“I don’t know, Max . . . I’m really not feeling well right now. I may have to cancel tomorrow.”
Max gives me a stern look. I guess our playacting isn’t going the way he planned.
Jonathan moves closer. “You aren’t well?”
“No, I’m sorry to say, but I’m having really bad cramps. You know . . . it’s a girl thing. I may have to leave in a minute,” I whisper.
His color drains as he nods, accepting my ailment without question. It’s rather ironic that he looks extremely squeamish over my “female problems.” Max called that right.
Jonathan suddenly takes my elbow. “Okay, but before you go there’s someone very important here I’d like you to meet. Excuse us, Max.” A couple moves toward us and smiles at Jonathan.
Max turns, and instead of walking away, he smiles at the woman and her companion as well. Jonathan tenses and looks really pissed.
“Lisa,” Jonathan steps forward and kisses her on both cheeks. “You’re a long way from home.”
“Jonathan!” They embrace.
Jonathan shakes her companion’s hand. “Lewis, so good to see you.”
Jonathan turns to me. “Ava, please let me introduce you to my good friends, Lisa Forrester, who’s a curator at MOMA, and noted artist, Lewis Sierra.”
They both shake my hand warmly.
Lisa turns to Max. “Max, this must be the Ava you told me about earlier.”
He nods and looks delighted.
What exactly did he tell them about me?
Jonathan’s eyes narrow and his lips press tightly together. He’s really steaming now. I would actually enjoy this if I weren’t the tennis ball in this grudge match.
“To what do we owe this honor? Did you come out just for the show?” Jonathan asks, trying to gain control again.
“My best friend from college is celebrating a big birthday, so we came out for that and decided to come to this party too,” Lisa says.
“Business and pleasure,” Lewis says with a smile. His voice is a deep baritone.
We continue to talk for several minutes, until I finally decide to excuse myself and say my good-byes to everyone. Jonathan looks concerned and asks if he can at least walk me to my car, but I insist he stay with Lisa and Lewis. He reluctantly agrees.
Max watches me walk away, a devilish smile on his face.
I’m almost to my car when Max runs up behind me. “I’m just over here.” He points to his Porsche parked nearby. “So, follow me out. It’s about ten minutes from here.”
After we park behind The Apple Pan, Max holds open the swinging screen door and we step into a single room with beadboard wainscoting topped with plaid wallpaper and grumpy old waiters wearing white wedge paper hats and standing behind a U-shaped counter. Luckily, there are several empty stools due to the late hour, and Max and I sit right down and order. Our sodas are served in cups that are really white paper cones perched in red plastic holders. This place is several steps back in time and I love it.
Max looks so happy as he eats his burger and I smile. The hickory sauce drips all over his chin as he laughs and tells me sordid stories about some of the patrons from the party. He shares some of his fries with me and I let him eat most of my apple pie. I swing my legs under the stool and feel the most carefree I’ve felt in days. We’re in our own bubble, unaware of anyone else around us.
When we’re done, Max pays and then walks me to my car. “Thanks for coming, Ava. Maybe you should be thanking me. I did save you from a boring evening with that old man.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I wouldn’t say he’s boring.” If he only knew, I think. “But I did have fun with you tonight.”
“Oh, admit it, girl,” he teases as he grabs the lapels of my jacket. “I’m much more fun than he could ever be. You’re just trying to make me wild with jealousy.”
“Really?” I push him back as he pulls me forward laughing. “And is it working?”
“Mmm.” He pulls me into a tight hug and groans. The feeling of his arms wrapped around me is almost too good and leaves me wanting more.
“And it’s just a matter of hours until you see me again,” I say as we pull apart.
“Yes, our Huntington Gardens outing.” He smiles as he tucks me into my car. “Until then, Ava.”
I start out of the parking lot, and when I glance back in my rear view mirror, he’s watching me with a smile on his face.
The next morning I try to sleep in, but Riley is up early, singing and bopping around the house as she prepares for our outing.
