Work Of Art: The Unveiling Part 2

The home page features a beautiful black and white photograph of two beach chairs and an overturned umbrella on the sh.o.r.e while the setting sun's light skims over the water. As much as I'd like to go through her portfolio of images, I click on the Contact Me icon. Bingo! There's not only an email link, but also an 800 number. I raise my arms in victory.

Picking up my cell phone, I imagine what I'm going to say to Ms. Emerson. The realization hits me that I probably shouldn't be the one to call. If Max is with her, he's probably told her what happened between us, and she may not talk to me. I feel even worse for a moment, but I decide not to dwell on it, and I move ahead. I call Jess.

"Hey, Ava, what's up?"

"Jess, I have good news. I found a way to contact Max's aunt. I spoke with his dad and got her name, found out she's an established photographer. I found her contact information on her website."

"Ava the supersleuth! I'm impressed."

"Yeah, well the problem is, I probably shouldn't be the one to call, since he's upset with me. Do you want to do it?"

"Of course. I'll let you know what she says."

The next day, Jess calls me before I leave for work.

"Bingo, baby!"

"You heard from Max's aunt?"

"I did. He's with her, thank G.o.d."

I let out a deep breath. "From what you said about her, I imagine it's the best place he could be."

"Yes, and it's a good thing she's on this coast. When he left Friday night, he just walked out of his house and didn't stop walking until he was almost to Oxnard. d.a.m.n, that's almost twenty miles."

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, just the idea of zombie Max trudging along the Pacific Coast Highway freaks me out. "That's crazy."

"Exactly. It was daybreak when he called Ann from a Denny's payphone. She had him wait in the coffee shop until she could get him. It was almost an hour's drive from Ojai."

"Oh my G.o.d." My heart feels heavy in my chest.

"That woman's a saint, I tell you. She remembered me, so she opened up about what a mess he is."

"How bad?"

"Pretty bad. He's either sleeping or sitting in the backyard for hours at a time. She hasn't been able to get him to talk much yet."

"Does she know about what happened with Max and me?"

"Some of it. He did tell her about the confrontation at his house."

"I see," I say softly. My cheeks burn and I'm horrified, even though I haven't met the woman. It's unsettling to have a stranger know something so personal.

"She said he isn't ready to talk to friends yet. But she's found him a therapist in Santa Monica who's doing daily phone sessions with him. It's someone he can see in person when he finally returns home."

"Any idea when that will be?"

"Not yet...it's really up to Max, but d.a.m.n, I feel so much better. And it's all thanks to you and your detective work, babe."

It's great to hear Jess so upbeat, but at the same time, it's somber to think of Max so broken. I have no idea what he's thinking, so I've no idea how or if I can help him. But at least we know he's in good hands.

Dylan's restoration guy was able to repair the paintings, so they're on their way to Barcelona. That's a big relief. Jess decides to put her energy into getting his house in order and hires her friend Jeannette to clean up the mess and repair what she can. She doesn't want Max to return home and suffer a setback when he sees the result of his rage.

It's such a thoughtful idea, but I sadly realize that returning home to a quiet settled house will not guarantee that he will be quiet and settled inside, where it matters most.

Jonathan's made reservations at Pane E Vino, and when I arrive, the hostess leads me to a corner table under a large umbrella on the patio where he waits. He stands as I approach the table and looks delighted to see me. We embrace before settling down in our seats.

"I've missed you, Ava. I'm so glad you could meet me today."

"It's good to see you too." It warms my heart that's he's so happy. He's already ordered a bottle of Prosecco, and he fills our gla.s.ses. I take a sip and close my eyes, enjoying the sweet burn sliding down my throat.

When I open my eyes, his gaze is skimming over me. I've worn a fitted top with a lower neckline, and he apparently appreciates my choice of apparel.

He looks handsome as well, his blue eyes bright behind the tortoise-sh.e.l.l gla.s.ses I love so much. His hair's a bit longer, which I find s.e.xy on him. I fight the urge to run my fingers through it, and he squares his shoulders and the edges of his mouth turn up when he notices my rapt attention.

