That afternoon, Everett’s assistant delivers four new paintings, and I catalogue and price them. There are already several clients lined up to come in and see them.
Jess calls right before six to check in. She’s on some type of health kick, so we’re going to a yoga class. “Are you ready to go?”
“I just wrapped up, but I still have to change. I brought my stuff here so it’ll just take a minute.”
“Okay, but hurry. We have to get there early, baby. Those fierce yoga bitches will take you down if you’re late and try to squeeze your mat in next to theirs.”
I laugh. “Okay, okay! Be there in fifteen!”
I grab my yoga bag and slip into the bathroom, then quickly change into my yoga pants, tank top and flip-flops. When I step out, Brian and Sean are talking a few feet away in the hall. They both stop and check me out.
“What, you’ve never seen yoga gear before?” I challenge, blushing furiously.
Sean smiles. “Is that what that is? Nice.”
“Yeah, those stretchy yoga pants make your ass look great,” Brian adds.
“Gee thanks, guys. I’ll remember that when my great looking ass is up in the air and I’m twisted like a pretzel.” I charge out of the gallery, the fear of Jess’s wrath fueling my fire.
I score a parking spot right in front of the Sun Moon Yoga Studio, dash inside, and find Jess. She’s already rolled out her mat near the front of the large studio, and I flop my mat down next to hers.
Even though class hasn’t started, she still whispers, “This class is a blend of restorative and hatha yoga, and it’s taught by the studio’s owner, Cheri. It’s the most popular class they offer. I’ve seen the class so full they’ve had to turn people away, and let me tell you, it wasn’t pretty.” She shakes her head, remembering.
Anyway, it’s supposed to be really good for de-stressing. I thought it’d be good for you right now.”
“You got that right,” I whisper with a smile.
The room has filled up with stressed-out women in stretchy clothes sitting on purple or blue foam mats. A beautiful, serene woman with long flowing dark hair glides to the front of the room and starts the class. As hypnotic Indian music plays, she talks in a sweet voice and guides us into different positions we hold and hold and hold. She encourages us to breathe into our tension and release it. She also walks around and helps people get into position.
When every pose makes me think of Max or Jonathan, and not in a PG kind of way, I realize how messed up I am. There’s the down dog, where I image Max behind me—no further explanation needed there. All that holding and deep breathing gives me lots of time to imagine things.
We move into the dolphin pose with our asses all the way up in the air. Next comes the bridge and open plow poses, which give new meaning to flexibility while spreading ones legs. But the last straw for me is the bound angle pose, which just sounds nasty as the ethereal Cheri explains how it opens the groin and hips. At this point, I’m a quivering mess on my little sheet of foam. Jess looks over and rolls her eyes.
I finally calm myself down by trying to remember my grocery shopping list one item at a time. Cheri then puts us in the final pose, savasana, which is essentially laying down flat—my favorite kind of pose. She does a guided meditation that’s so hypnotic the next thing I know Jess is waking me up because the class is over.
“You were snoring.” She shakes her head as we walk out the door.
We stroll the two blocks down Melrose to the Urth Caffe, a nearby eatery that caters to all the beautiful health-conscious people this city is overrun with. I’m glad that it’s warm enough to sit outside on the patio.
After ordering salads and organic green tea, we catch up with each other’s lives. Jess tells me she and Laura are researching a wedding ceremony. I’m surprised they feel the need for the formality, but she explains they’re thinking about having a child, and it would be nice for their kid to know they’d made the commitment. She promises to make me maid of honor if they go through with it.
Our salads arrive, and as I tell her about my meeting with Jonathan, Max pulls into a parking space across the street. He gets out and slowly walks around to the other side of the car. It’s rather jarring to see my fantasy man in the flesh out of the usual context.
“Hey, look Jess, it’s Max.” I point him out right as he opens the passenger door and a blonde head pops out. Jess and I silently watch his passenger get out of the car while he puts money in the parking meter. She’s undeniably pretty, tall and lean with notably large breasts.
“Who’s that?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady even though I feel as if I’ve just been kicked in the stomach.
Squinting, Jess says, “Oh man. It’s that stupid bitch, Sheila. She must be visiting from up North. I can’t imagine what he’s doing with her again. I mean that chick is clueless, definitely one French fry short of a Happy Meal.”
Neither one of us makes any move to say hello or get Max’s attention. Instead we silently watch him lead her into the restaurant across the street.
I remember Max’s friends talking about her and decide to find out what Jess knows. “Is she an old girlfriend or something?” I ask once they’re inside.
“No, just another in the long string of bimbos he occupies himself with. He’s seen her more than once, so I guess you have to give her some credit for that.”
I can tell Jess is disgusted, and I take some satisfaction in that. As I tell Jess about my recent conversation with Max and his defensiveness against being called a womanizer, I silently wonder if seeing Max with sex goddess Sheila will finally push him out of my fantasy life.
“When was the last time you saw him in a real relationship?” I ask.
She takes a bite of her salad before answering. “There hasn’t been anyone he’s really cared about since Chloe. She was his girlfriend in art school, and he was wild about her.”
