I’m still in the honeymoon phase and have yet to receive harsh criticism other than from psycho Phoebe. My reasons for discounting her views are valid, so I’m looking forward to my teacher’s objective feedback.
The group members that evening share their stories one by one, and when it’s my turn, I again explain that I’ve been focused on my book project. Since the book’s now complete, I’ll be focusing on my personal work again and should have something to share by next week. That wasn’t the best strategy, because now they’re demanding I read an excerpt from Max’s book.
I resist until my teacher, Peter, puts his foot down.
“Damn it, Ava, just read the intro and get over it,” he says, handing me his copy of the manuscript.
“What’s the title of the book?” asks Sarah, the girl who thinks she’s Charlotte Brontë reincarnated.
“Unspoken Truths,” I reply, and the group nods their heads as one unit.
My nerves cause me to tighten my fingers on the pages, but I remind myself to step up to the plate and be proud of the work I’ve done.
“Most of the book is a biography, and there’s a section where a number of influential people talk about Caswell and his work. I had more creative latitude in the intro, and I took that to an extreme.” I clear my throat and straighten up.
“Introduction: Unspoken Truths
“An artist can make love to a canvas with abandon, but be revealed as a fickle lover in the harsh light of review. These rogues, mock Cézannes and faux Mirós, move from canvas to canvas, searching and never finding. But in today’s graffitied battlefield of art school graduates and trendsetting urban warriors, our young soldier stands alone.
“He paints from hidden places, bowed in reverence to the emotional silence and solitude of his studio—a searing contrast to the deafening noise and visual assault of his alternate universe, the outside world. He lingers his brushes in dark places edged with light where a sonic boom of vermillion becomes a whisper, an assault of chartreuse becomes an embrace. Fame, his seductive mistress, shadows and taunts him as he continues to paint his way down the jagged path.
“Caswell the artist always brings his lovers home. His passion is ground into the pigment and deftly applied, layer upon layer, the result freeing the secret you’ve always held locked in your heart…a work of art so heady and deep that if you fall into it, you will never stop your descent.
“These are the unspoken truths of Max Caswell’s work: emotion is art, and his art is emotion born of a great brilliance and veracity.
“This is his story.”
Everyone’s silent as I stuff the pages back into the envelope. I clear my throat, waiting for someone—anyone—to say something.
Roger finally speaks up. “Wow. That’s incredibly cool.”
I immediately disregard his opinion, because he has a thing for me. I avoid speculation as to why he knows my schedule better than I do.
William’s face scrunches up. “I don’t get it. Is it a poem or an intro? It’s way too flowery.”
Sasha leans forward in her chair. “It’s really different. I’ve never heard an artist described quite like that. It evokes so much passion that now I want to see and experience his work. I want to learn more about him. It would make me keep reading.”
I listen carefully, because she’s a talented writer and usually has a thoughtful approach to critiques. “They really wanted me to use a different approach with this project. That’s why they used me instead of an experienced writer who works in this genre.”
“You don’t think it’s indulgent?” William asks, turning to Sasha.
She shakes her head. “Oh, I didn’t say that. Sure it’s indulgent, but you say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Peter laughs quietly.
Sasha’s cheeks turn pink and her eyes widen. “We’re talking about art. It’s the perfect subject to wax poetic about. After all, isn’t poetry the written word’s counterpart to abstract art? He’s an abstract artist.”
“That’s a good point. I’m curious…what does the artist think of it?” Davis asks.
I’m suddenly embarrassed to admit the truth. “He hasn’t read it yet.”
William whistles, and Peter gives him a dirty look.
“Really? Boy, I’d like to see his reaction when he does,” Sarah says, folding her arms over her chest.
“Why hasn’t he read it?” asks Yasmine, who sits in the corner and normally doesn’t say much.
I pause, searching for a plausible excuse, but come up empty handed. “It’s complicated,” I blurt out.