He takes my hand and slowly caresses it. This heavy dose of adoration served up with Italian champagne is intoxicating. I lean into him as we speak.

We share stories. Jonathan tells me about a fight last Friday with an artist that culminated in him setting fire to one of his painting in the building's underground parking garage. The entire building, all forty-six floors, had to be evacuated."

"Did you pull his story?"

"No, his stunt's probably going to push him to the front cover."

I laugh. "Of course it will. The squeaky wheel gets all the attention, right?"

"You know the art world; oftentimes cleverness is more highly regarded than talent. Case in point, the British artist Banksy. I'm still surprised Time Magazine chose him as one of the most influential artists of the year. A gorilla street artist who gets attention with clever graffiti, I find it all rather boring."

"I've followed him over the last few years. I loved it when he went into major museums and just hung up one of his paintings. Can you imagine? He even did it in MOMA and at the Met." I shake my head and laugh.

Jonathan rolls his eyes.

"When he did it at the British Museum in London, they took it down and immediately put it in their permanent collection. That was very clever on their part."

Just as lunch is winding down, Jonathan asks me about my plans for the weekend. "I was going to check your upcoming schedule so we could plan our Santa Barbara getaway, but I just can't wait another week. I really want to...actually, I really need to spend time alone with you. Will you join me this Sat.u.r.day? We'd be back by Sunday evening."

He takes my hand and caresses it gently.

The heat runs over me as I look up, his plea running through my head again. I need to spend time alone with you.

His look is so intense. Fl.u.s.tered, I look back down at the table. He means business, and I like it-a man who knows what he wants. I remember my conversation with Jess about Jonathan.

"Yes," I say softly.

His eyes light up and I can see the delight wash over him as he picks up an unmarked black shopping bag.

"I'd hoped you would say yes, and so I picked this up for you to wear...hopefully, this weekend." He hands me the bag, and his intense expression as his eyes narrow makes me think he'd like to see me in it now.

I half lift the gift box out of the bag and look up with wide eyes. "La Perla? So...I see you got me workout clothes. How thoughtful of you."

"Well, I wouldn't categorize what's in that box as clothes, but...as for a workout, that remains to be seen."

"Indeed. I'm sure I'll enjoy what's in here. Maybe you'll get your very own fashion show."

"Oh, if only it were Sat.u.r.day now." He lets out a frustrated moan, and we rise from our table and leave the restaurant.

When the valet runs off to get my car, I grab Jonathan by the lapels of his sports jacket and kiss him sweetly on the lips.

"Thank you for lunch and my gift."

He sweeps me in his arms and pulls me tightly against him before his lips meet mine. His breath catches and he kisses me deeply. I'm surprised, as it's the middle of the day at a busy restaurant, but he doesn't seem to care. He just wants me, and I can feel it in every molecule of my body. As I pull away, I give him one last smile before climbing into my car.

Sat.u.r.day is only three days away...so soon. Is it too soon?

I fire up my little ink-jet printer and wait as it slowly spits out the pages of Max's book. When it finishes, I gather up the pages and tuck them into a large envelope for my teacher. I've already promised him a copy, so I figure I'll give it to him tonight at the writers' group.

I'm still in the honeymoon phase and have yet to receive harsh criticism other than from psycho Phoebe. My reasons for discounting her views are valid, so I'm looking forward to my teacher's objective feedback.

The group members that evening share their stories one by one, and when it's my turn, I again explain that I've been focused on my book project. Since the book's now complete, I'll be focusing on my personal work again and should have something to share by next week. That wasn't the best strategy, because now they're demanding I read an excerpt from Max's book.

I resist until my teacher, Peter, puts his foot down.

"d.a.m.n it, Ava, just read the intro and get over it," he says, handing me his copy of the ma.n.u.script.

"What's the t.i.tle of the book?" asks Sarah, the girl who thinks she's Charlotte Bront reincarnated.