“What happened?” I ask, remembering Max talking about the girl he was obsessed with. Perhaps it was this Chloe.
“Oh, that’s a long sordid story. I’m not in the mood to tell it now. Another time, okay?”
“Sure,” I agree and take a sip of my tea, my mind churning with curiosity.
When I awaken the next morning, my first thought is, I’m seeing Max today. When I’d asked him about his formative years, and he came up with the idea of giving me a tour of where he grew up. He’ll pick me up at six at the gallery after work.
I’m interested about what I’ll learn tonight. There’s no question it’ll help me gain a better understanding of him.
When he comes to pick me up, he’s wearing his painting jeans and T-shirt with a worn leather jacket. The Ray-Bans complete the rebel look he has going. This is definitely going to be a distraction, since he’s the essence of raw sexuality.
He gives me a warm smile as he opens the passenger car door. I’m reminded of the last time I saw him. He had his arms wrapped around me at the Ivy. If I don’t push that image out of my mind, I’ll never focus on what he’s showing me tonight.
“Ready for the official Maxfield Caswell tour?” He winks.
“Can’t wait!” I wink back.
I slide into his Porsche with my notepad and folder, attempting to exude a professional air. I glance at him as he fires up the engine. “Were you working today?”
“Yeah,” he responds, looking down at his clothes. “Oh sorry, I’d lost track of time and didn’t have time to change. I didn’t want to be late.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. You look good actually.” I blush, realizing how that sounded.
His driving is smooth and confident, as he turns on to Beverly Boulevard, heading east. We pass street after street of eclectic boutiques, cafes and coffee bars before he makes a right onto Alta Vista and pulls over in front of a house about eight houses down from the corner.
He gazes past me at a small Spanish home with hand-painted tile wrapped around the picture window and a tangle of palms, bird of paradise and flaming fuchs
ia bougainvillea in the yard. An old decorative wrought iron gate is open to the front patio. He has a soft look in his eyes.
He grips the steering wheel tightly and clears his throat. “This is where I grew up.”
I smile. “It’s beautiful. I love the style of the house. It has so much character.”
“Yeah, my mom loved old Spanish homes, the hardwood floors, thick plaster walls and coved ceilings. The house is built around a wonderful tiled patio with a fountain. We used to eat outside a lot. I have a lot of good memories from the years I spent here with her.” He opens the door of the car and gets out.
We stand on the sidewalk in front of the house, and he looks up and down the street, taking everything in. I wonder what he’s thinking and how he’s feeling.
“Do you come here often?”
“No, I never do. It’s still too hard because it reminds me of my mom and how much I miss her.”
“I understand.” Sadly, I do . . . better than he may realize. “How long did you live here? This is where your mom raised you instead of Malibu, right?”
“Yes, Mom bought it after the divorce when I was four, and I lived here until I left for college.” He tips his head, still gazing at the house. “I’m so glad to see they haven’t changed it. I was worried they might have torn it down and built some big modern house in its place.”
“What about the Malibu house? What’s the story behind that.”
“My parents actually bought that house before I was born, and my mom got it in the divorce. My dad took the Beverly Hills house. People thought she was nuts when she used up all her money to buy this. They assumed we’d live in Malibu, but she didn’t want to raise me there. We’d only go for the occasional weekend and sometimes in the summer.”
It’s fascinating and so different from my childhood.
He shrugs. “My mom always felt the kids in Malibu were entitled and disconnected from the real world?”
I nod. “I bet she was right.”
“She wanted to raise me in the city and send me to public school so I’d have a realistic understanding of things.” He pulls back his shoulders and smiles. It makes me feel that he’s proud of his mother for raising him the way she did.
“And your dad?” I wonder out loud. “Is he alive?”
His expression falls. “He’s still alive, but we don’t have a relationship. I haven’t seen him since Mom died, and I barely saw him before that.”
“I’m sorry, Max.”
He looks at me and starts to say something, but he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “We can live our lives with regret or resentment for what we didn’t have, but whatever our experiences were, they shaped who we are now. So I just have to believe this was the path I was supposed to have.”
I study him, surprised to see some of the depth Dylan had talked about. After a moment, I decide to lighten things up.
“There are a number of houses on this street. Did you have a lot of kids in this neighborhood?”
He laughs, “Oh yeah. We would organize our own Olympic games in the summer. Those were good times. Oh, and kick the can. We would play until it was so dark we couldn’t see any longer.”
“We had this tent Mom would let me and my friend pitch in the back of the garden and we’d play survivalists in the wilderness.”
“That must have been fun. I would’ve loved to have met you when you were a little boy.”
“In retrospect, I was a nerd and really shy, always drawing and reading and lost in my own imagination. The bigger kids teased me, but my best friend Bobby lived next door, and he defended me. He also dragged me outside to play as often as he could.”
I smile, happy to know he had a friend to look out for him.
“See that Mexican restaurant down on the corner called El Coyote?”
I nod as he points to a low white building with red awnings, a trio of payphones on the side, and an old metal sign on the roof. It’s the type of place that looks like it’s always been there.
