and the words flow. I tap away on my keyboard as Mozart moves me along, and soon I’m in the zone.

  The sun is lower in the sky and the light has shifted in the studio when I type the last few words of my outline. I push out my chair, stand and stretch. I slowly turn to check on Max. He works intently on the right side of his canvas. I’m amazed at how much the painting has evolved since I sat down to work.

  “Wow,” I sigh with admiration.

  He turns to and me my breath catches from the intensity in his expression. His eyes almost glow from within, and his face is flushed with excitement.

  “This feels right. I didn’t have to think about anything. It just clicked into gear and I felt every brushstroke completely. Damn.”

  I step closer. “I know what you mean. Something about being here with you is so inspiring. I finished my whole intro, outline, and list of interview questions. I’m done.”

  He shakes his head and smiles broadly. “I knew it. Come here, my muse,” he says softly.

  I step next to him and look into his eyes.

  He sets his brush in the water and takes my hand, carefully guiding it to his palette. He rubs my index finger in a puddle of violet paint and lifts it just an inch above the surface of the canvas. I hold my breath in wonder.

  He studies the painting and gently drags my finger across the area he’s just painted. My uneven path cuts through a wide stripe of blue and red, leaving a ribbon of purple in its wake.

  I understand the huge significance of his gesture, and I close my eyes to still the memory in my mind. He wipes the residual paint off my finger with his rag, lifts my hand to his face and gently kisses the center of my palm.

  “Max,” I whisper.

  He kisses my wrist, then my cheek, the tip of my nose, and my forehead.

  I let out a long happy sigh.

  He gently enfolds me in his arms and softly presses his lips against mine. Our kiss is slow and sensuous, while his hands slowly caress my neck and shoulders before drifting down my back and gliding over my hips. He’s still painting, and I’m his canvas.

  Captivated, I mimic his movements, running my hands over his chest and down his back, but when I get to his waist, I slide my hands into the back pockets of his jeans and pull him firmly against me. I follow it up with a kiss that’s more spicy than sweet, and he reacts with a low moan.

  He accelerates to full speed in less than sixty seconds and I hold on tight. His skin’s hot, and he buzzes with a quiet power emanating throughout him. He walks me back several long steps until my ass is against the edge the desk. He leans us both over the surface and carefully pushes my laptop and coffee mug to the back of the desk. Then, he ceremoniously sweeps his hand across the rest of the desktop, sending papers, several books and a full pencil cup careening to the ground.

  “What are you doing, Max?” I ask, my anticipation building.

  He lifts me onto the edge of the desk and kisses me again. “Making it so you’ll never want to leave.”

  “Move in with me, love. I’ll be so good to you,” Max whispers in my ear three hours later when it’s time for me to go home.

  I gaze into his eyes. “I want to, but it’s too soon.” I kiss him desperately, wanting more…wanting everything.

  We hold hands tightly, and every step to my car is full of angst. I miss him already, and we haven’t even parted.

  After I drive away, I almost make a dangerous U-turn on PCH twice to head back. But I know we need to slow down, so I keep driving to my apartment, even though I’ve left my heart with him.

  Before I leave my apartment for work early Monday, I email Nick my project notes on the Andrea Altman project, so he’ll have time to go over them before our call on Tuesday. The following morning via phone conference, Nick introduces me to Quincy Estes, one of his editors who’ll be working with me hands-on for the project.

  “You’re off to a good start, Ava. Andrea’s American Woman series is ripe with issues to discuss,” Nick says, getting right to the point.

  “I like the way you address the feminist themes,” adds Quincy. “Just be careful not to overdo it. She’s not a bra-burning parade marcher. She takes a more subtle approach to get her message across.”

  “I agree. From everything I’ve read, she wants the work to speak for itself. I also understand she’s quite reclusive.”

  “She is, but she’s happy about the book and has agreed to the interview as long as it can be worked into her schedule. Quincy and I are going to add some questions to your interview outline that we can discuss during our next meeting.”

  By the time we end our call, I’m beaming. I’m starting from a position of respect, unlike my last project where I had to convince Dylan it wasn’t the world’s biggest mistake to hire me. I don’t have to defend myself at every turn.

  Besides the boost to my confidence, I also find Andrea Altman fascinating. Her entire career has been based on explorations of women and their perceived place in society. She’s one of a small group of women who’ve achieved major museum status with their multimedia work. I hope I get to meet her face to face.

  The next few weeks are a whirlwind. I labor feverishly on the Altman story, and Max throws himself into his latest work. I’ve never seen him so energized and focused. He’s titled it: Repurposing the Intangible. It’s the manifestation of the thrift store paintings project that incorporates the abandoned paintings.

