Work of Art ~ the Collection (79 page)

“Does it bother you to push him toward more commercial work as opposed to staying in the fine art world?”

He shrugs and then shakes his head. “Nope . . . not at all. Maurice doesn’t really have the personality to survive in the fine art world, but he could fit in nicely with those animation types, where the talent is most important, not the personality. Besides, animation is really creative.”

“Look at that,” I say softly, hugging him from behind while he works. “You just changed the course of one young man’s life.”

He turns around, grinning, and hugs me tightly. “It’s cool, isn’t it? It really makes me feel good that I was able to help him.”

I’m selfishly thrilled he’s in such a good mood. It should make my news go down easier. We grab our plates and glasses of wine and go out to the patio. The sun lingers for its final moments over the horizon, and the waves crash just beyond us with unusual force.

While we eat, I watch him carefully, trying to imagine what I would think if this were the first time I’d met him. Sometimes, with art or music, you’re swept off your feet at first, infatuated with every note, every brush stroke that brought this creation to light. But then, over time, with countless viewings and playing the song until you can sing it in your sleep, the object of your admiration gradually loses its allure.

But when I look at Max, I realize that hasn’t happened. Every time I have an unguarded moment to study him, his striking good looks take my breath away. And tonight, as his eyes flash with excited energy and a russet flush paints his cheeks, he’s the very essence of male perfection and I’ve never wanted him more.

He stretches out his long legs under the table and then slides his foot underneath mine. I smile at his instinctive need to be physically connected, and I take a sip of my wine.

“Are you done?”

“I guess so. Why? Are we in a hurry for something?”

“Yeah, I have something I want to show you.” He taps his fingers on the tabletop and his eyes are wide. His eager expression makes my heart skip.

We carry our plates into the kitchen, but instead of cleaning up, he pushes me out the kitchen door. He takes me by the hand, pulling me upstairs toward his bedroom. My heart’s thundering.

What in the world is he going to show me upstairs?

At this point, I’m game for anything to distract me from telling him my big news. He passes the bed without a pause and pulls open his closet door. “Look,” he says excitedly, pointing inside.

I peek in. About three quarters of the closet is empty. He’s made a space for me. My heart sinks lower than I thought possible.

He pulls me into his arms. “What do you think?”

“Oh, Max.” There’s sadness in my voice. I can’t even camouflage my despair.

He pushes me back with uneasiness in his eyes. “What?”

I pause, not ready to tell him yet.

“What, Ava, what? Is something wrong?”

I can feel his panic start to set in. I point to the sitting area on the balcony, trying to keep my hand from shaking. “Can we sit down and talk?”

The fine lines around his big grey blue eyes tighten as he looks at me with alarm.

I numbly walk to the French doors and open them before going out to the chairs.

As he follows me, the weight of his fear almost brings me to my knees.

“Just tell me . . . what the hell? Have you changed your mind?”

My head falls forward as I wonder how I’m going to tell him my news. I hold my face in my hands for a moment with my hair draped like curtains hiding my face.

“Oh, my God . . . what’s wrong? Did you meet someone?”

I sit up, startled. How could he even think that? This is going downhill fast. I better change the mood before we head for disaster.

“No, it’s nothing like that. Actually, it’s good news . . . great news really.”

“Great news?” he asks, not sounding convinced.

“Yes, I got an amazing job offer. It happened late yesterday actually, and I was so shocked, I needed to let it sink in.”

“You didn’t tell me last night because you needed it to sink in?” I can hear confusion edging his voice.

I nod as I bite my lip.

“What kind of job?”

“I know this is going to be hard to believe, but I’m going to be the host for a TV show about artists on ArtOneWorld.”

“Host of a TV show, are you serious?” he asks, the excitement starting to replace the confusion.

“It’s a dream come true, and I can’t believe it’s happening.”

He jumps up and grabs me, swinging me around. “Ava, that’s amazing! We have to celebrate!”