“Mom and I would have enchiladas there every Sunday night. The waitresses wore these traditional Spanish dresses with big hoop skirts that were so big they couldn’t walk down the aisles without their skirts tipping up. I always tried to sneak a peek under those skirts.”
So he was always a ladies man. I laugh to myself.
“This must have been a fun area to live in.”
“Sure, there was an art supply store just down Beverly that I practically lived at. The owner, Kirk, had to kick me out at night so he could close the store. Every Saturday I used to ride my bike to the museum. All the guards knew me and would sometimes bring me food from the cafeteria.”
“So that’s where you honed your power of persuasion.”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Come on, I’ll continue the tour. Let’s drive by my high school and then go to Farmers Market and get something to eat.”
We get back in the car and drive west about a mile until we get to a big public high school at the corner of Melrose and Fairfax. “Three years before I started high school, they established a fine art magnet here so I was lucky. It was like a small art school within the school. I had some great art teachers who encouraged me in my work. I probably would’ve never ended up at Pratt, hell I probably wouldn’t be who I am today, if I hadn’t had that experience.”
After that, we head to an L.A. mainstay, Farmers Market, a collection of permanent stalls with every kind of prepared food, including stands with baskets of fresh fruit, bakeries, a doughnut shop and a place where you can watch them make candy. Metal tables and chairs from the 1940s are grouped together so people can pick up a sandwich or some coffee and hang out with friends. And since it’s entirely outdoors, clusters of old-fashioned scalloped-edge umbrellas in different colors provide shade.
“I love this place,” I say as we weave our way through the market.
He nods. “It’s always mixed with an eclectic group of people, from L.A. hipsters, to old locals, to tourists from all over the world. My favorite group is the game show contestants who wander around, still wearing their name tags from CBS Studios next door.”
I smile. “That’s great—so LA.”
“Bennett’s Ice Cream!” Max calls out as we walk down an aisle. “That’s where I had my first job. As a matter of fact, I had my first hand job in the storeroom. Emily Young . . . I wonder what ever happened to her?”
“The storeroom? How romantic. Why don’t you Facebook her? You could become Facebook friends and have a repeat performance. I have several ex-boyfriends stalking me on Facebook.”
“No thanks.”
We wander around until we decide on Middle Eastern food for dinner, and we share a falafel plate and gyro sandwiches. About halfway through dinner, I realize I’ve never seen this side of Max—happy and relaxed. Maybe making peace with his past and present has been good for him.
We’re both quiet on the drive back to the gallery. He parks next to my car and turns off the engine. There’s a heaviness in the air, and I wait to see if he’ll address it. Another minute passes in silence before he finally turns to me.
“You know, Ava, I’ve never shown anyone my past. It’s too private and invasive. Yet it felt so right to share it with you. I mean, I know this is research for the book, but to me it felt like something more. I’m not sure what yet, but I want to find out.”
His blue gray eyes search mine, full of emotion and maybe fear. I hold his gaze, unwavering and hoping my eyes will tell him how much it meant to share these memories with him. I’m too scared to speak and I’m angry with myself for my fierce attraction to this complicated man. I’m afraid this delicate web woven between us will dissolve from the sheer force of my confused thoughts.
He looks at my lips and parts his before he leans a bit closer to me. The air is charged with electricity.
All of my logic escapes me as my guard and reservations come crashing down as I desperately hope he wants to pull me in his arms and kiss me.
All I can do is close my
eyes and wait, hoping his heart’s desire will overcome the cautious inclination of his tangled mind.
Chapter Eleven / Free fall
I would rather die of passion than of boredom.
~Vincent van Gogh
The seconds pass and, with my eyes closed, I imagine his lips are almost on me. I prepare for my libido to spontaneously combust from the resulting heat and friction.
Max clears his throat. “Thanks again, Ava.”
The snap of the door locks provide the final shattering of my sad delusion.
I open my eyes and I try to conceal the horror creeping up and reshaping my face. I’m completely stunned. How could I have misread his intentions so completely? I can’t get out of the car fast enough.
“Yeah okay, bye,” I snap and jump out of the Porsche. I don’t look back as I fumble with my keys to unlock my car and finally fall into my seat. The tears of frustration fall as I start the engine.
What is wrong with you? Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why do you do this? Are you an idiot? You’re an idiot! Have you not paid attention to every signpost that man has held in front of you? You’re such a fucking idiot. Why in the hell would you want that womanizer to kiss you anyway? Have you lost your mind? He probably thinks of you like a sister—worse than his sister, his idiot loser moron sister. He’s probably on his way to pick up Sheila so he can fuck her brains out. Tomorrow you should quit this project and tell him you’re just not interested in writing his stupid fucking book. You should fuck Jonathan. You should fuck those stupid ex-boyfriend Facebook friends. You are so fucked!
This thread of destructive thoughts churns through my head until I’m finally home and have ingested three shots of Grey Goose. I’m almost glad Riley isn’t coming home tonight so I can spare her my epic tale that sinks my loser love life down to a whole new low.
In my drunken state, I stumble to my bedroom and board my bed—the ship to drift through a murky sea. I pray I’ll reach shore by morning.
Work of Art ~ the Collection Page 11