  I delight in hearing him talk about it, since I was personally involved. That day we scoured thrift stores together was a precursor to our future love affair.

  I invite Max over Wednesday night. It was a crazy day at the gallery, and by the time I get off work and grocery shop, I’m too tired to cook. He’s sweet about it and takes me to El Coyote, one his old haunts, for enchiladas and margaritas. Then he brings me home and tucks me into bed.

  The next morning, as I head out the door, h
e reminds me to come to the art show on Saturday at the fine art magnet high school where he’s been working with the students. He’s excited to introduce me to the kids and show me their work, so I’m more than happy to come along.

  Saturday, he shows up at my place in black jeans and a fitted black T-shirt. He hasn’t shaved, so he really has that rough-edged look going.

  Damn. I give him a crooked smile with a raised brow.

  “What?” he asks.

  “You’re so incredibly distracting. Who’ll look at the art when you look like that?”

  “Oh please.” He rolls his eyes playfully and then points at me. “And what about you, Ms. Jacobs? As much as I love the fit of your jeans, do you really need to advertise that great ass?”

  I look behind me as if I’m checking out my backside and wink.

  “You’re going to provoke all those young men with their raging hormones.” He steps behind me, pulls me against him and slides his hands up to my breasts.

  “I’m going to have to beat them off with a big stick,” he growls.

  “You’re going to have to beat me off with a big stick if you don’t stop rubbing against me. In another minute I’m pulling off my tight-ass jeans and we’re missing the show.”

  He raises his hands and steps back. “Okay, okay. Let’s go.”

  When we walk into a large schoolroom that’s been converted into a makeshift gallery, all eyes turn toward us. A young man with tattoos running up his neck and a baseball cap angled to the side saunters over to us. He can’t be more than seventeen, but he has the attitude of someone twice his age.

  “Grand Master M!” He gives Max a fist bump and then looks me over.

  Master Max? I think, amused. I’ll make sure I use that later.

  The young man sucks in his cheeks and purses his lips as he studies me. “Is this your woman?”

  “Yes, Tulio, this is my woman, Ava. Ava, this is Tulio.”

  “Hey.” I nod, figuring this is as formal as we’ll get.

  “Oh, she’s fine, Master M, very fine. You better put a ring on it.”

  Max fights back a smile. “Thanks, man, I’ll keep that in mind. Now, why don’t you show us your work? I’m sure Ava will be fascinated.”

  “Put a ring on it,” I whisper as we follow Tulio. “Is that like being branded?”

  “In a way,” Max says. “Marking what’s yours is a theme around here.”

  “How romantic,” I say, with not a small amount of sarcasm in my voice.

  “Oh, angel, believe me, when I ask to put a ring on you, it’ll be very romantic.”

  I blush furiously, and I try to focus on the paintings Tulio points to. He’s a modern day Diego Rivera with colorful paintings of the people from his neighborhood—working, talking, and living their lives.

  “He’s good,” I say to Max.

  He nods with a smile on his face. “If he keeps this up, I’m sure I can get him a scholarship to a really good art school. Plus, he has the confidence and drive, and that’s half the battle.”

  Some of the kids are gathered around a table with homemade cookies and half-empty two-liter bottles of Coke and Sprite. No wine and cheese platters at this event, but perhaps some of them will be part of a prestigious opening one day.

  I take a broader look at the room with dirty walls and battered tables, and my heart swells as I realize the pride with which all of the art is hung. I’ve been to countless museums, gallery shows, and art events, and I’ve never felt this level of effort and creative energy captured in the work covering these four walls. There are no fancy frames, and not all the work is great, but there’s hope in every line and brushstroke.

  Everyone anticipates Max’s reaction to the art.

  Max approaches an African-American kid who’s standing next to a woman.

  “Hi, Maurice. Is this your mom?” he asks politely.

  Maurice nods shyly.

  He turns to Maurice’s mom. “I’m the guest teacher, Max Caswell.”

  “You’re the famous painter Maurice keeps talking about,” she says with cautious eyes. “You’ve made a big impression on him.”

  Max smiles at Maurice and nods. “And he’s made a big impression on me. He’s very talented, Mrs. Johnston.”

  “Yeah, but will he be able to get a real job with this drawing stuff?”

  “I can’t promise that, but he has a real gift, and I think he should give it a shot.”

  Maurice lights up like the Times Square Ball at midnight on New Year’s Eve. God, I’d bet on this kid with his fantastical paintings of flying elephants, baroque tree houses, and mythical animals perched in trees. His imagination appears to know no bounds, and his execution’s flawless.

