Work of Art ~ the Collection (69 page)

The production manager hired by ArtOneWorld leads us to an area of the studio where they have lights and two chairs set up. Andrea brings her hand-held camera over with her and aims her camera at the cameraman or me, depending on who is addressing her. Damn this woman is annoying.

I start with a question not on the banal list Veronica gave me. “So, Andrea, I was surprised to see that you don’t have a single painting in your loft. Have you ever painted?”

She shakes her head, apparently not concerned that I’m asking my own question. “No interest. Paintings are static, life is movement and energy . . . therein my art lies.”

Who talks like that?
I wonder how I can get her to loosen up.

“Is it important that your work be accessible?”

“Physically, of course. I’d like to see my installations in every major museum. The emotional accessibility of my art is irrelevant. Any reaction to my work is significant.”

I lean toward her. “But how can a greater mass of people become familiar with your work? That kind of broad exposure is tricky to get for installation film art. I mean, how are we going to buy postcards of your art in the gift shop?”

Her mouth falls open and her eyes grow wide. “Postcards in the gift shop?”

“Sure. In other words, how does the everyman, the masses, get exposed to your work?”

She wags her finger. “That’s exactly what Banksy told me!”

“Really?” I ask with a smug smile.

“Yes! Right after I told him that he’s an idiot for painting on the sides of buildings years ago.”

I scrunch up my face. “Well, that’s worked out pretty well for him, don’t you think?”

“Indeed, the bastard is so annoying.”

“You know, in regards to your work, do you think Banksy wasn’t looking into the future and the significance of social media? I’m compelled to challenge him. What has more exposure, the side of a random building or YouTube? Just about everyone has a smartphone or computer now, so the possibilities are limitless for exposure.”

“I’ve pondered this myself. Do you know what else I’m pondering?”

“Nope,” I say.

“Why someone with your spunk is wasting her time doing this?” She waves her hand at the crew. “You should be working with me.”

I look into the camera. “Hear that ArtOneWorld? Watch your p’s and q’s. I’ve got the spunk, and Andrea and I just may end up like this.” I lift my hands up with my fingers crossed. “Besties!”

I glance up at Nick and Travis as they stand off to the side with their arms folded. Travis arches his brow and whispers something to Nick. I bet he didn’t like what I just said, and frankly, I don’t care. I imagine this shoot is a colossal failure, so what do I have to lose?

By the time the director calls the final cut, I have no idea if they got anything usable. My gut tells me we got some unusual stuff, but the expression on the director’s face is hard to read.

“Ava, I can’t believe you got Andrea to try on that wig,” Nick says, when I join them after we wrap.

“Me neither. She was so weird with me when we were first introduced. I thought this was hopeless. It’s sort of my own little miracle that I turned it around so she was actually having fun.”

“Miracle is right,” Travis says with a tight smile. “I didn’t think it was possible to get anything close to what you got with Andrea.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “Thus confirming my suspicion. I was set up to fail today. Care to explain why?”

“Au contraire, Ava. Today was a challenge, yes, but also an opportunity—one you’ve succeeded at rather brilliantly. I think we should go for a drink and celebrate.”

I look at Nick and can’t read his curious expression.

“Actually, I have an afternoon flight, Travis. I should be leaving for the airport shortly.”

He pulls out his phone. “I’ll have your flight pushed back.”

I step closer. “I have an obligation in L.A. later tonight, so I need to take this flight. We’ll have to make plans for another time. Can I take a rain check?”

He doesn’t look pleased, but he nods before giving me a charming smile. “Next time, I won’t take no for an answer.”

Something tells me he isn’t joking.

We say our good-byes before I meet my driver taking me to JFK. I call Max from the airport and tell him about the shoot before I board the plane, and he sounds genuinely relieved that I got through it and landed on my feet, considering the challenges. He’s heading to the gallery event, but we agree that I will call again when I’m on my way to my apartment. I’m too wired from the tense day to sleep on the plane, and I relive the events over and over in my head.

I arrive in L.A. around eight thirty that evening and stumble out of the plane toward the baggage claim. When the other passengers and I finally get to the area for pick-up, I search for my name on the little signs held up by the chauffeurs.
Takamoto, Goldstein, Anders,
and then my eye catches what I’m looking for, but something has been added. The sign says
,
I
♥
Ava Jacobs
. My heart skips when I see Max grinning ear to ear as he waves the sign. Standing behind him is a disgruntled driver with his arms crossed.

I run to him and practically land in his arms. Our kiss is passionate, even by airport reunion standards, and the driver clears his throat uncomfortably.

“Ava, you’re going to have to tell your driver that I’m authorized to take you home. He wouldn’t believe me. I practically had to wrestle the sign out of his hands.”

I laugh happily. “What a great surprise, Max. But I thought you would still be at your show.”

“Why would I linger at a show when my love is on her way back to me?”

I kiss him again. “I’m so glad you came to get me. And the sign . . . well, that was the sweetest welcome ever.”

I turn back to the driver. “Yes, thank you, but my boyfriend will take me home.”

I sign his receipt form and he leaves us without another word.

I hold Max’s hand and look out the window in a daze as we drive along Pacific Coast Highway toward his home. The moon is high in the sky, and its silver light shimmering across the ocean enchants me. The shocking difference between a day walking the crowded streets of Manhattan to gliding past the quiet empty beach in Malibu is startling and profound. My breath suddenly catches in my throat as it all hits me. Can I find a balance between so many different worlds? Can I hold these newfound gifts in my hands without my fingers sagging under their delicate weight?