She offered to pack a picnic, and when I go into the kitchen for coffee, I shudder. Our kitchen looks like a warzone with condiments, open packages of bread, cut up fruit and vegetables all over the counters.
“Riley, this is enough food to feed a small army. Besides, I thought you said that they don’t let you picnic at Huntington Gardens.”
“I know, but there’s a park nearby. I figured we’d do the picnic there when we’re done seeing Huntington.” She slips a bottle of wine and corkscrew into the basket, along with plastic cups.
After I help her pull things together, I get ready. I pay special attention to rubbing lemon body butter all over my skin before slipping on a flowing skirt, fitted top and sandals. I pull out the camera Max gave me and put it in my bag.
Right before Dylan arrives, Max calls to tell us he will be a little late. They’ve shut down part of Pacific Coast Highway due to a rockslide, and the traffic’s backed up. Natural disasters and the resulting traffic delays are one of the trade-offs for living in the paradise of Malibu.
When Max finally arrives, we get the food together, pile in the car and head toward Pasadena. It’s already past noon, and Dylan announces that he’s starving.
“Change in plans, kids. We need to feed my man . . . picnic first!” Riley announces.
Max carries the large blanket and Dylan the basket while we wander through the park until we find a secluded spot under a huge old oak tree. After Riley serves up the food, Max inconspicuously opens the wine and pours us all full glasses. Alcohol isn’t allowed in public parks so we have to be careful, but it’s not like we’re a bunch of rowdy teenagers getting drunk at midnight.
At first it’s a little awkward with each of us perched on the blanket holding our paper plates, but as the wine relaxes us and the jokes start flowing, it becomes an idyllic day in the country, similar to a scene from my beloved Jane Austen novels.
At one point, Riley leans back against the tree and Dylan rests his head in her lap. She gently runs her fingers through his hair, and they look like a picture-postcard of love. I pull out my camera and start taking shots.
Max smiles and pulls out his new camera and starts taking pictures of me. Then I take pictures of him taking pictures of me until we start laughing and fall down on the blanket.
We finally gather up our stuff and head over to Huntington. We’re still a little giddy from the wine, so Riley skips through the Desert Garden with Dylan stalking her while Max and I take close up shots of the cacti and uniquely-shaped succulents.
We wind our way around the paths, past the lily ponds and jungle pavilion, until we end up in the Japanese Garden with its perfectly groomed gravel beds and bonsai trees. While Max and I sit for a minute to review some of the pictures we’ve taken, Dylan and Riley wander off. When I finally look up, I spot them in the distance, kissing under a canopy of wisteria.
Max follows my gaze and shakes his head. “Dylan’s got it bad and that ain’t good.”
It catches me off guard. “What’s not good about it? They’re crazy about each other.”
“I’ve known Dylan a long time. He has a history of falling hard and fast.”
“How did you meet him?”
“We actually met in high school when we both took art classes on Saturdays at Art Center in Pasadena.”
“Dylan wanted to be an artist?” I ask, surprised.
“Yes, he did. He was quite good too. But his parents always felt that th
e life of an artist wasn’t good enough for their son. They wore him down until he finally gave up the idea. They funded his galleries to make him a businessman when he refused to go to law school. I think he gave up too easily, but maybe his passion for it wasn’t great enough.”
I shake my head. “That’s too bad. I don’t think there is anything more honorable than being an artist. What do his parents do, anyway? Riley said they’re wealthy.”
“Yeah, his dad is a partner in the oldest law firm in Pasadena. The family is old San Marino blue blood. His grandfather owned a lot of property there.”
“Well, that explains why Riley was so nervous to meet them.”
“Yes, I’m sure they assume she’s after his money. Dylan’s last relationship ended over a year ago, and he’s been lonely. I’ve had a feeling that, the next girlfriend he meets, he’ll marry.” He shakes his head.
“What? You don’t approve of Riley? Do you think she’s after his money?”