After he sets me down, he steps toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”

I sit nervously for a couple of minutes, but when he returns, I feel an overwhelming rush of hope. He’s holding a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes.

“I think this deserves a toast.”

“Oh, Max.”

He opens the bottle, shooting the cork ceremoniously over the balcony railing. After he pours, we raise our glasses.

“To you, Ava, the world will soon know what I’ve known all along . . . that you’re an extraordinary and beautiful woman of many talents.”

I want to enjoy this moment. I smile and take a sip. “You know this would never have happened if I hadn’t met you.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but it’s happening regardless. Now I’ll need to share you with the world for a while.”

“Just a while,” I whisper, hopeful. I slide my chair over closer to him so we can hold hands.

“So tell me more . . . I want to hear all about it.” His enthusiasm is a warm blanket I want to snuggle in endlessly, knowing it will soon drop away.

“Okay, what do you want to know?”

He tips his head to the side and examines my expression. “Wait. Earlier you said it like you’ve already accepted the job.”

“Well, I want to accept it.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about it. There’s one challenge, but we can work it out. I know we can.”

The happy expression and color slowly drain from his face.

“What’s the challenge?”

I take a deep breath and steel myself. “The show films in New York.”

There’s a long pause as the wheels turn in his head. “Oh, I see. So you’ll have to fly into New York for the shoots. You’re going to be gone a lot,” he says, as if he’s talking to himself. His expression gets very dark, but then seems to shift as if he wants to avoid sinking down into the black hole.

I hold my breath. Maybe he’ll process this news better than I thought.

“So, when does this start?” he asks.

I take a sharp breath. “They want to start in six weeks.”

“Are you serious, six weeks? Do you even have a contract yet?”

“No, they’re presenting it next week.”

“Hey, so maybe that makes it easier for you to come to Paris with me. If you give notice to Adam within the next two weeks, it would fit in before you start.”

I feel a surge of excitement. “Yes, you’re right. That would be perfect if we could fit that in.”

He settles back into his chair, taking sips and looking into the star strewn sky.

“So, you said that you found out yesterday. Have you told anyone else?”

Suddenly, it’s clear that not telling him first is going to backfire. I realize in my crazed rush I made a very bad decision. I brace myself, figuring I may as well get this all out in the open.

“Um, yes, I talked to Jess last night. And I called your dad this morning to ask if he knew of an entertainment lawyer-agent, but that’s all . . . no one else.”

“My dad? You told my fucking dad before you talked to me?”

“Don’t feel that way, Max. I only called him to get a lawyer’s name. I really wanted to tell you face-to-face, and yes, I should have driven out here last night to do that, but I didn’t think I was steady enough to make the drive at night. I was unglued last night.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I was worried about how you would take the news, and I didn’t want to upset you.”

“So, you take important information that will have a major effect on our relationship and you share it with Jess and my fucking dad before me? Yeah, that makes a lot of sense.”

He pauses and takes a swig of his champagne. His grip is very tight on the glass.

“Wait a minute. Did you say it’s for ArtOneWorld?”

I nod numbly.

“Isn’t that where this Travis guy who’s been stalking you is from?”

Stalking?
I bite my tongue and try to avert the Travis issue. “Yes. See, now we know why he was asking about me.”

“Right,” he grumbles as he narrows his eyes. “Is there something else you aren’t telling me about this job?”

I may have a relationship death wish, but I just want all the ugly out on the table at once.

“Well, it’s a heavy shooting schedule—long hours and many days working straight.”

“Of course it is. They probably want you to give up your life here in L.A. and move to New York so you can be a devoted host—completely available.” His tone is bitter and sarcastic.

I’m silent, wanting to be anywhere but here.

His eyes flash and it all computes in his head. “They want you to relocate.” He says it as if he’s just read a verdict from a harrowing trial. His voice is dark and dangerously detached.

I take a deep breath. “Yes.”

“So, there you go.” He slams his glass down, and the champagne slops over the side. I’m amazed it didn’t shatter.

