The Inspiration (18 page)

I look down at my makeshift nightgown and decide it’s time to get dressed.

“Where are my clothes?”

“They’re in the top dresser drawer in the guestroom,” he answers, revealing nothing.

“I’m so embarrassed that you had to change me and I didn’t even wake up enough to know it.” I look down.

He huffs. “You should be embarrassed. That outfit was pretty damn tight…I had a hard time getting it off. And that lingerie…where did you go last night dressed like that anyway?”

I turn red. “I met Jonathan for drinks to talk about the book.”

“You wore that to meet Jonathan?” His eyebrows knit together and his hands tighten into fists.

It’s like he’s implying I did something wrong.

“What the fuck is wrong with his office anyway? You guys always go out for drinks. Is he hitting on you?”

I blush even more thinking about Jonathan and his seductive talk, but that’s the last thing I’d tell Max. “We’ve only met three times, and once was in his office! Besides, why does it matter?”

“I don’t like it and I don’t trust him.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Look at you and your art groupies. What are your intentions with them? Should
you
be trusted?”

He glares at me silently.

“Seriously, tell me…who are you to pass judgment on Jonathan’s intentions?” My anger builds and my mouth won’t stop moving. “I know what this is. You have no interest in me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me because then your
angel
won’t be around to watch over you.”

As soon as I say it, I feel really bad considering the guy just spent most of the last twenty-four hours taking care of me. I desperately wish I could take it back.

He looks like I’ve kicked his puppy and my stomach sinks with regret.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean
that,
Max. I’m just so freaked out about things right now.”

“Forget it,” he mumbles.

Great. He’s shut down
.

“Look, I have work to do. So why don’t you get ready and I’ll drive you home. I already spoke with Dylan this morning and he’s going to arrive at your apartment when Riley does. They’re going to be there by two. Jay dropped off the keys and temporary alarm code this morning.” He turns away.

We both remain silent as I head upstairs.

The silence continues as Max deftly maneuvers his Porsche through the winding canyons above Malibu. By the time we’re on the freeway shooting toward L.A., I’m feeling even more like an ungrateful bitch. I finally gather up my courage to speak.

“Max?”

Silence.

“I feel awful about what I said…I just don’t understand why you jumped all over me for my meeting with Jonathan. But I don’t care about that right now.”

I look at him and he glances my way before turning back to the road. At least he’s listening.

“I can’t or won’t ever forget what you did for me last night. I was in such a state and you dropped everything to help me.”

Dropped.
I smile inwardly at the picture I’ve painted of his date, the assumed art groupies, being dropped—
hopefully from a high elevation.
I can’t seem to help feeling jealous when it comes to him. I look at Max and refocus.

“You were kind, and took such good care of me. That says so much about the kind of person you are, not the famous artist, but the person you are inside.”

His face relaxes and he takes a deep breath. I hope he’s considering what I’ve said.

I take a chance and touch his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Max. Please forgive me.”

He clears his throat. “Just so you know, I think you’re overstating the womanizing thing.”

“Okay. Maybe I assumed wrong about the girl you were with when we talked on the phone last night.”

He purses his lips and shakes his head. “You think you have me all figured out, but I think you just don’t understand me.”

“You’re right about that. I don’t understand you. I guess I’m pushing because there’s something about you that makes me believe you’re much more than who you present to the world. The party-boy artist with little regard for women…I don’t think that’s the man Elizabeth raised.”

He’s silent, but his fingers tighten over the stick shift as he focuses on the road.

I turn and watch the scenery blur by.

He clears his throat and says, “How about this—I think we should call a truce. I have to admit that, as guilty as I’ve felt about all that you’ve done for me since we met, maybe last night helped even up the score a little.”

I nod. “I’ll say, but don’t be expecting any thank-you paintings. I don’t have your talent so, unless unintentionally primitive art is your thing, I’ll have to think of something else.”

“Well, how about if you write something…something about me—like for an art book? That more than evens things out.”

I smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

When he pulls up to my apartment, he hands me the keys and alarm instructions.

“Will you be okay?” he asks tentatively.

“Yes, I think so. Thanks.” I hug him, pressing my face into the curve of his neck. He softens a little as I hold him.

As I step out of the car, he says, “You know, Ava, I’m glad you called me last night…and that I could be there for you.”

I turn back and, with a grateful smile, I gaze at my beautiful, hopelessly complicated friend.

“Me too, Max. Me too.”

T
aking a deep breath, I enter my apartment. After the alarm shuts off without a problem, I survey the living room with the fresh perspective of a new day. It makes me feel better to focus on the beauty of the room, even with the bookshelves emptied on the floor and the furniture askew. I look up at Max’s angel painting on the mantel and feel a wave of joy that his precious gift is still there.

As I put things away in the living room, I remember back when Riley and I painted three of the walls brown and one turquoise. Because of Riley’s persistence, we spent several days stenciling a paisley pattern in a slightly lighter shade onto that turquoise wall. The effect was beautiful.

