He takes me in his arms and kisses me passionately. Suddenly I’m not so cold anymore. I could get used to this.
Max spends the afternoon painting in the studio, while I work on my Andrea Altman project in the library. Jess and Laura are coming over for dinner to discuss how it would all work if they did their the wedding at the house, so around five I stretch out on the couch to take a short nap. All this playtime with Max is wearing me out.
I’m stirred out of dreamland by the sound of voices laughing nearby. I push back the chenille blanket Max must have tucked around me. It sounds like Jess and Laura are already in the kitchen with Max. How long have I been asleep anyway?
I wander into the kitchen.
Max kisses the top of my head. “Hey, sleepyhead. Did you have a good rest?”
I nod, yawning. “How long was I out?”
“Almost two hours. I tried to wake you, but you were dead to the world, so I just let you sleep. You must’ve really been worn out.”
Jess gives me a hug. “Hey, baby, how’s my girl?”
“Still waking up, but I’m good. It’s great to see you guys.”
Laura grins from the other side of the kitchen island. “Max’s already got the steaks on the barbeque, and we’ve got the salad and corn on the cob going, so why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you a glass of wine.”
I sit on the bar stool at the end of the island as Max ducks outside to check on the grill.
Jess watches him through the window as he turns the steaks. “Damn, Ava, I’ve never ever seen that man so happy. I can’t tell you how much that warms my heart.”
Laura nods as she hands me my glass of wine.
“It’s the same for me. We’re in this magic bubble, far from the troubles of the outside world.” I sigh contentedly. “He makes me so happy.”
“Have you moved in yet? He says he wants you to.”
“No, we aren’t ready for that. I’m staying this weekend, but I’m going home tomorrow night.”
“And no more jealous fits or tantrums?”
“Actually, I had a bit of a problem with jealously this morning when one of the art groupies called, but we talked and worked it out. I think we’re learning how to be with each other. Falling in love is much easier than staying in love, isn’t it?”
Jess and Laura both laugh knowingly and smile at each other.
“But the rewards are worth the growing pains. You guys seem destined to be together, so it’s worth fighting for,” Laura adds.
“Hell, yeah,” Jess says.
After dinner, we wander around the yard, while Jess and Max talk about possibilities for the wedding. They debate the placement of the tables, the dance floor, and the bar. One of Jess’s top priorities is a great DJ, so the location of the dance floor is critical. They finally agree to set it up in the front yard under the trees.
Jess’s dad still hasn’t agreed to come to the wedding, let alone walk her down the aisle. He’s not exactly supportive of her lifestyle choice. He doesn’t understand that she came out of the womb gay, just like her eyes came out brown, and her hair the color of melting butter.
“Max, if Dad doesn’t come, will you walk me down the aisle?”
“I’d be honored.” When he hugs her, a single tear runs down her cheek.
It’s one of those vivid moments in life where I’ll remember everything: the smell of the night air edged with ocean brine, how the breeze ruffles your hair across your collar, and the way the moon’s light paints its silver light over two people that mean the world to me.
But my Hallmark moment shifts when Jess lets out a piercing howl and slaps Max’s ass hard. He chases her through the yard twice, past Laura and I, and into the house.
Laura rolls her eyes. “Those two are like big kids,” she says, as we join them in the kitchen.
They’re both laughing as Max yells, “Who wants s’mores?”
“I do,” the three of us girls chant simultaneously, as we help him gather marshmallows, chocolate bars, graham crackers, and long metal skewers before heading out to the fire pit.
Judging from the way this weekend’s going, I’ll definitely sign up for Camp Caswell on a regular basis. I have the hots for my counselor, the enrichment activities are top notch, and the food is better than home. Besides, if I don’t like any of the other girls, I’ll just have him delete the bitches . . . ’cause that’s how we roll.
Chapter Twenty / Grand Master M
I want you to feel what I’m feelin’, ’cause that’s what it’s all about.
~ Ludacris
I spend the following weekend at Max’s again and it’s relaxing. After lunch Sunday, I refill my coffee mug, return to the library, and gaze at Max’s garden from the French doors. I love the sound the waterfall makes in the koi pond and the lush beauty of the landscaping. Between my man, who has romanced me all weekend, and this glorious house facing the beach, I’m in paradise.
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 k
new 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, he 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 these dreamlike scenes in my head, and I’ve 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.”
Work of Art ~ the Collection Page 47
