The Inspiration
Authors: Ruth Clampett
Work of Art
Copyright © 2014 by Ruth Clampett. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
ISBN: 978-0-9893919-3-1
Cover Photography: David Johnston
Cover Design: Jada d’Lee
Cover Model: Michael Senich
Editors: Angela Borda, Janine Savage of Write Divas and Janell Parque
Interior formatting: Robert Reid at 52 Novels
To all the artists…
Thank you for bravely
Showing us what you see
When you close your eyes
I see the world differently
Because of you
Chapter One / The Artist Emerges
Chapter Two / Paint by Numbers
Chapter Three / Fascination Street
Chapter Four / Reluctant Savior
Chapter Five / Teetering between Euphoria and Terror
Chapter Six / Follow the Yellow Brick Road
Chapter Seven / Well, How Did I Get Here?
Chapter Nine / On Gossamer Wings
Chapter Twelve / Stolen Memories
Chapter Sixteen / Check Please
Chapter Seventeen / My Shiny Penny
Chapter Eighteen / Ancient Pasts, Uncertain Futures
Chapter Nineteen / Fireworks and Earthquakes
Chapter Twenty / Ain’t No Prince Charming
Chapter Twenty-One / Taking Flight
Chapter Twenty-Two / All that Matters
Chapter Twenty-Three / Missing
We are living in a storm where a hundred contradictory elements collide; debris from the past, scraps from the present, scenes of the future: swirling, combining, separating, under the imperious wind of destiny.
~Adolphe Retté, La Plume 1898
“G
et the hell away from me, Dylan. I’m not going to kiss that faux-art collector’s ass!”
I look up just in time to see the blur of a man charge into our exhibit pavilion. In his fury, he slams the wall I’m facing with his fist, and I jump up as the row of paintings quiver and settle askew.
The second man, who I assume to be Dylan, is right on his heels, and he glances at me, rolling his eyes as he follows the raging artist into our private viewing room.
Not wanting to miss the drama, I jump up and position myself at the edge of the entrance, just as my boss, Adam, slowly stands and addresses the two men.
Adam has a regal air accentuated by his black turtleneck and tailored wool slacks. His silver shock of hair contrasts with his tan rugged face. Something in the way he carries himself makes him a formidable presence.
He steeples his fingers and turns to his left to study the large abstract painting of wide black slashes across a crimson field. A sudden hush falls over the room.
“Max, Dylan, the show’s just begun and you’re already at war.” He pauses and then smiles at Dylan. “I warned you not to have him at the show. Maxfield doesn’t suffer fools gladly, and there are plenty of fools here who think they know art.”
Dylan’s dark eyes narrow in frustration as he grumbles, “We can’t exhibit at the most important art show of the year and
not
have our star artist here. Collectors want to meet the artists before they invest.”
“Invest! Fuck, I hate that word!” the artist curses as he throws his head back. “This is about someone buying a work of art to make it part of their life. There should be passion about a relationship with their art. Investing is for buying goddamn real estate or government bonds!”
Although I still haven’t seen the artist’s face clearly, I notice the muscles ripple across his back as he crosses his arms across his chest. He’s tall, over six feet, with strong broad shoulders and a tangle of hair so dark it’s almost black.
He turns back to Adam. “So Dylan serves me up on a platter to this tiny, irritating woman with her face pulled so tight it’s about to snap. She kept scraping her fake fingernails up and down my arms and going on about how she loves my work, while I’m trying to keep my breakfast down.
“As if that isn’t brain-numbing enough, her flaming yippy designer whips open a leather bag and starts pulling out fabric swatches.”
“Why couldn’t you’ve just called me over? Mrs. Stanhope’s husband owns the world’s largest chain of sporting goods stores and a chunk of New Jersey. They spend millions on art every year!” Dylan practically shouts.
“I don’t give a fuck who she is. The nervy bitch told me she wanted me to repaint
Dreaming of Daybreak
to match her bedspread!”
I gasp in horror, and the room suddenly goes quiet as the three surprised men turn around to regard me. “That’s outrageous. What an insult!” I say angrily, giving the artist a sympathetic glance, but gasp again when I realize this stunning man is examining me intently.
Published pictures haven’t done Maxfield Caswell justice. His eyes are the most extraordinary shade of blue-gray, and his face the perfect chiseled combination of angles accented by full lips. The edges of those lips curl up and his eyes spark as he regards his newfound ally.
“And you are?” Dylan challenges me, probably for stepping out of my lowly station in the business of art.