He shrugs and doesn’t reply.
“You know she has a great job and a high salary. It’s not like her family is poor or anything—I think they’d be considered upper middle-class.” My temper flares.
He frowns. “I don’t know, maybe. I’ve a hard time trusting anyone when it comes to relationships. It seems like there’s always an agenda.”
I stare at him, trying to contain my surprise and disappointment.
He continues, “I’ve tried to talk him into slowing down, not moving so fast with Riley, but he clearly isn’t listening. I just hope that she’s genuine.”
I’ve heard enough. My blood boils.
“Wait just a minute. How can you question if she’s genuine? Riley’s a good person. She’s stood by me through thick and thin without ever wavering. Furthermore, she’s crazy about Dylan. If she knew that you didn’t believe in their relationship . . . she’d be devastated.”
He leans back, seemingly shocked by my passionate defense of Riley.
“Well, sorry I offended you. I’m just telling you how I feel.”
“Please tell me you aren’t going to pull a Darcy and try to convince Dylan not to be with her. It’d kill her.” I feel like hitting him.
“Pull a Darcy?”
“Yes, you know, Jane Austen . . . Pride and Prejudice? Darcy doesn’t trust Jane’s affections for his best friend Bingley, and he breaks them up. It isn’t until the end of the story that he realizes he’s made a huge mistake, and he encourages them to reunite and they get married.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You’ve been reading too many of those girly stories. They’re messing with your head.”
“I’m serious, Max . . . don’t interfere. You may not believe in love, but I do. And I think they have a chance to share something wonderful together. Don’t ruin it for them.”
He tips his head to the side and looks at me with wide eyes. It’s almost like I’m a stranger, and he’s seeing me for the first time. “Okay, I’ll leave them alone . . . I promise.” And then he breaks out in a wide grin. “I never would’ve guessed that sassy-girl Ava is a hopeless romantic.”
I shove him playfully and make a face. “Yes, I am, you big cynic. So my Mr. Right is going to have to pour on the hearts and flowers if he expects to win my heart.”
“So, fair Ava, how does one win the heart of a girl like you?”
“You know, stand under my balcony and serenade me, write me love poems . . . stuff like that.”
“I’ll remember that.” He laughs as we head to the car.
We haven’t been on the freeway long when traffic comes to a complete stop. As we inch ahead, my laziness overcomes me, and I start falling asleep sitting up. But every time I drift off, my head lolls forward and my neck snaps, waking me back up. After a few rounds of this, Max sighs, slides his arm over my shoulders and pulls me against him.
Heaven. A feeling of complete contentment settles over me. As the minutes pass, he instinctively pulls me in even closer, and I fall into a deep slumber.
“Dylan, look, they’re so sweet,” Riley’s voice says somewhere in the edges of my mind.
What is she talking about?
“Should we leave them here or wake them up?”
“Leave them here? I don’t think so. Wake them up.”
A hand on my knee pulls me toward the waking world.
“Ava,” she whispers, shaking my knee a little.
I open my eyes slowly and blink, realizing that I’m burrowed into Max.
Riley smiles, and I try to gently pull away, but realize he’s asleep with his head tipped back against the headrest. It hits me that, not only is his left arm wrapped tightly around me, but he’s holding my free hand against his chest, right over his heart.
For a moment, I want to close my eyes and settle back into him, but since Riley and now Dylan are watching me . . .
“Max,” I say softly as I slowly wiggle my hand out of his grasp. “Max.”
He stirs and lifts his head just as I pull away. He looks disoriented at first and blinks as he takes in all of our faces.
“We’re home,” I murmur and then catch my mistake. “I mean, we’re at my place.”
He presses his palms into his cheeks. “Okay,” he responds, his voice sleepy and full of gravel. We slowly pull ourselves together and step out of the car.
As we turn to face each other, I can tell he’s embarrassed and I try to set him at ease. “Do you want some coffee or something?” I gesture upstairs.