  I study his painting just to my right and then smile warmly. “Where do you get your ideas and inspiration, Maurice? Your work is so imaginative.”

  “Thank you,” he says quietly, looking down. “I’ve always seen this in my head and done a million sketches for myself. But when Max showed me this artist—Daniel Merriman—and his work, I felt it was okay to do this stuff and still be taken seriously.”

  I squeeze Max’s hand as Maurice slowly looks up with admiration in his eyes.

  A provocative girl, who I decide to name Lolita, approaches us. She ignores me and flirts shamelessly with Max, but his extensive experience with flirty women keeps her at arm’s length without too much of a fuss.

  As much as I hate to admit it, her documentary photographs of quinceañeras show both the sensuality and wonder of the rite of passage pageantry for Latin-American girls. Lolita has managed to be both photographer and protagonist in her work.

  Max takes the time to introduce me to each student and show me his or her art. A tall, plain, red-headed girl taps him on the arm and points to a large canvas. He smiles as he approaches it and runs his hand over the right side of the painting. “Wow, Sadie. Did you do this after we talked?”

  She nods, nervously waiting for his reaction.

  “I love it. It’s so much stronger now, don’t you think?”

  Pure joy moves across her face.

  He takes my arm and pulls me closer. “Ava, this is Sadie, my abstract girl. What do you think?”

  I take my time and study her painting, so my answer doesn’t come off as flippant. Her use of color and layering is reminiscent of Max. She’s obviously been influenced by his work, but there’s real talent there. With time, she’ll hopefully find her own voice.

  “I like it very much, Sadie. Creating compelling abstract art is more difficult than people realize. You’ve got real talent.”

  She smiles, looking so hopeful.

  Our final stop is with Raphael, the teacher who brought Max into this program known for nurturing the most talented young artists from all over L.A. He shakes my hand warmly and speaks of what Max has given to the kids. The time he’s spent there has had a profound effect on them.

  Max has the power to give hope with only a handful of words to kids who’ve never known it. I’m proud of him, humbled to see his magic at work, and I fall fiercely in love all over again.

  Back in my apartment, we silently walk hand in hand to the bedroom. With only the moonlight to guide us, we slowly undress each other, stroking and kissing tenderly.

  I feel a subtle shift in my heart. Max acting as a mentor paints a new range of vibrant colors in my heart that unfurls through me. We’re the passion of color and light rendered in strokes of paint and surrounded by an elaborately carved frame that barely contains us.

  Is it possible to keep falling deeper into love—to want someone so much that it edges your every breath and echoes in every heartbeat?

  He lowers me onto the bed and stands over me. Gazing with dark eyes, he lightly runs his fingertips up my inner thighs until I slowly part my legs. Once I’m completely open, I reach for him as he joins me on the bed, his tongue replacing his fingertips.

  He tastes and teases me slowly, but I need him inside of me. Is he going to make me ask for what I want? I g
et an idea of what it must be like to be bound and touched everywhere except deep in my dark place where I need it most.

  “Please,” I beg.

  He rises up on his knees between my legs. As he tears open the condom foil, my fire flares from my explosive desire and his arousal, but mostly from the simple act of him touching himself as he rolls the condom on. He watches me squirm.

  “I want you so much, Ava. Are you ready?” His eyes are stormy, as if he’s about to devour me.

  “Yes,” I whisper, as I arch my back and spread open further, holding on to my last thread of control.

  Right before I resort to groveling, he sinks all the way into me with one fluid stroke, and the tight fullness is glorious.

  I wrap my legs around him as he builds a rhythm. Every thrust is a declaration…a surrender, a step forward and back. I score my nails down his back, then dig into his ass so that he takes me deeper. We moan as we tangle up together. His torso bows and his mouth meets my breast—teasing my nipples as I beg for more…and he gives and gives.

  God, I love this man.

  His skin is hot, his expression fierce. Our eyes meet and I glimpse his soul and the depth of his passion.

  “Ava,” he whispers with reverence and so much love.

  I start to fall away from the real world.

  Our kingdom extends beyond this room, far past the moat that surrounds our bed. I am his queen, splayed out on the royal bed as he fucks me soft, loves me hard, and turns me inside out.

  His devotion undoes me as we face the bright light, gathering stars in my hair as his fingers caress me…the wind at our feet, pushing us along.

  Our climax is a crash in reverse, all the broken pieces falling together.

  He is mine, he is mine…I am his.

  Chapter Twenty-One / This is the Hunger

  They sicken of the calm who know the storm.

  ~ Dorothy Parker