Sarah loves to taunt me, and tonight is no exception. “It sounds like you’re in love with him, or at least in love with his work.”
My mind spins. In love with Max? In love with his work? The latter is a given…I do love his work. I did before I started the book, and I do even more now. I couldn’t have put two hundred percent into this project unless I did.
A heavy ache grows in my chest. I’ve made it my business not to fall in love with anyone, certainly not a tortured artist. It just makes me more resolute to get a grip on my complicated emotions.
Peter’s voice snaps me out of my pondering. “Yes, but it can be completely right to be in love with what you’re writing about.”
Despite the fact that I can talk my way out of having feelings for Max, the knowing look Peter gives me lingers.
Chapter Three / Fallen Soldier
The holy grail is to spend less time making the picture than it takes people to look at it.
~ Banksy
Riley is curled up on the couch, watching one of the style channels when I finally get home.
“Hey, girl. How was your writers’ group tonight?”
“It was interesting. They made me read the intro to the book. It brought up a lot of stuff.”
“Didn’t they like it?”
I shrug. “The intro is pretty wild, and there were mixed reviews. But then they asked if I had feelings for Max.”
Riley sits up a little straighter. “Oh, thooose feelings. I can imagine.”
“And all it did was stir things up again—the anger, the passion, the admiration, the disgust, the want.”
“Quite a combination of emotions, my friend.”
“Yes, and now he’s gone from my life, maybe just for now…or maybe forever. I may never get this stuff sorted out.” I mope into the kitchen and pour a glass of wine for the two of us.
I hand Riley her glass and ask, “How are things with Dylan?”
She grins. “He’s so great. Things are going really well. By the way, we were wondering if you’d be our special guest at the big fund-raiser his parents throw every year for the Children’s Hospital. It’s two weeks from Saturday at their estate in San Marino.”
“I remember you guys talking about that. It sounds amazing. I’d love to come, thank you.”
“Dylan will pick us up at six. Did I mention it’s formal?” She gives me a wide-eyed look and I now foresee shopping in my future.
I get up to find the leftovers for dinner.
“Did you go shopping today?” Riley points to the black bag next to my purse.
“No, that’s a gift from Jonathan. I haven’t opened it yet, but it’s from La Perla.”
Riley’s eyes open wide. “Well, what are you waiting for? Open it!”
I bring it over to the couch and gently lift the lid off the box. I part the tissue and lift out a pale pink satin chemise gown that slides between my fingers like soft butter. It’s floor-length and cut to gently hug the body. There are very thin straps, and the fabric is cut wide at the bottom around the legs. It looks very 1940s Greta Garbo.
Riley fingers the satin and moans. “Is this for a special occasion?” she asks, wonder in her eyes.
“He’s taking me to Santa Barbara this weekend. He said he wanted to take me somewhere special.”
Riley’s brow furrows. “Really? I didn’t think you were that into him. Isn’t he a lot older than you?”
I put t
he lingerie back in the box and set it on the coffee table. “He is, but he’s still sexy. He’s handsome for sure, but what attracts me is how smart he is, and that he treats me like I’m someone special. I’ve never been adored like this.”
Riley’s eyes narrow as she studies me. Is she trying to figure out what Jonathan really means to me? It’s hard to explain when I’m not completely sure myself.
“Are you falling in love with him? I’m not sensing this is the same kind of all-consuming emotion you had with Max.”
“No, but look how that worked out. Maybe deeper feelings, like love, will come in time.”
Riley doesn’t look convinced. “I think you’re selling yourself short, Ava.”
“Well, if anything, after this weekend I should have a pretty good idea where things stand.”
I focus on work the next couple of days, so that my apprehension for the Santa Barbara trip doesn’t overtake me. By Saturday morning I’m still nervous, but I’m looking forward to getting away. Jonathan arrives at ten sharp, wearing pressed jeans, a navy sweater with the sleeves pushed up, and a huge smile on his face. He takes me in his arms for a hug, and then I invite him in to meet Riley while I gather my things.
