Work of Art ~ the Collection (17 page)

I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “Thank God. Stupid robbers left the most valuable thing in the house.”

He fights back a smile, but then looks serious again. “I’ve already called a locksmith. Have you called the police yet?”

“Yes, but they have no idea when they’ll get here.” He puts his arm around my shoulders and calls the police again while we slowly move back toward the apartment.

When the police come, Max holds my hand as we walk room to room and assess what’s missing. Every drawer is open, many overturned. My mind is a jumble, so the realization comes in waves. I remember my camera full of recently-captured memories. I keep looking at the shelf where I always kept it, hoping it will magically reappear. My iPod’s no longer on my bed stand where I left it this morning. Someone has my playlists and something about that and my photographs feels intimate and wrong. It’s a violation. My mourning begins for things small and large.

My only gleeful moment is when I remember that my laptop is safely in my bag at work. I had hoped to steal some writing time instead of taking a lunch. On a normal day, I would’ve left it at home. I’ve been working so hard on his story that the relief that my words about Max haven’t been stolen is palpable.

I share that with him, and he smiles sadly and rubs my shoulders.

As the police officer wraps up his report, he informs me it’s highly unlikely we’ll ever see our stuff again. We also have to be careful because it’s not uncommon for them to return for a second round—even clothes. I feel myself sway as the blood drains from my face
. Come back?
The idea is more than I can take.

Max assures me we’ll get the place secured. The locksmith he called is a childhood friend, and he’s asked him install an alarm on the door and the window that faces the porch. His clear thinking under pressure is reassuring.

“Okay, let’s pack your bag. You’re staying at my place tonight.”

As much as I know I can’t stay in the apartment alone tonight, I have no idea how I will navigate being alone with Max in Malibu in this state of mind.

“Don’t worry. I have a guestroom.”

His locksmith friend shows up with his equipment, and Max assures me that he’s completely trustworthy and we can leave while he does the work. We’ll get the new keys, alarm code and instructions in the morning.

There’s nothing good left to steal anyway,
I think sadly.

Packed and numb, I follow Max to the door, but something suddenly occurs to me, along with a feeling of dread. My heart’s pounding, fear overtaking me, and I pray that the one thing I can’t be without, the thing that can’t be replaced, is still here.

I stop and Max looks back concerned. I rush back to my bedroom with him on my heels. I look at my bottom desk drawer overturned on the floor, papers and folders scattered everywhere. I flip the drawer back over and desperately rifle through the worthless contents. It’s not here. My heart sinks . . .
It’s not here.

I fall to my knees and crawl around the floor, frantically lifting up everything and throwing it back down again. I sift through the drawer again, and when I do it a third time, Max reaches down and puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Ava, you’ve got to stop. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, having no idea what I’ve lost.

I jerk away from him and crawl around some more, my breath now heaving, a shrill shriek tearing out of my chest. “No, No, No!”

He reaches down again, takes me by the shoulders and pulls me to my feet. He holds me up and speaks firmly, “Ava, you’ve got to stop. It’s gone, I’m sorry, but it’s gone.”

The sound that comes out of me next is unlike any I’ve ever heard, something between a sob and a cry of complete and utter despair. Nothing, not Max’s strong arms, not the love I’ve received from the Kesters, nor the recognition from Jonathan can restore what’s lost. I feel myself float away, and Max reaches out just a moment too late as I crumple to the floor.

Chapter Twelve / Stolen Memories

Just remember–when you think all is lost, the future remains.

~Robert H. Goddard

I
have the vague sensation of Max picking me up and carrying me, followed by the muffled sound of his conversation with the locksmith while I press my face into his chest. I’m trembling and I can’t find words to speak. Max and the other guy continue to talk while we’re moving forward. It feels like we’re going down some stairs, but I’m too afraid to open my eyes to be sure.

“Tommy, put her bag in the trunk. Thanks, man.”

I hear a car door opening and then I’m being lowered into a seat. Behind me, I can hear the trunk popping open.

Why is he trying to let go of me? I don’t want to fall down the rabbit hole!
I cling to his shirt desperately.

“Ava, sweetheart,” he murmurs gently. “You’ve got to let go so I can drive.” He peels my hands off his shirt and as soon as the connection is broken, I start to sob again.

The drive to Malibu is endless without a word spoken between us. When I finally open my eyes, I see the pained look on Max’s face. I’m sure this is a lot more than he bargained for. After he parks, he helps me out of the car, tucks me under his shoulder and walks me into the house.

Once he gets me settled on the couch, he takes a chenille throw and wraps it around me and quietly moves through the house, turning on low lights and starting the fireplace. He pours a glass of red wine from the bar. When he gives it to me, I take several large swallows in a row.

He finally joins me on the couch and sits close to me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I nod, despite how weary I am. I feel ravaged inside, my spirit broken.

“What was it you couldn’t find?”

I need him to understand that what I lost was a part of me.

“It was a box. I still can’t believe it’s gone.”

He nods with great empathy. “I could tell it meant everything to you.”

“My family, my past, all that was precious to me . . . the letters my dad wrote me from Iraq before he was killed . . .”

Max’s expression is one of profound sadness. “How old were you when he died?”

“Fifteen.”

“Oh, baby,” he whispers.

“The poem my grandma wrote for me before she passed.” I close my eyes and picture the poem and my eyes well up again. “Why didn’t I make a copy of the poem? I just never thought . . .”

“Oh, Ava. How could you’ve known?” He rubs my shoulder to soothe me.

“My dad’s class ring and gold watch. Grandma’s pearl earrings. Oh . . .” I sink further, as if an invisible weight is pushing down on my shoulders. “The last thing I put in there was a letter from my mom.”

He tips his head to the side with a curious expression. “Is she still alive?”

