Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  I decide to turn down another path when I hear my cell’s ringtone.

  Maxfield Caswell.

  I’m only half-surprised. He’s probably calling to apologize for last night. I’m curious to see how he’s doing.

  “Hey, Max,” I say casually.

  “Ava.” He takes a sharp breath. “What are you doing?”

  “Um, walking in Central Park. Why?”

  “I was wondering if we could meet for coffee before you leave. You mentioned you guys were flying home tonight.”

  I’m amazed he’s remembered that detail. “Well . . . I just had coffee,” I say, trying to be playful to lighten the mood.

  “Okay, then tea. Where are you in the park? I’ll grab a cab and meet you now.”

  I look around for a landmark, impressed at his determination. “I’ll sit on a bench facing the pond at 61st Street, just in from 5th Avenue.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

  I pace for a few minutes as my heart races, and I finally sit on the bench. What’s this about? I wonder. He doesn’t have to take me to tea. A thank-you call would’ve been sufficient.

  Each minute feels like an hour. I finally look up just as he exits a cab on 5th Avenue. He strides toward the pond and flashes that gorgeous smile when he sees me stand up from the bench.

  God, he’s beautiful, I marvel, allowing myself one last swoon before I steel myself for what’s to come. The only thing I’m sure of is I have absolutely no idea what’s going to happen.

  “Hi, you want to walk?” he asks casually as he approaches, pushing his hands into his jacket pockets.

  I nod and we stroll silently toward the park exit at 59th Street and 5th. The trees are all edged with a brilliant green as their coats of spring leaves are just breaking through. I’m trying to imagine that this silence isn’t awkward, but he gives me a break by finally speaking.

  “Thank you for looking out for me last night,” he says quietly, looking down at me.

  I smile. “It wasn’t a big deal. You didn’t have to come out of your way to thank me.”

  “I know, but I thought we could talk.”

  “Sure.” I realize that we’re now heading down 5th Avenue and he seems to have a destination in mind. He rests his hand on my back and leads me into a turn on 55th Street. The fancy doorman at the St. Regis Hotel tips his hat as Max leads me into the elegant lobby.

  “We’re having tea here?” I ask, glad I’m wearing nice slacks and a tailored jacket.

  “Yes, high tea. Would you prefer something else?”

  “Oh, I love high tea, but I wouldn’t imagine it’s your style.”

  “See, one of the many things you don’t know about me . . . I love high tea. I had high tea frequently with my mom, and this was her favorite place to go in New York.”

  My eyes grow wide. He’s taking me to his mom’s favorite place for high tea? Why?

  The hostess leads us to a low silk-covered settee facing a linen-covered table set with elegant china and silver.

  We must look like we’re a couple, I think, noticing most of the other seating options have traditional tables and chairs.

  We sink down into the loveseat with our thighs lightly touching. I open the tasseled menu to choose from a selection of over twenty teas, everything from English breakfast to exotic mango spice.

  I pause to admire my surroundings and the frescoed ceiling with delicate painted cherubs floating in a cloud-filled sky, the layers of intricately carved moldings framing each scene.

  I could get used to this.

  “Does your mom still come here?”

  “No, she passed away.” He looks down and shifts the fork on the table.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Good going, Ava. Ask about his dead mother. That would explain why he spoke in the past tense, idiot.

  “She’s been gone for six years, breast cancer,” he says just before the waiter approaches.

  I’m glad for the distraction. The waiter takes our order, and after he moves away Max takes a deep breath and shifts to face me.

  “So, I want to apologize for last night. I’m angry with myself for what I put you through.”

  Am I going to let him off the hook? I decide not to. “You’re quite the party boy, Max, and that’s okay I guess, if it’s what you want. But I decided to get involved when you looked like a fool in front of Jonathan Alistair from Art+trA. It felt like a career disaster and I couldn’t let that happen to you.”

  He grimaces. “I guess I deserve the party-boy line.” He looks down. “But why did you help me, Ava? You don’t even know me, not really.”

  Because you are the hottest man I’ve ever spent time with, and I want to be in your bed. I swallow and take a deep breath, glad my thoughts didn’t escape my mouth.

  “Well, I love working with artists. I seem to understand them. And I knew you needed help. It was my natural instinct,” I answer, hoping he believes me.

  He gives me a warm smile. “I knew it, Ava. I knew it from the moment we met that you would look out for me.”

  “Look out for you?” I realize that my mouth has fallen open and I press my lips together.

  He studies me as if he’s not sure whether to continue, but then he clears his throat. “I’d like to be completely frank with you. Is that okay?”

  I nod.

  “I’m in a bad place. I don’t know why I’m so fucked up, but nothing . . . the fame, nor the success, seems to mean anything. So I screw around and party way too hard. It doesn’t make me feel any better, but I do it because it numbs my brain and gets me out of my head for a while.”

  Whoa . . . this is way more information than I expected from the man who checked out last night the moment things got edgy. This isn’t exactly high tea conversation, but in a way, I realize that I’d rather be discussing this here than in a bar. The civility of the tearoom presents a different weight to the conversation.

  “Can I ask how much you drank or used last night?”