The turquoise and brown retro rug with large sixties-style flowers that Riley found set the tone for the room. She has such a great design eye. Eventually, we upgraded our furniture from hand-me-downs to low chenille couches and an eclectic group of lamps. We also framed several prints of art given to me by various artists. The overall ambience is very sophisticated.

I’m slightly calmer when I finish sliding the last piece of furniture back into place. At least one room is almost restored, sans a TV and computer.

As I start putting the kitchen back together, Riley and Dylan come in the front door. Riley still freaks out, even though Dylan has already broken the news to her and we had a conversation earlier on the phone.

I rush over and we hug tightly.

“Oh, Ava!” she wails, “I can’t believe we were robbed. You must’ve been terrified to come home alone at night to this.”

“Yeah, it was horrible. I couldn’t reach anyone and started flipping out, but then I called Max and he came right over.”

Riley’s brows knit together with a worried look, and she reaches over and squeezes my hand.

“Riley, he was really great.”

Dylan looks relieved. “Hey, Dylan. Thanks for being here for Riley.”

He wraps his arms around her from behind. “Of course.”

Riley surveys the living room.

I groan. “Your computer…I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t believe it…and I’d finally paid it off. At least I backed everything up on my laptop before I left. It would’ve sucked even more if I’d lost all that work. That’s one relief at least.”

Her somber expression doesn’t make it easy when I remind her to check her bedroom and make a list of what’s missing. She and Dylan head down the hallway. After we’ve finished our list of stolen goods, Dylan agrees to sleep over for a couple of nights until we feel settled again. He heads out to buy some beer and pick up dinner, while Riley and I do the last bit of work to get our bedrooms in order.

I keep hoping as I put each item back in its place that I’ll discover my precious box, but with the last drawer replaced, I have to accept the loss once more.

It’s no surprise that my attempt at sleep that night is dark and fitful. I fight my way through a dream where a sinister character shadows and haunts me. Every time I try to escape his grasp, his spindly fingers press me back beneath his black cloak.

Midday Sunday I check my emails that I haven’t looked at since the robbery. There’s an email from Jonathan sent Friday.

My whole body flushes. Was he drinking when he wrote this? That’s how I’d written off the scene in front of the restaurant. Maybe he’s actually serious about pursuing me. I just don’t get it—he’s an older, sophisticated man. Why me? I hope this isn’t a sport with me in the crosshairs. I squirm. I’d better send some type of answer right away.

He responds immediately.

The kindness of his words is comforting and there’s a smile on my face while I respond.

I’m relieved to get a break from dealing with Jonathan in person. I’m overwhelmed and can’t handle anything complicated right now.

Instead, I wonder what Max is doing. I should call him to thank him again for helping me Friday night.

When I call, a woman answers. She has one of those breathy voices.

I fight the urge to hang up. “Is Max there?”

“He’s working in the studio,” breathy voice replies.

“Let me guess…he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, will you tell him Ava called to thank him again for Friday night
?” Take
that,
art babe.

As I hang up, I’m fairly certain Max will never get my message, but I hoped I ruffled art groupie’s feathers enough that she’ll give him a bad time anyway.
Damn him.

Monday at the gallery, I immerse myself in my work to shake the lingering feeling of loss and violation from the robbery. Everyone’s especially doting, which I appreciate, considering how raw I am. Jess calls and offers to take me out to dinner Wednesday night. It’s times like this I’m grateful for my makeshift family. Even Sean takes me aside.

“Hey, my friends and I are going to a club tonight. Why don’t you come?” He smiles sweetly.

“Who are you seeing?” I ask, not sure I’m in the mood to go out anyway.

“Wrecked at the Whiskey. My friend Charlie saw them in New York last week and said they were wicked.” He grins broadly.

I smile. “Hmm,
wicked
. Well, let me see if I’m up for it later, okay? Thanks for thinking of me, Sean.”

“Anytime,” he says and it gives me comfort to know he means it.

I spend most of the afternoon working on a press release for Adam that involves some internet research. One of the sites we follow,
Art Happenings
, has a write-up on the opening last Saturday night for the
30-Year Retrospective Show
at the Museum of Contemporary Art. My curiosity wins, and I scan the photos, hoping I don’t find anything.

Damn it, Max! This is my personal hell
…his gray blue eyes burn through the screen and right to my core, taunting me. His arms are thrown around two women in very short, low-cut dresses. I read the caption: Elise Dupre, Maxfield Caswell and Sarina Wolfe. I recognize the names of the women, both infamous art groupies. Sarina was married to a famous sculptor until he caught her having sex in his studio with his hunky assistant. Now she’s determined to take full advantage of her freedom and reputation.

It’s like he’s throwing our conversation in the car back in my face, and I wonder which one was breathy voice on the home phone Sunday.

This picture was taken within twenty-four hours of when he’d pulled me into his arms to soothe me when I couldn’t sleep, the same day he made me breakfast and told me about his mother. And our conversation about his womanizing? The sting is sharp, and I hold my breath and grab the edge of my desk. Will my Max torture know no bounds? I should reach into my chest and hand him my heart so he can slice it into tiny slivers and fan it out on a silver tray. Then he can wash his hands and be done with it.