“Gentlemen, this is Ava,” Adam says, giving me a warm smile. “She’s new to this side of the art world and has much to learn.”
“Sounds like she knows more than either of you.” Max slowly moves toward me. I lower my eyes and feel a blush burn across my cheeks. He gently takes my hand. “Ava, such a lovely name,” he murmurs. “I’m Max Caswell, and I don’t create art to match bedspreads.”
“Of course.” I smile, realizing one of the most important emerging artists—according to the last issue of
Newsweek—
is holding my hand. I can feel the energy surging around this magnificent man, and his energy flows into me, igniting a fire somewhere deep inside. I realize I’m not breathing, and for a moment, I don’t remember how.
I’d read an exposé on Maxfield Caswell in
Art World News,
which romanticized the fiery, mercurial disposition of the young artist. Well, clearly they weren’t far off the mark, but they neglected to mention how incredibly charming he is.
As I glance down, I’m hyper-conscious of my conservative attire of a tailored shirt and sophisticated black fitted skirt. I sense the irony that my intention of choosing a work wardrobe to look professional also makes me blend in. If I hadn’t boldly defended this artist, he wouldn’t have noticed me.
The longer he gazes at me, the more aware I become of the absurdity of my instantaneous infatuation. This man is a sensation in the art world, and women like me are expected to fawn over him. I may be a mere gallery assistant, but I don’t intend to join his fan club. Yes, his art is exhibited around the world, but I plan to make my mark one day too.
Lay off the romantic novels, Ava
, I think to myself.
Do you seriously think the prince of the art world will sweep you off your feet?
But I look at Max and he’s smiling like he has plans for me.
“Adam, would you mind if I borrowed Ava? I want a break away from all of this, and I sense she’s just the one to calm me.” He looks down and winks, and I shift uncomfortably. As Max takes my arm and begins leading me out of the room, I look back, and although Adam looks extremely displeased, he quietly nods. My sheer curiosity keeps me from insisting I stay.
“Do you always get your way?” I ask him with an arched brow as he pulls me along.
He shrugs with a crooked smile. “Pretty much. Grab your coat.”
I take my purse as well, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
Although the aisles of the exhibition are crowded with people, Max seems to clear a path as he quickly leads me away from the scene. I can feel people’s eyes on us, I assume due to Max’s striking good looks and dramatic presence. I realize he must deal with this on a daily basis, and I shudder as I think about that much attention. He picks up speed, and I become entranced by the blur of colors and light from the paintings and sculptures we pass.
“Where are we going?” I ask, as we explode out the exit and into the crisp cold air of New York City.
The sights and sounds of the city are upon us, the jagged skyline of buildings against the vivid blue sky. Even though I’ve been here before, I’m overwhelmed by the sensation; I take in the swirling sound of traffic and voices, the flash of lights and swarm of people walking past. I’m intrigued by the mystery of where this man’s taking me. I close my eyes for a moment, and when I open them, I realize Max has stepped forward, hailed a cab and now holds the door open.
“Your coach, madam.” He smiles as I slide inside.
I’m feeling a bit disoriented, as if I’ve stepped into a nineteen-forties romantic comedy and Cary Grant has charmed me into an adventure.
As he leans forward to give the driver directions, I catch his scent, a mixture of soap and a subtle musk of some fragrance I don’t recognize. My insides clench.
Damn, he’s good-looking.
I focus on the strong line of his jaw and the rough texture of his unshaven stubble. Despite my intent to keep a clear head, I have an urge to scrape my teeth along that jaw, and I press my legs together.
He flops back on the seat and laughs. “We’ve escaped, Ava! We’re free!”
I laugh, surprised to see him so happy. “You’re a bad influence, Mr. Caswell,” I admonish him with a teasing tone. “I’m supposed to be cataloguing paintings right now, not gallivanting off with you.” I tip my head and gaze at him through my eyelashes playfully. Two can play the flirting game.
“Well, to hell with that. Gallivanting is the order of the day. Only the best for my defender and savior.” He lifts my hand to his cheek and pulls it slowly across his face, lightly brushing my hand with his lips before setting it in my lap.
He’s good at this stuff. My heart’s fluttering, and I turn away to gaze out the window, embarrassed.
The cab lets us off on a side street in the Village, and we descend a short flight of stairs and enter a small Italian restaurant with dark wood-paneled walls and soft lighting. A weathered fresco of the hills of Tuscany is painted on the far wall. There’s a gentle muted blend of voices floating through the air, as if the patrons in the restaurant are whispering.