  “Use?” He shakes his head. “I don’t do the drug thing—left that behind at art school. I saw too many kids completely lose themselves. But yeah, I had enough shots last night to forget how many.” He runs his fingers through his hair.

  The conversation halts as the waiter sets up a tiered set of plates full of tiny sandwiches, pastries and scones. He carefully pours out our tea, using silver tea strainers over our china cups.

  “Anyway, the reason I had to talk to you today is because I laid awake all morning and thought about you. I was overwhelmed by the feeling that we were destined to meet right now, at this very point in time . . . and that somehow you would teach me how to do this right.”

  “Do what right?” I bite my bottom lip to prevent my mouth from gaping open.

  “Find my way. You know, help me figure out how to be happy in my life,” he stammers, as he taps his pen against the edge of the table and looks down where’s he’s doodled something abstract on the fancy menu.

  “And what in the world makes you think I could figure that out for you?” I look at him incredulously. “I have issues myself I still haven’t figured out.”

  “I know, Ava, I know . . .” He wrings his hands. “It sounds crazy, but I have this feeling about you and it’s so strong, so damn strong.”

  “Let me get this straight . . . We were destined to meet so I could help you deal with your unhappiness with being rich and wildly successful?” I know I’m sounding snarky at this point, but what the hell? “How nice for me, Max? Isn’t destiny more two-sided than that? What do I get out of this Mother Teresa helping Max thing?”

  Max’s expression falls. “I know, I know, what an asshole, right? I just haven’t figured out that part yet, but I’m sure there’s a way I can help you. Maybe help you get your writing career established. I know people in publishing.”

  I sit back, stunned. Why in the world does Max think I hold answers to his happiness in my hands? And even if I’m willing to be his supposed savior, how will it work? />
  “So, since you’ve had the morning to think about this, maybe you can explain how it’ll work in practical terms,” I say, nibbling on a little sandwich. I don’t intend to play with him, but this gets more intriguing by the minute.

  “Maybe you could work for me, help me manage my life?” he says, looking hopeful.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, holding back a laugh. “First of all, I work for Adam and I’m very loyal to him. Secondly, what kind of career move would that be, professional babysitter and life coach for Maxfield Caswell?”

  He frowns. “I suppose when you say it like that it does sound crazy. Promise me you’ll think about it, and I will too. There’s got to be some way we can help each other.”

  We polish off the tiny sandwiches and dig into the scones with the clotted cream. There’s a pianist in the corner playing classical music. I wish I could take pictures of Max in this room to capture the incongruity of so much masculinity and intensity perched on a silk settee. If I had pictures, I could always remember our high tea and know it really happened and wasn’t just a dream.

  When we’re done, Max insists on walking me back to my hotel, Le Parker Meridien, a couple of blocks away at 56th and 6th. I need to get up to my room to make the promised call to Jonathan and take care of other business before the car picks me up for the airport.

  I smile brightly as I turn to him to say goodbye. “Thank you so much for high tea. It was really lovely.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  Oh I love this gentlemanlike side of Max.

  “Promise you’ll think about we talked about?” he asks.

  As I nod, he pulls me into a hug. As hugs go, this one’s a standout. He holds me, really holds me. I feel so warm and protected, and he isn’t letting go.

  He tips his head down to my ear and whispers, “You know, I remember a few things about last night, Ava. I remember you took off my shoes and sweater and then tucked me in. You were so gentle with me. But most of all, I remember you stayed and ran your fingers through my hair to soothe me. I wish I could make you realize how that made me feel, how it was just what I needed at that very moment.” And he pulls me even tighter for a moment and gently kisses my forehead before finally letting me go.

  I pull back and look into his eyes, while trying to calm my pounding heart. I want to kiss him with every fiber of my being, but evidently he’s determined that I’m destined to be his savior, not his lover. So instead, I walk to the hotel entrance and turn back one last time to smile and wave goodbye.

  Chapter Five / Teetering between Euphoria and Terror

  The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance.

  ~Aristotle

  Adam’s in a particularly good mood on the flight back to L.A., probably because all but one of Jess’s original paintings sold, along with a sizeable number of serigraph prints. He also got good responses to the three other artists he represented at the show, so it was a hit all the way around.

  I’m happy for our success, but distracted as I think about Max and the way I felt in his arms as we said goodbye. To be that close and take in the scent of him, the hardness of his chest in contrast to the soft warmth of his hug, was a feeling I’ll dwell on in the days to come.

  In sharp contrast, I force myself to view an internal PowerPoint presentation on the dark and very real side of Max: Max entertaining the art groupies, Max insulting Jonathan, Max with the art slut on her knees grabbing his crotch, Max drunk and broken. Flashing red signs tell me to make a sharp U-turn and head quickly in the opposite direction of this man.

  Despite my late flight, I’m happy to see that my roommate, Riley, is still up. She instantly lifts my mood. After I drag my luggage through the apartment, we curl up on the couch and I tell her about my trip and purposely leave out Max. I want to talk about him when I can think clearly and am not completely exhausted.

  Riley frequently travels to New York for her design job, so once I tell her the restaurants, museums and galleries I visited, she can picture my time there vividly. One day, we will end up in New York at the same time and we’ll paint the town red.