He’s friendly with Riley, and I can tell she’s impressed with him because of the effort she puts into making conversation with him. He’s certainly classier than anyone she’s ever seen me date. We say our good-byes, and he takes the overnight bag out of my hand before we head downstairs to his BMW. He opens the sunroof and turns on the stereo as we pull onto the road.
He gives me a sideways glance. “So, did you bring your gift from our lunch?”
“Yes. It’s so beautiful, Jonathan.”
He flashes a sexy smile as his eyes darken. “I can’t wait to see you in it.”
“I can’t wait to show you,” I wink at him with a sly smile. “How did you know my size?”
“I pay more attention to you than you realize.”
“Really, and when did this start?”
“From the moment I met you.” He picks up my hand and presses it to his lips. His kiss is gentle, but I can feel the longing behind it.
I wonder if he’s like this with every woman he dates. We don’t have any mutual friends to help shed light on his past. So for now, I get to imagine that I’m the single focus of his adoration.
Our conversation is easy and the drive goes quickly. It’s eleven fifteen when we drive into Montecito. Jonathan takes a few minutes to drive into the hills, so I can see the ambience of the area with the sprawling Mediterranean homes surrounded by towering eucalyptus and oak trees. Most streets have no sidewalks, just property with stables and rambling paths along the local creek.
“It’s so beautiful here,” I say with a soft gaze, imagining what it must be like to live here.
He smiles. “I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my favorite places.”
Jonathan wants to show me several galleries before we stop for lunch. We park on Coast Village Road and enter the Easton Gallery. Jonathan knows the owner, and he introduces me before we take in the art. The focus of this gallery appears to be locally inspired landscapes, and although that isn’t my favorite genre, there’s some truly beautiful work on the walls. They talk business for a few minutes while I study the work.
Next, we visit the Dashman Gallery, which features abstract expressionism. The main exhibit showcases an artist who is strongly influenced by Georgia O’Keefe. The paintings have light colors blending and weaving together in a sensual way. The back of the gallery highlights another artist whose works, with their angry dark expression, stand in contrast to the main exhibit. The wide dripping strokes of black cutting across the canvas remind me of my name scrawled across Max’s paintings. I push the image out of my mind and return to paintings with sexy flowers and swirls of color.
We have lunch on the outside patio at Cava, ordering roasted tortilla soup, an assortment of tapas, and mojitos. The sun’s burning through the typical Santa Barbara overcast, and I feel the benefits of getting out of the city.
Jonathan looks particularly relaxed, and he holds my hand through much of the meal. I wonder if he considers me his girlfriend, but I shake off that idea. We haven’t even slept together, although that will certainly change before the day ends.
The mojito buzz loosens me up nicely, and for a moment, I allow myself to imagine what he’ll be like in bed. I want to see this cool, contained man completely undone.
“So, what else are you planning to show me after lunch?” I ask, as I wrap my lips low around my straw and slowly slide up, taking a long sip of my drink.
He watches me with dark eyes and clears his throat. “The hotel.”
I give him a sly, sideways glance. “Is there a gallery at the hotel?”
I feel his hand rest on my knee, his thumb gently skimming the bare skin of my inner thigh. He leans closer to me so only I will hear his husky voice. “The only art you’ll be looking at Ava, is the work hanging over our bed.”
I wrap my hand around my neck as I feel the flush move up my chest towards my face. “Is that so?” I squirm, as his fingers trail higher.
“Hmmm. Actually with what I have planned for you, the art in our bedroom is the last thing you’ll be thinking about.”
Jonathan gestures to the waiter as I try to compose myself. I sure hope the hotel is close by.
I’m impressed when we pull up to the Biltmore. Jonathan wasn’t kidding when he said he wanted to take me somewhere special. Just before the valet reaches our car, he turns and gives me a seductive smile and gently skims his fingers up my arm. I shiver with anticipation.
