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 g
orgeous 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.
Back during our year in New York, we ran into Jonathan at many art events, and Max could hardly contain himself. Once, I actually had to physically restrain him and drag him out to Sixth Avenue when Jonathan cornered me at the Annie Leibovitz retrospective at the Center for International Photography. But Max had known Katiana for years, as she was one of the early supporters of his work when she was only an assistant curator. Once she married Jonathan, Max finally decided to make peace with him, and the last couple of years we’ve actually been friendly.
Later, Max and I drift into a group to listen to one of the trustees pontificate on his plans for the museum, and I look up to see my love’s blue gray eyes glazing over. Max looks over at me, runs his fingers through his hair and pulls his earlobe—our secret signal. I nod and reach for his hand. We make our escape, him pulling me along as fast as my heels will allow.
When we finally settle at our table at Soho House, we both immediately relax. Max loosens his tie, and I slide off my scarf. We order sparkling water while Max looks at the wine menu.
“What shall we toast?” he asks.
“How about another big show in New York? I hope you appreciate how extraordinary this is for someone so young. I’m so proud of you.”
“Oh, I love hearing that,” he sighs, as he leans over and kisses me. “We’ve had a hell-of-a great run, haven’t we?”
I nod. “So many great experiences and opportunities. And, you know, even when we have hit our little or big bumps, we always managed to work it out. We’ve dealt with stuff that would take most couples down. Remember the year we moved to New York so I could shoot the first two seasons there?”
“Yeah, what did I overhear you call it once? The year of heaven with a little bit of hell.”
“Yes, we learned a lot from all of that. It was the best of the best mixed in with some really challenging times.”
“What do you think was the craziest thing that happened that year?” he asks.
I pinch a bite off the olive bread and think for a moment.
“Remember when I was doing that Daniel Etheridge shoot at his remote farm in Vermont and that huge storm hit? We got snowed in, and there was a problem with the snowplow? We were going to be stuck there overnight. I was so nervous about what you’d do when you found out. Of course, I had to be trapped with the best looking artist I had interviewed, besides you, of course.”
“Oh, I remember that well.”
“Well, when I finally got through to you on your cell phone, I was surprised how calm you sounded. I didn’t realize that you’d already been making plans. So later when you rolled up, riding shotgun on the snowplow you had arranged all the way from the next town, I had to laugh.”
“Yeah, well, I sure as hell wasn’t going to leave you stranded with him in his cozy-as-hell country cottage and fucking art-barn. I had to pay that snow plow guy a fortune, but it was worth every penny.”
“That was one time that jealous Max came in really handy. I was so happy to be back at home with you.”
“So, if that was the craziest, what was the most challenging?”
“Hmmm, your award for best dramatic statement was about a month into the show’s tapings, when I had that week of late night shoots with that nocturnal artist. I got home at two A.M. on Friday, and you’d gone back to Malibu, leaving a note saying that you needed a break.”
He drops his head with a look of shame on his face.
“Poof, gone.” I smile at him, shaking my head. “I can smile about it now, but it just about killed me back then.”
“Yeah, Cara still hasn’t let me forget that either.”
“How long did you stay away again?”
“A week, but, really, I was ready to come back to you the minute I stepped into my house and realized what a mistake I’d made. Remember how, soon after I returned, things started to change? You have to admit that things got a lot better once I started making new friends…people I could hang with while you were away.”
“And then I became jealous because you were having too much fun.”
“We had to smooth out the rough edges for sure.”
“Yeah, you only tried that leaving thing one other time.”
“Oh, when that hyper-realist artist dude starting calling and leaving suggestive messages at the house. I was going to give him some hyper-realism time with my fist, and you stood up for him.”
“And that was, shall we say, the proverbial last straw.”
“But that was also when you started really getting feisty…you called me at the airport and said that if I got on the plane back to L.A., we were done.”
“I meant it too. You couldn’t keep leaving me, and we couldn’t keep having the same stupid fight. If you hadn’t realized that I was completely yours by that point, you never would.”
“So, I’m standing in the security line, realizing that I was going to lose you. And I’m trying to pull my plastic trays back off the conveyer belt. I threw the whole line into a shit-storm. Security was all over my ass. What a nightmare.”
“As I recall, despite all that, you made it back from JFK in record time. So, I guess my being feisty was effective.”
“Yup, and that was some particularly great make-up sex.”
“True, but imagine how we could’ve avoided all these issues if we’d known that the ass, Travis, was behind so much of it, including the hyper-realist dude. That guy came onto me with all of the finesse of a cage fighter.”
Max’s face clouds over. “You promised me you’d never mention Travis again.”
“Well, at least he got his…that has to give you some satisfaction. When ArtOneWorld heard about all the shit he’d done to me and the rest of the talent, his gig was over. Don’t you love that he’s working for some third-rate home shopping network now? Even Chloe got a job out of it, threatening to expose him when it came out how he also teamed up with her to break us up.”
“Is it true what Jess said—that she’s co-host of a cheesy jewelry show?”
“Yup, the fake girl is selling fake diamonds.”
He chuckles. “That’s pretty rich.”
“But, while we’re reminiscing, let’s not forget the good stuff. That first Christmas together was so storybook-like…all those night walks through the city, seeing all the holiday windows and decorations and feeling the cheer. Do you think we will ever live full-time in New York again?”
“It’s still a little too much for me, but it would
be cool for Lizzie to go to school in the city, around all that energy and culture.”
“She’d love it. She always asks when we’re going to New York again. She would live in the Natural History Museum if we’d let her.”
“I just realized something,” he says with a stunned look on his face.
“What’s that?”
“This is the first time in a while we haven’t spent our entire dinner conversation talking about Lizzie.”
“You’re right. But now that you mention it, let’s call over there and make sure Delia has her tucked into bed. When we called on the way over to say goodnight, she sounded pretty hyped up.”
“He probably gave her gummy bears with the movie again. I swear, it takes her two days to get over those monthly sleepovers with Grandpa.”
And, as he starts to dial, my heart swells as I realize how much we miss her when she isn’t with us. We’re the three musketeers now.
The next morning, we enthusiastically embrace sleeping in, since it’s now a rare luxury. Our little spitfire never sleeps past six, even on the weekends. When I finally open my eyes, I stretch luxuriously, then curl back up to my man. I feel him stir, and then pull me closer.
“I was just dreaming about Bandelier again,” he sighs.
“Was it the one where we fly out of the cave dwelling and soar over the trees?”
“No, Lizzy was in this one, and I was helping her up the ladder, but it was short and bright blue, like the one for the slide in the kids’ playground.”
“Well, she keeps asking to go to Santa Fe. She wants to see where we got married. What is it with little girl’s interest in brides and weddings?”
“Probably because she always hears that we had the greatest wedding, and the only thing that could have made it better is if she could’ve been there.”
I smile and kiss him. “I was worried you’d never get over your disappointment that we couldn’t do it at Gaudi’s church in Barcelona.”
“Oh, that would’ve been amazing, but this was really special. New Mexico holds so much meaning for us.”
“I know, you’re such a romantic…the way you proposed to me at Bandelier was so perfect.”
The Masterpiece (Work of Art #3) Page 26