"Unspoken Truths," I reply, and the group nods their heads as one unit.

My nerves cause me to tighten my fingers on the pages, but I remind myself to step up to the plate and be proud of the work I've done.

"Most of the book is a biography, and there's a section where a number of influential people talk about Caswell and his work. I had more creative lat.i.tude in the intro, and I took that to an extreme." I clear my throat and straighten up.

"Introduction: Unspoken Truths "An artist can make love to a canvas with abandon, but be revealed as a fickle lover in the harsh light of review. These rogues, mock Cezannes and faux Mirs, move from canvas to canvas, searching and never finding. But in today's graffitied battlefield of art school graduates and trendsetting urban warriors, our young soldier stands alone.

"He paints from hidden places, bowed in reverence to the emotional silence and solitude of his studio-a searing contrast to the deafening noise and visual a.s.sault of his alternate universe, the outside world. He lingers his brushes in dark places edged with light where a sonic boom of vermillion becomes a whisper, an a.s.sault of chartreuse becomes an embrace. Fame, his seductive mistress, shadows and taunts him as he continues to paint his way down the jagged path.

"Caswell the artist always brings his lovers home. His pa.s.sion is ground into the pigment and deftly applied, layer upon layer, the result freeing the secret you've always held locked in your heart...a work of art so heady and deep that if you fall into it, you will never stop your descent.

"These are the unspoken truths of Max Caswell's work: emotion is art, and his art is emotion born of a great brilliance and veracity.

"This is his story."

Everyone's silent as I stuff the pages back into the envelope. I clear my throat, waiting for someone-anyone-to say something.

Roger finally speaks up. "Wow. That's incredibly cool."

I immediately disregard his opinion, because he has a thing for me. I avoid speculation as to why he knows my schedule better than I do.

William's face scrunches up. "I don't get it. Is it a poem or an intro? It's way too flowery."

Sasha leans forward in her chair. "It's really different. I've never heard an artist described quite like that. It evokes so much pa.s.sion that now I want to see and experience his work. I want to learn more about him. It would make me keep reading."

I listen carefully, because she's a talented writer and usually has a thoughtful approach to critiques. "They really wanted me to use a different approach with this project. That's why they used me instead of an experienced writer who works in this genre."

"You don't think it's indulgent?" William asks, turning to Sasha.

She shakes her head. "Oh, I didn't say that. Sure it's indulgent, but you say that like it's a bad thing."

Peter laughs quietly.

Sasha's cheeks turn pink and her eyes widen. "We're talking about art. It's the perfect subject to wax poetic about. After all, isn't poetry the written word's counterpart to abstract art? He's an abstract artist."

"That's a good point. I'm curious...what does the artist think of it?" Davis asks.

I'm suddenly embarra.s.sed to admit the truth. "He hasn't read it yet."

William whistles, and Peter gives him a dirty look.

"Really? Boy, I'd like to see his reaction when he does," Sarah says, folding her arms over her chest.

"Why hasn't he read it?" asks Yasmine, who sits in the corner and normally doesn't say much.

I pause, searching for a plausible excuse, but come up empty handed. "It's complicated," I blurt out.

Sarah loves to taunt me, and tonight is no exception. "It sounds like you're in love with him, or at least in love with his work."

My mind spins. In love with Max? In love with his work? The latter is a given...I do love his work. I did before I started the book, and I do even more now. I couldn't have put two hundred percent into this project unless I did.

A heavy ache grows in my chest. I've made it my business not to fall in love with anyone, certainly not a tortured artist. It just makes me more resolute to get a grip on my complicated emotions.

Peter's voice snaps me out of my pondering. "Yes, but it can be completely right to be in love with what you're writing about."

Despite the fact that I can talk my way out of having feelings for Max, the knowing look Peter gives me lingers.

Chapter Three / Fallen Soldier.

The holy grail is to spend less time making the picture than it takes people to look at it.

~ Banksy Riley is curled up on the couch, watching one of the style channels when I finally get home.

"Hey, girl. How was your writers' group tonight?"