  Before I finally head to my bedroom, Riley fills me in on the latest drama at her job overseeing the design of merchandise and packaging for the girl’s accessory and costume lines. The irony of her position is that Riley develops a lot of their princess and fairy dress-up designs, which sounds like fun. Yet, the reality is that it’s amazing how nasty people can get fighting over complications with tutu manufacturing and design issues with magic wands.

  I sleep in late since Adam told me not to come in until after lunch. Wandering into the kitchen, I find Riley’s note next to the coffee maker, asking me to join her for dinner. I put in a load of laundry before heading off to the gallery.

  As we get ready for our meeting, Brian and Katherine give me big welcome-back hugs, but Sean stands silently to the side. I sigh in frustration. I’m not up for his moodiness today.

  What have I done now? But just when I’m ready to confront him, Adam sweeps in, ready to hit the ground running.

  He’s clearly energized by the trip. We go over sales and the follow-up to accomplish in the following days, including a lot of printing. Adam asks me to finish out the week helping Sean.

  Oh goody, I think sarcastically.

  When we get to the print studio, I peruse the schedule Sean has posted and start preparing the inks for the first run. He’s in the back burning the screens as I unwrap a new ream of archival paper. I love working in the print studio with the smell of the ink, the richness of the colors, and the handwork involved when so much of the world is mechanized.

  Sean carries the first screen for the print run to the front of the shop. He holds it high over his head to protect the fragile surface as he walks past the equipment drying racks and pallets of paper. He wears a tight tank top and his formfitting faded jeans, accentuating his muscular build. Even when I’m steaming mad at him, I have to admit he has a beautiful body. He’s classically defined like Michelangelo’s David, and his movements have an elegance that make him addicting to watch. He notices I’m looking at him, and he smiles. He’s a very proud man and undoubtedly likes to be appreciated. It’s all part of our complicated relationship.

  As we step into position and start the run, he waits until we have a rhythm going before he addresses me.

  “So was the trip good?” he asks with little inflection in his voice.

  “Yeah,” I reply with no intention of making this easy.

  “Sounds like you sold a lot of art.”

  “Yup.”

  “Did you get out much after the show?” His tone sounds disinterested, but I know he thinks I’ll share more if he doesn’t come on too strong.

  “We went out a bit.” I see where this is leading.

  “Jess tells me that Caswell was quite taken with you.” He looks pissed as he says it. For a stoic, he’s so transparent.

  “Really? Jess has an active imagination, considering he was surrounded by art groupies the entire show.” I stretch the truth a bit.

  “Well, I saw a picture.”

  “Really?” I’m exasperated. “There were lots of pictures Sean. It was an art show. That’s what they do, take lots of pictures.” I point at him agitated. “Were you stalking me on the internet again?”

  He backs down. “I worry about you, Ava. You don’t realize what you do to guys, and I worry something’s going to happen to you. That Caswell is an asshole, and I don’t want him to take advantage of you.”

  You always assume everyone is going to take advantage of me, I think, frustrated. He’s the bossy, big brother I never asked for. “You have to lay off, Sean. You aren’t helping me when you get like this.”

  He turns away, his eyes hooded with anger, and I get a profile view of him with his high cheekbones and his smooth caramel skin. Sean is good-looking in an exotic way, but when he’s angry, he’s hot. If he wasn’t always telling me how I should li
ve my life, and we didn’t work side-by-side daily in the studio, I would’ve slept with him a long time ago.

  We work quietly the rest of the afternoon, only speaking when we have to give each other specific demands. The tension remains thick, and as soon as the last print is pulled off the press, I quickly hang up my apron and head out the door.

  Riley and I do our monthly splurge and meet at Nobu for sushi, lucky to get the last table in the crowded restaurant. We check off a variety of rolls and specialties on the sushi order form and order large sakes to go with our meal. I’m finally ready to tell her about Max.

  “Riley, there’s this guy . . .” I start. Her eyes widen, since this isn’t how I normally start our conversations.

  I tell her all about him, the good and the bad, culminating in his nominating me to be his personal savior. As she hears my story she’s amused, excited, confused and undecided, all rolled up into one.

  “What are you going to do?” she asks, her big Tweety-bird eyes searching.

  “I have no idea. But there may be nothing I can do. It’s kind of up to him at this point. I’m certainly not going to contact him.”

  As we discuss various possibilities, I mention my makeover courtesy of Laura and Jess and how Max reacted to it. It’s like giving the addict a hit. Riley chokes on her spicy tuna roll in excitement.

  “She actually got you to dress sexy!” she says with delight. “Oh, and what I wouldn’t have given to see the men around you dropping like flies!”

  “Hardly,” I scoff, pushing Max’s heated reaction out of my mind.

  “It’s a new day, Ava!” she announces. It doesn’t matter if you ever see Max again or not. It’s time to own your fabulousness.”

  “Right!” I laugh, but Riley looks serious and announces a Saturday shopping trip to Agent Provocateur.

  “Feeling sexy is the foundation to finding your inner goddess! And we’ll get pedicures!”