Work of Art ~ the Collection (11 page)

“You know them?”

“Yeah, it’s Genna and Ari. They’re old friends.”

They approach our table and give Max a hug before asking what he’s been up to, how his work’s coming along and so forth. Judging from the smell of booze and the way they sway as they talk, they’re ahead of us on the buzz patrol and have had a few drinks already.

The woman finally turns to Max and hits him on the shoulder. “Max, don’t be rude—introduce us to your date.”

Max looks at me as if he’s just realized I’m still here. “Oh no,” he says, a little loud for my taste. “Ava isn’t my date. We’re working together. She’s helping me with my book.”

My heart gets heavy with a weird sense of rejection, but I immediately recover, irritated with myself for even feeling that way. “Yes, I’d never date
him
,” I say, playfully making a face as I reach out to shake their hands. Max looks at me with an expression I can’t read. Maybe he isn’t used to girls not fawning over him.

“Well I can’t blame you,” the woman agrees. “The way he cats around, I’d never know where his tail’s been.” She crinkles her nose in distaste. “That gets old pretty quickly.”

“Speaking of which . . .” Ari turns to Max. “We ran into Sheila last night and she asked about you. She’s back in town and looked hot.”

Genna elbows Ari.

“Ow!” He grabs his side. “Babe, you remember the last time she was in LA.”

Ari looks at me and grins. “Sheila and Max were in bed more than out of it.”

Max looks down. Is he embarrassed? I hope so because I’m embarrassed for him.

Genna rolls her eyes. “From the way she goes on about you, I can only imagine.”

How lovely
. I try to cover my smirk by taking another sip of beer.

Max says. “Well, if you think of it, text me her number. I tried to call her recently, but it had been changed. Maybe we can all get together.”

The wallflower thing no longer works for me, so I excuse myself to make a pretend phone call. I step outside and the cool air soothes my burning face. Waves of nausea roll through me. What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I really attracted to this player who will fuck anything in a skirt . . . except me?

Except me
, and that’s the crux of the matter.

Despite some flirting, he doesn’t seem the slightest bit interested in actually taking me to bed. Considering his lack of discretion with women in general, it’s starting to bruise my ego. A girl wants to be desired, even if she has no intention of following through.

When Max’s friends prepare to leave, I press my phone back to my cheek and pretend to talk as they walk away from the restaurant. I feel like an idiot reciting “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” into my phone, and then I notice Max observing me through the window.

Damn, he better not be a lip reader.

I say a pretend good-bye to my pretend friend on the phone and head inside. The waitress has just delivered two fresh beers.

“So, who’s this Sheila?” I can’t seem to help myself.

“Oh, just a girl I see once in a while. We met at one of Ari’s parties a couple of years ago, but she lives up north, so I don’t see her often.” He takes a long swig of his beer.

“I’ve been wondering . . . how much of your girl action do you want me to put in the book?”

He looks surprised and then pissed. “Girl action?”

“You know, this parade of women you seem to have following you.” I look down and draw some swirls on my pad.

“Just because I don’t follow convention, pretending to date just to get laid, doesn’t mean I’m a player. Anyone who’s with me knows there are no strings attached, so it’s not sleazy.”

I want to argue with him, but I bite my tongue. In fairness, though, I have to wonder if I’m being judgmental because I’m fighting feelings for him.

He narrows his eyes as he watches me. “Well, what about you, Ava? Do you have a boyfriend or do you just sleep around?”

“How about neither?” I fold my arms over my chest.

“What?” He looks amused now. “Are you trying to tell me that you pitch for Jess’s team, that you’re an official member of the girl power posse?”

Such a man; of course he would go there.
“No, I just prefer to be intimate with someone I’m really into, and I just haven’t met anyone that has earned that distinction for a while.”

Why am I even having this conversation with him?

“So . . . you want to be in love, hear the violins and get cupid’s arrow up your ass.”

“So romantic, really.” I take several gulps of beer, which emboldens me. “A girl can dream, can’t she?” I look into his eyes. “I hate that empty feeling after meaningless sex. Don’t you?”