I wonder if my silence and twirling mind spook Max, so I stroke his hand reassuringly. Because I’m beyond exhausted when we step in the house, he seems unsure of what to say or do. He decides to feed me, and he heats up the leftover pasta from his dinner and pours me a glass of Pinot Noir. We sit at the kitchen island, and he watches me eat as if each bite is his own. I lick my lips and watch him watch me, too exhausted to make much conversation.

After dinner, I shower and crawl into bed, still damp and disoriented. He pulls me into his arms and rubs my back gently. I’m so in love and happy to be back home with him, and I tell him that in quiet mumbles. I have a vague memory of my knee hitched up against his erection, but sleep takes me hard.

The next morning dawns in a gray quiet light, and I lift my head and see a thick blanket of fog draped across the Malibu horizon. I settle back into the bed and watch Max as his chest rises and falls with each breath.

I observe him for a long while and become overwhelmed with the desire to see more of him. I slide the sheet off, excruciatingly slowly, to reveal his incredible body. His thighs . . . God, I love his strong thighs and the way they’re slightly parted, leading my view to his beautiful ass. My insides curl with desire as I skim my hand down his back.

I’m glad to be naked and warm, my arousal spreading through me. I want him so much that it takes everything not to shake him awake and seduce him.

I quietly lift myself up to my knees so I can study him from another angle. I gently push his waves of hair off his forehead.

Inexplicably, tears fill my eyes and I still for a moment. I love this man, and when we’re joined together, all I know in life is the depth of my passion. I kiss his neck, his taste and the Max smell of musk, paint, and salt air arousing me further. He stirs out of the deepest sleep, and as I kiss his jaw, his eyes slowly open.

“I thought I was dreaming and didn’t want to wake up. What are you doing to me, Angel?” he says in his morning voice, as he rolls over to his back.

“Good morning, handsome. Sorry to wake you, but I woke up and you’re naked and all . . .”

“It’s okay,” he says, smiling lazily as he reaches for me. “I take it you missed me.”

“You have no idea,” I say, as I straddle him, resting lightly on his thighs.

There’s something so intoxicating about how he makes me feel as he looks at me. His eyes are wide now and alert to my movements. He skims his fingers up my sides and then across my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples.

“Max, I want you so much,” I whisper, as I gently run my fingers up and down his length.

His face colors and his jaw flexes as he watches me touch him. He’s completely hard now, and my fingers tighten as I stroke him.

His hands slide back to my hips and he pulls me closer so I can lift up and sink down on him.

I love it when he’s all the way inside me. His eyes close and his head tips back before he lazily begins to rock his hips.

We move slowly in the morning light with the sound and rhythm of our breath and the waves crashing just beyond.

I gaze at him as the intensity builds. His eyes are stormy as his body tenses.

“Max,” I whisper.

He takes a sharp breath as he pulls me to him. “I’ve got you, Ava.”

His words spark a fuse, and I tremble with exquisite pleasure as he watches me. Every hard thrust is the very definition of masculine energy as he brings me to climax and soon after joins me with a quiet roar.

We both settle and try to catch our breath. I ease off of him and curl into his side.

“Round one,” he says, as he nuzzles and kisses me.

“Yeah, wait until we have our coffee. I’m already imagining round two, but I’ll definitely need breakfast first.” I settle back into the sheets and we lie quietly, listening to the waves break along the shore.

My limbs are loose and happy and my head as clear as the early morning beach. Max’s eyes are deep in concentration.

“I can hear your wheels turning. What are you thinking about?” I trace circles lightly with my fingertips across his chest.

“Your birthday.” He grins and pulls me closer.

“Oh, it’s next Saturday, isn’t it? Can we do something special?” I’m like a little girl, complete with party hat and balloon.

“It’s already planned.”

I grin widely. “Really? What are we going to do?”

“I’m not telling. It’s a surprise. But when you come to spend the night Friday, bring your swimsuit and something nice to wear.”

“Oh, I love birthday surprises!”

He kisses me on the forehead. “I’m glad, because this one’s special.”

Chapter Three / The Luckiest Girl in the World

It takes a long time to become young.

~Pablo Picasso

A
few days later, the UPS driver delivers a package at our door just as I get home from work. Could this be what I’ve been waiting for? I carry the box inside, carefully open it, and lift the heavy book out of the wrapping. As soon as I see the title, I let out a cry of joy.

My heart pounds as I slowly skim my fingers across the glossy paper of the book jacket. I pause over Max’s embossed name before trailing my fingers along the edges of his painting featured on the cover. I want to lift our book over my head and run through the streets, jumping for joy.

I can’t believe I did this!
I wrote a book, and the feeling of holding the first gorgeous galley proof in my hands is extraordinary. I grin like an idiot and blink away a tear when I see my name boldly printed as the writer.
Writer!
How I wish my parents could see it. They’d be so proud.

I take a deep breath as I think of my journey writing
Unspoken Truths
. . . from Jonathan hiring me to my upcoming trip to Barcelona with Max to promote the finished work. Although the writing took only a few months, it’s influenced every part of my life and changed the course of my future.

I’ve always loved art books, and as I turn each page, I vividly remember the moment I first fell in love with contemporary art. My fifth grade class went on a field trip to a local museum featuring a traveling modern art show from New York. I’d never seen anything like the Rothko, Pollock, and Kandinsky paintings on display. Wide-eyed, I was overcome by the emotions the paintings evoked in me. It made all the other landscapes and portraits I’d seen framed as art look so boring in comparison.

The docent who was walking us through the exhibit must have seen the spark in my eyes, because she focused her lecture on me as we both tried to ignore the stupid comments of classmates. If I had to hear Billy Woodruff pronounce loudly “I could do that” one more time, I thought I’d have to deck him.