His angry expression makes any hope I had slip through my fingers. He pushes his chair back violently as he gets up and leans over the balcony. “We are so fucked.”

“Don’t say that, Max. We can work around this; it’s only a year.”

He turns back and looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Only a year? Do I need to remind you who you’re talking to? I get unsettled when I go three days in a row without you. Goddamn . . . I just asked you to move in, Ava . . . not move away.”

“Max—” I jump up and step toward him.

“No.” He raises his hand and stops me. “Don’t . . . I don’t want to hear it. Fuck it all!”

He furiously paces across the balcony and stops at the door.

“I need some fucking time alone. I’m going to the studio. Don’t follow me, Ava . . . I mean it. I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

He turns sharply away, and it feels like a slap in the face.

“I’ll wait up here.”

After an hour of roaming around cable channels, I decide to sneak a peek into the studio to see what state he’s in. I tiptoe across the area beyond the front door so I can see in the studio window. I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but my heart falls. He’s sitting on a stool in front of his canvas with a brush in his hand, but instead of painting, his head has fallen forward into his free hand. He sits motionless, but even from this distance, I feel the agony rolling off him. I want so much to go to him, but I’m reminded of his warning. He needs this time alone, and I have to respect that. He’ll come to me when he’s ready.

Later that night, I wake when the TV shuts off and the bed rocks as he climbs in. I must have fallen asleep while waiting. It’s almost two.

He’s silent as he stretches out under the covers. I curl up next to him, resting my head on his shoulder.

“Max?” I whisper sleepily.

He turns toward me, and from the faint light of the bedside lamp, I can see the sadness has colored his eyes dark.

I press against him, trying to warm him up. “I want you to know that I haven’t made my mind up about anything. We need to figure it out together.”

He tenses up and the silence is agonizing.

“I love you, and you have to be part of this decision too.”

He doesn’t say anything as he pulls me tighter in his arms. I run my fingers across his chest and gently kiss his neck. I hitch my leg over his hip and show him with my body just how much I need him, but he doesn’t respond.

As he holds me close, I realize he isn’t present . . . not really. It’s so painful because I know what it is to have all of him, and I can’t find it in my heart to accept anything less. I swallow my frustration, and I settle into his arms, hoping to connect however I can.

A seed of fear festers in my gut in the dark of sleep so that when I wake up without his arms around me and his side of the bed empty, the fear drops roots and breaks through the soil’s surface to face the harsh light of day.

I lie still for a moment, feeling the loss, even though I assume he hasn’t strayed far. I’m tentative as I slowly rise out of bed and put my clothes on. As I step into the hallway, I listen carefully for his sounds from the kitchen, but there’s only an echo of silence.

I figure he’s either gone for a run or he’s in the studio. I stop to get some coffee and am surprised to see he hasn’t made any. Everything seems different, and for a moment, I feel like a stranger in this place that had almost become like home to me. If he intends to make me pay for my impending decision, his plan is working only too well.

When I look toward the studio, the door is wide open, but I don’t hear the usual music pumping out of his sound system. I warily cross the grass and step into the studio without hesitation. Whatever I’m going to face, I want to get it over with.

My eyes scan the room until I see him. He’s hunched over his desk working on a smaller drawing pad and making notes next to a sketch. He’s wearing earbuds and the wire snakes into his pocket.

“Max.”

I see his body freeze for a second, and then he slowly turns toward me. His expression is blank as he pulls his earbuds out.

“What?”

“Do you want breakfast or something?”

“No, I need to work.”

Our eyes lock for a moment, and then he puts his earbuds back in, looks down, and continues to write.

I return to the kitchen with tears in my eyes. I get the coffee started and toast some bread, and then I sit out on the balcony, watching the waves move in and out while I eat. I sit there for a long time, hoping he’ll come join me, but by the time I get up to refill my coffee mug, I realize that isn’t going to happen.

Feeling stubborn, I make him some toast with jam and coffee prepared the way he likes it and force myself to cross the lawn again.