He stares at me for a moment and then looks away. He presses his fingers to the tabletop as he looks out the window. After a long moment, he looks at me again and shrugs.

“I guess I always feel kind of empty. I’m used to it. I’m not even sure I could feel anything else.”

“Haven’t you ever been in love?”

His eyes cloud and the memory plays out painfully across his face.

“Well, I thought I was in love once. It became my everything, and when it was gone, it completely fucked me up. No thanks. Never again.” He shakes his head.

For the first time since I’d met Max, I feel sorry for him. Although, in many ways, I’m afraid to fall in love, it seems that he doesn’t even know how to anymore, and that just feels worse.

He must’ve cast some magical spell, because my resistance to the book project has now completely waned. As we part that night, I agree to work up a preliminary outline by the end of next week.

I have the entire drive home to think, so when I get to the apartment I’m ready to spill.

“Hey Riley, what are you working on?” I ask, as I squint at her computer. She’s moving around little jeweled crowns and flowers on the computer screen.

“I’m trying to finish this pattern for princess pajamas. We have a presentation tomorrow, and my designer—you remember Erin—she went home sick.” She glances up. “How’d the thing go with Max?”

I flop down on the couch. “Okay, I guess. I found some good books to reference, and got some ideas while I looked through others.”

“How did you guys get along? It’s late. Did you go get dinner or something?”

I tell her about our conversation, including the story about Sheila, all topped off with his reveal about his inability to get emotionally close to anyone.

She shakes her head. “Well, it sounds like red flag time. And since you’re going ahead with the book project, it’s good you guys aren’t dating.”

“Yeah, good thing,” I reply, not sounding entirely convincing.

“Focus on getting the work done. It’ll give you guys a chance to get to know each other better. If it evolves later, then so be it. I’d just be really careful.”

She sounds pretty wise for someone whose work life is all about princesses and fairylands.

“Dylan called me today.” She watches me for my reaction.

“Really? And what, pray tell, does he want?”

“He needs to visit a gallery in Santa Barbara, so we’re going to drive up there together on Saturday and make a day of it.”

“You have a date with Dylan? How did this happen?” I ask incredulously.

She gives me a shy smile, as if she’s about to share a secret. “We just hit it off at Max’s. And then he called me Monday night and we talked on the phone for almost three hours. He’s the greatest guy, and we like so many of the same things, it’s eerie.”

“That’s cool, Riley, I’m so happy for you.” I give her a big hug and we chat for another minute about Dylan before she gets back to work.

As glad as I am to see Riley find a potential love connection, there’s the selfish part of me that wallows in the idea that I may never find love.

I carry the two new art books to my room and flip open my laptop on the bed. I open the Lichtenstein book and study some of the paintings before I turn to my computer and open Google search. My fingers twitch as I hesitate, then surrender:
Maxfield Caswell artist.

The page fills up with entries. I read a number of articles and reviews about Max. Most of the analysis of his work is favorable. Things get dicey with his antics away from the studio.

One review from the previous year in the
New Yorker
succinctly summed up what others had tried to say.

Caswell’s work is thoughtful and uniquely his, unlike many of his peers who try to seduce us with derivative work. Yet, at times, Caswell seems more interested in being notorious than developing himself as a serious artist. Only time will tell if he can rise to the opportunity his talent has bestowed upon him, or be consumed by the partying and narcissism that threatens to establish him as the pop star of the moment of the art world.

Ouch
, I think, cringing
.

I click on the image gallery. Most of the shots are from gallery openings and parties. In almost every shot, he has his arm around an attractive woman and seldom is the same one seen more than once. In one photograph, he’s with a young actress I recognize. They both have drinks in their hands and are laughing as she leans into him. I enlarge the image and study his face, wishing I could step inside his head and understand what he really thinks of all this, why he has chosen to live his life this way.

Finally, I decide to look at the image gallery of his paintings to clear my mind.
Beyond the Sky
is the first work that comes up. It’s completely abstract with waves of color that bleed from light to dark and back again. It’s an emotional painting . . . dark, yet hopeful. This painting reminds me why I want to do this book: to put into words the intense feelings his work provokes in me.