I let out a long sigh. “I have no idea.”

I take another sip of my wine. I don’t want to talk about my mom right now. Max waits patiently and I’m hoping he won’t ask what I may not be ready to tell.

“There was so little to hold onto . . . and now it’s been taken. It feels like my past has been stolen. None of my things will mean anything to the thieves. It’s only cash to them. But I’d give anything to have it back.”

More tears fall, but I’m calmer now that I’ve finished. It’s cathartic to let it all out.

Max reaches over and pulls me close. He rubs my arm and runs his fingers through my hair. As we sit silently, his touch relaxes me and my eyelids grow heavy as the exhaustion of unleashing so much emotion hits me.

“You know Ava,” he finally says, “I had no idea what you’ve been through.” He shakes his head. “And I’m so sorry for what you’ve lost tonight.”

Instinctively, I slide closer.

“But do you know what’s most significant about what you’ve told me? Your memories of your family are what’s important, not the stuff they left you. You’re lucky because they loved you, and they had a chance to tell you. Losing the letters doesn’t take any of that away. You’ll always have the memory of what they said in those letters, and they’ll always live in your heart. You don’t need the stuff to know it’s true.”

And even though I don’t want to hear that now, somewhere deep in my heart a tiny part of me knows he’s right. We stay on the couch, and as Max quietly comforts me, my eyes finally close and I fall into a deep exhausted sleep.

When I wake, it’s dark and I hear the sound of the ocean in the distance. I sit up, but don’t recognize my surroundings. The T-shirt I’m wearing isn’t mine, so I check a little more. At least the bra and panties are mine.
Where are my clothes?
The memory of Max holding me on the couch comes back.
Did he change me and put me to bed?
I’m horrified and I break out in a cold sweat. The feeling is unnerving and familiar, and my heart starts racing wildly. Recognizing the signs of a panic attack coming on, I take deep breaths to calm myself. I get out of bed to see if I can find Max.

I step into a hallway with a terra-cotta tiled floor, dimly lit with old wrought-iron light fixtures. There are large paintings on each wall. At the end of the hall are double doors made of intricately carved dark wood. They’re just open enough for me to stick my head through and look inside.

A dim light in the corner allows me to take in the details of the room. French doors are wide open and its sheer curtains flutter in a cool breeze that carries the sound of the ocean inside. In the middle of the room is a large four-poster bed with heavy velvet drapes hanging on the sides. Despite the carvings on the bed frame and the velvet curtains, the decor is very masculine.

When I spy Max, I sigh. He’s covered with sheets, but I can still see he sleeps with abandon. He’s diagonal on the bed, his arms outstretched and his wild hair a halo against the pale pillow. I slowly walk to the edge of the bed. To see him like this—so peaceful, so beautiful, stirs something inside of me.

“Max . . . Max,” I say, trying not to startle him awake, and wait a moment before I try again. After I’ve said his name a dozen times, he finally opens his eyes.

“Ava,” he says groggily and looks at the clock. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry to wake you, but . . . I’m trying to fight off a panic attack. I’m so shook up from what happened.”

“Of course you are,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Can I get you something? Do you want me to sit up with you?”

“No, but would it be okay if I stay in here while you sleep? Maybe I could lie on the other side of the bed?” I ask meekly.

“Sure . . . as long as you’re comfortable with that. Why don’t you try to get more sleep too?” He scoots over to the right side of the bed and lifts the sheets and blanket on the other side so I can get in. When I sink down into the bed, I marvel at how soft the sheets are. I sigh, immediately feeling so much better with him near.

He settles back down and I lie there, frozen by the tension floating between us.

“Are you okay?” he finally whispers.

“Yeah, I guess I’m still nervous. I’ll be fine.” I roll onto my side, facing the open French doors to let the ocean breeze soothe me.

“Come here,” he says quietly. He curls his arm around my waist and pulls me to him until we’re spooning. As he holds me, he caresses my head and whispers in my ear, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Everything’s okay.”

Being in his arms and feeling safe and cared for is heavenly. I settle into a deep, calm sleep.

When I wake up, I feel rested, despite the night I endured. The ocean air is healing and this bed’s probably the best I’ve ever slept in. I amuse myself remembering Riley’s prediction that I would be in Max’s bed sooner than I thought.
I don’t think this is what she had in mind though
.

I turn toward Max, but his spot is empty. I feel a little abandoned without him here, but then decide it makes the morning less awkward not to have to wake up in his arms and then try to compose myself. There’s a note on his pillow.

Went for a run on the beach, be back soon.

-M

Peeling the sheets back and stepping out of bed, I take a long stretch. I decide to find the kitchen and see if he’s made any coffee.

At the bottom of the stairs, I stand under the arch leading into an open room. Floor to ceiling shelves full of books line the walls, and there’s a large fireplace on the left wall. French doors open to the front garden and provide a direct view of the koi pond and fountain. On one side of the room, an oversized antique wooden desk covered with piles of papers, books and an Apple laptop is angled to look out on the garden.

An old Asian rug frames the sitting area that has a pair of oversized worn leather chairs facing the fireplace. I almost swoon. This is my fantasy room. I can imagine sitting here for hours with a favorite book, the fire roaring and the French doors just parted so I can hear the water cascading into the pond. I wonder if Max realizes how lucky he is to live here.

I wander around a bit more until I find the kitchen, and note that everywhere I look there are piles of books, both art and literature. I have to wonder how the busy artist and party boy has time to read.

I’m rewarded with a pot of coffee already brewed. I help myself to a mug, and then wander out on the patio facing the beach. Leaning on the railing, I gaze at the ocean and watch a kayaker cut across the low horizon. Something catches my eye and I focus on the water in time to see two dolphins leap out of the water and dive in again. They repeat the motion three times with incredible grace until the water is quiet again.