As we walk toward registration, he rests his hand on my lower back to guide me. Every touch seems full of anticipation, but I try to focus on the surroundings to calm my speeding heart. The landmark hotel overlooks the beach and spreads across a sprawling property surrounded by rolling lawns edged with palm trees and indigenous wildflowers. Like almost everything else in Santa Barbara, it has classical Spanish architecture with whitewashed walls, terra-cotta adobe roofs, and arched windows and doorways. It’s stunning, a hotel of my dreams.
A bellman in his spotless uniform rolls us in a fancy golf cart to our deluxe cottage, perched on the edge of the grounds. We walk through the carved wooden door into a softly-lit room filled with antiques and upholstered couches circling the fireplace. There’s a large four-poster bed in the adjoining bedroom. I’m impressed.
I peek through another doorway that leads to a grand bathroom. Who would believe a bathroom could be this spectacular? It’s a symphony of marble and tile with a large picture window above the massive Jacuzzi tub, overlooking the lushly landscaped private patio.
“Can we live here?” I ask, once Jonathan has finished tipping the bellman.
“Anything for you.” He pulls me into an embrace. His lips are hot and searching. I feel the anticipation. There’s no question how much he wants me. He’s kisses along my neck and his teeth skim my earlobe. When his cell phone rings, we ignore it, but the ringing starts again after a minute.
He finally steps back and checks the screen. His scowls and shoves the phone back in his pocket. He strokes my cheek tenderly and steps away to open the bottle of champagne already chilling on the bar. As he deftly works to open it, he looks at me expectantly.
“Ava, I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to take this call, or they’re going to bug me all weekend. It’ll take fifteen minutes, twenty tops. Why don’t you sit down and relax with some champagne, and I’ll be done before you know it.”
I smile, determined to be patient. It’s a small price to pay for this weekend.
“Of course. I brought a book. I think I’ll sit out on the patio and read.” I take a long sip of my champagne, and he tops my glass before kissing my cheek. With my book in hand, I head outside and stretch out on the plush chaise facing the fountain.
I try to focus on the book as I sip my champagne, but it’s difficult. My eyes wander over the private patio dap
pled in light. The soothing trickle of the fountain and the breeze brushing over me just add to my sense of well-being. This is damn well close to paradise.
Just when I’m finally able to focus on my book, Jonathan strolls out to join me. I scoot my legs to the side as he lowers himself down on the edge of my chaise lounge.
“What are you reading?”
“Bel Ami. I tried to read it in college, but lost interest. I thought I would give it another go.”
“I read it years ago. Wasn’t it originally published in the late 1800s?”
I nod after opening up the book to confirm the publication dates.
“Remind me what it’s about.”
“Oh, this decadent fellow, George Duroy, is a journalist and works his way up the social ladder in French society by bedding various women. He’s a real philanderer.”
Jonathan’s expression is off; his eyebrows are knitted and his lips pressed shut. Maybe he’s still distracted from his phone call.
He takes the book out of my hands and puts it on the side table. “Well, I can think of better uses of your time now that I’m here.” He strokes my calves very slowly.
“It’s so beautiful here,” I say, as I look around the patio.
“Yes, so beautiful,” he murmurs as he pushes my skirt up a few inches and runs his warm hands over my knees and back down, all the while staring at me intently.
“Jonathan,” I say softly, while smiling seductively at him. I can’t believe we’re finally going to make love.
“Your skin’s so soft,” he murmurs. He takes a long sip of champagne, lifts my hand and softly kisses it. He slides closer, never letting go of my hand. My heart accelerates as he leans forward and gives me a long, slow kiss.
“I remember the first time I saw you, Ava.”
“At ArteHaus. I remember too.” I inch closer, and under the warm dappled light, I skim my lips along his jaw and up his cheek before pressing my lips to his.
He follows with a more intense kiss. With each movement, my skirt slides up higher and he sighs, running his hands up and down the outside of my thighs.
The Unveiling (Work of Art #2) Page 3