Hours later, the emotion of
Beyond the Sky
is the last thing I think about in that brief moment between wake and sleep.

Chapter Eight / Move Along

Do not fear mistakes—there are none.

~Miles Davis

A
dam calls me into his office after I arrive at work Thursday morning.

“So how are things going with Max’s book?” He stands up behind his prized Mies van der Rohe desk, moves over toward a pair of black leather chairs, and motions for me to sit down.

“Honestly, I still feel overwhelmed about the whole thing and worry I’m in way over my head.” I look down at my hands and then back up. “I figure all I can do at this point is try. I’m working on an outline, and as I break it down into smaller parts, it becomes a little more manageable.”

“Ava, I have complete confidence that you’re not
just
going to be able to do this, but you’ll do a great job. If I was a betting man, I’d bet on you.” He beams.

I want to hug him. He’s so dad-like, so good to me. “That means a lot, thank you.”

“And Max? Is he behaving himself?” He’s fishing and it makes me smile.

“Yes, he’s a perfect gentleman—apparently not to the rest of the female population, but with me, he’s been very professional.”

Adam nods. “Glad to hear it. Let me know if he acts up.”

It’s almost two in the afternoon when I drive my car up a winding driveway with Henry and Francisco following in the van. This installation shouldn’t take long, but our clients appreciate it when we make a big production out of hanging the art. Of course, everything has to be handled with the utmost professionalism.

The clients, Stephan and Stella Matthews, are major collectors and philanthropists. Mr. Matthews is on the board at the Museum of Modern Art in New York where they’ve donated many works over the years. They prefer to bring the work of young artists into their home to keep their collection updated.

We walk up the grand entrance and a woman who introduces herself as Mrs. Matthews’s assistant meets us at the door and leads us into the marble foyer. This particular house, designed by Paul Williams, is in the Hollywood regency style and has sweeping views of the city. To my right there’s a Jeff Koons’ large silver dog balloon sculpture and several feet behind it hangs a Jackson Pollack drip painting. I’ve never seen a Pollock anywhere but in a museum, and I’m stunned.

As Mrs. Matthews approaches us, I’m struck by her elegance. Tall and regal, her sleek silver hair is worn in an angular style, and she’s dressed in a black cashmere sweater and charcoal narrow slacks. Her only accents are her massive diamond ring and her architectural earrings.

After introductions, she leads us to the game room, which is more casual than the rest of the house. The plan is to hang Jess’s painting above the carved Italian fireplace. While Henry and Francisco get to work, Mrs. Matthews turns to me.

“So, Ava, what do you think of Jess’s work? Do you get to deal with her directly in your job at the gallery?” she asks in a kind voice.

“Well, I have to admit, Jess is one of my best friends, so I’m extremely biased, but I’m a big fan of her work. To me, she’s a modern day impressionist, but instead of painting ballet dancers and girls in the garden like Degas and Renoir, she captures the people in our daily landscape.”

Mrs. Matthews nods.

“She’s a great person too. We held a show for her in New York last week and a number of her friends from her years at Pratt were there. They all talked about her with great affection.”

“Yes, that’s right, she went to Pratt. Have any of her classmates done as well as she has?” she asks.

“I’m not exactly certain, but the only one that really stands out in terms of success is Maxfield Caswell. They’re still friends.”

“Yes, Caswell,” she answers thoughtfully and pauses. “We bought one of his pieces a couple of years ago. I still love it, but my husband is over him, so I had it moved to my study.”

“Really? Does your husband not care for his work any longer?”

“It’s not his work; it’s his attitude. My husband was standing near him at an opening a month ago and overheard him trashing MOMA in New York. It’s really so unfortunate because Stephan’s on the board and had been encouraging the curator to include Caswell’s work in an upcoming show called
Urban Legend
. He would’ve only been one of two artists under thirty included. It could’ve been pivotal for his career. They’re making the final decision in the morning, but I’m certain Stephan is against Caswell being in the show now and he has a tremendous influence.”