“No, I’ve really got to go. But thanks.”
He looks at me and there’s a thought shadowed in his eyes, as if he wants to tell me something, but can’t or won’t. The impression of this overwhelms me. I want to shake it out of him, like a shiny penny cascading out of an overturned piggy bank. But in my sleepy state, my courage fails me, and he turns away once again.
Chapter Eighteen / Ancient Pasts, Uncertain Futures
Everything has its beauty, but not everyone sees it.
~Andy Warhol
In my opinion, Sunday morning just before ten is a ridiculous time to be driving up Wilshire to work. Phoebe lives in a high-rise condo in Westwood and when I pull in the driveway, a valet leaps forward to take my car. I steel myself for what’s to come as I glide up the elevator to the fifteenth floor. The front desk has already announced me, so Phoebe opens her door as soon as I ring the doorbell.
She’s still in her Pilates outfit, and she’s lean and fit with long, jet-black hair and an attractive face. She looks to be in her mid-thirties.
I step forward and offer my hand. “Hi, Phoebe, I’m Ava.”
She shakes it firmly and leads me inside to the living room. The space isn’t large, but the floor-to-ceiling windows give it an expansive feeling.
“Would you like some tea?” she asks politely. She’s indicated that I can set my things down on the table in the corner.
“That’d be great. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
As she heads to the kitchen, I move to the window to take a closer look at the view. The building is set at an angle, so from her window you can see a distance down Wilshire Boulevard.
She returns with two steaming mugs.
“Yerba mate,” she says as she sets them down in front of us. I lift my mug and smell. It has the aroma of burnt hay and tastes even worse.
Phoebe then scoots up her chair and gets right to the point. She explains that she’s already spent a number of hours on what I’ve submitted, and she took it upon herself to do the edits and rewrites where necessary. This was the only way, considering the amount to be done within such a short period.
This is exactly what I was afraid would happen, and I work to push down the swell of emotion inside of me. Why the formality of a meeting if she’s already changed everything? Perhaps she wants to look good for Jonathan.
I decide to start our discussion with something that doesn’t have my handprints all over it—the Twenty Voices on Caswell chapter, a compilation of other people’s writing abo
ut Max’s work.
“Yes, this wasn’t awful. Some of the things people wrote were actually thought-provoking, but the way you put it together was clumsy.” She has each section in a separate folder, so she finds that chapter and pulls it open.
“What I did was move Lisa Forrester’s quote first, then Edward Runyon’s, and so on. Here, you can see what I’ve done.”
I silently flip through her list.
“Okay. Can I take this home? I’d like to study what you’ve changed.”
She nods abruptly. “Of course. I’ve made you a complete set of copies to take.” She pushes a neat pile of folders toward me.
I pick up the top folder off the pile titled The Early Years. I open it slowly and haven’t read much before the feeling of alarm sets in. I skim through several other pages, barely recognizing the writing.
“You’ve left out so much,” I say, almost as a question.
“Too sentimental,” she snaps.
“I see.” I close the folder and place it back on the pile. “Well, I think what makes the most sense now is to take this home and read it thoroughly. Then we can meet, if needed, for a follow-up conversation.”
“If it’s necessary,” she says, sounding like she definitely doesn’t think we’ll need to talk again.
“Can I get one of your cards?”
As she retrieves a business card from her Filofax organizer, she pauses and then looks up. “How much time did you spend with Caswell researching this?”
“I’m not sure—we’ve had a number of meetings,” I answer, wondering where she’s going with this.
“Was he agreeable?”
“I would say so. He’s very excited about this book.”
“Well, he should be.” Her eyes narrow and her lips purse together.
The undertone to her words makes me pause, but the last thing I want to do is to explore this idea with the charming Phoebe. At this point, I’m counting the seconds until I can escape.
I stand, hugging the folders to my chest. “Well, I’ll be going. Thank you for your time, Phoebe.”
She silently walks me to the door.
Work of Art ~ the Collection Page 19
