The Inspiration (9 page)

“I’ll meet you at the register,” Riley says, as she leaves the dressing room, and I snap back to reality. There’s no way I’m getting this white outfit—it’s too wedding night-ish. I decide on the lavender bra and panties as I get dressed again.

A wave of buyer’s remorse hits me as soon as I’ve signed the credit card slip. I’ve no business spending this kind of money on underwear, but I try to rationalize it by remembering the bonus Adam gave me from the art show. Besides, I’m usually careful with my money.

With our purchases complete, we get in the car and drive to the Kings Road Café to get a late lunch. We’re about halfway through our salads when Jess and her posse stroll by.

“Hey Jess,” I call. She grins and sweeps me in a big hug.

“Hey, Riley. What’s shaking, ladies?”

“We’re having a girlie day.” I reply as I stick out my foot and wiggle my toes while holding up my Agent Provocateur bag.

“Cool,” she says and turns to her friends. “Go on in and get a table. I’ll be right there.” She slides into the empty seat next to me.

“Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do,” she quips, giving me a stern look. “I heard from Adam that Jonathan from
Art+trA
hired you to write Max’s book. Is that true?” She gives me the Jess-look of dubious judgment, and I can’t hide my surprise that she heard the news already.

“Isn’t it exciting!” Riley chimes in.

“Well, that depends on expectations,” Jess replies.

“Can you elaborate?” I ask nervously.

“Look, Ava, we both know you can do this, and you’ll do a great job while you’re at it. But how much of this is about Jonathan and Max wanting to get into your pants?”

Riley groans. “Jess, this isn’t helping her confidence with her writing.”

I feel the sting as if I’ve been slapped.

“Well, Jess, even if that were true, and I don’t think that’s the case, I can handle myself. I’m not going to do anything I don’t want to do.”

Jess folds her arms over her chest.

“The project is a great opportunity and challenge. Should I really turn it down without seeing how it plays out?”

She purses her lips and nods. “Not a bad point. Okay, I’m going to go join my friends. But let me know if anyone steps out of line. I’ll be happy to kick their ass,” she says, as she playfully shakes her fist and smiles.

“Ciao, ladies. Give me a call next week and let’s go out for a drink.”

The next day, Riley and I decide to leave for Malibu by eleven-thirty to avoid traffic. Riley’s wearing white capris and a halter top that shows off her tan shoulders, while I wear my new lavender lingerie under my sundress. I put the top down on my convertible, so we can soak in the glorious Southern California sun.

We get off the 101 at Malibu Canyon and wind our way through the hills. As we near the coastline, we see that spectacular view. It’s a different world at the beach, and the clean air lifts my spirits. Following Max’s directions, we pass Zuma Beach and turn into a driveway.

I pull up to a large gate and punch in the code Max gave me into the keypad. With a grand gesture, the tall emerald-green gates part.

Riley and I grin. It’s as if we’ve been transported to Oz. We break into an enthusiastic round of “Follow the Yellow Brick Road,” using munchkin voices as we drive through the soaring entry, and head down toward the ocean. Halfway down the hill, we stop singing.

Riley gasps. “Wow! He lives in paradise!”

I nod, quietly taking it all in. I shake my head with disbelief and realize I don’t need another reason to be infatuated with this guy.

We reach the bottom of the hill where there are four houses in a row facing the ocean. Max’s place is on the far left and set apart from the other homes.

My nervousness kicks in as we walk down a short path and through two large wooden gates. The portal opens to an incredible garden, complete with a koi pond and waterfall. A velvet green lawn is edged on all sides with clusters of lacy ferns and wild lavender. There are fig trees and rambling rose bushes and dozens of exotic plants I can’t even identify. The entire garden is surrounded by a tall stone wall with fuchsia and apricot-colored bougainvillea crawling along its edge. There’s no order or symmetry, just lushness, which only adds to its beauty.

“Wow,” Riley says again. She looks as overwhelmed as I feel.

The front door is wide open, so we gingerly stick our heads in, looking for our host.

“Hello!” I call out, and after a few moments Max rounds the corner, drying his hands on a dishrag. He throws it over his shoulder as he approaches us. My breath catches in my throat at the delectable sight of him. He’s gotten some color since returning from New York, and it’s set off by his white linen shirt. His sleeves are rolled up, and he’s wearing faded jeans and bare feet looking like Mr. California casual.

“Ava,” he says, stepping forward and kissing me lightly on the cheek.

“And you must be Riley,” he says, warmly shaking her hand. “Thanks for coming all the way out to the beach. I’m glad you’re here.”

Riley nods, star struck. I try to speak to Riley telepathically or at least with a look.
Close your mouth, girl, you’re gawking.

Max doesn’t seem to notice.

“Come on in and say hi to Dylan. Hopefully he’s off the phone by now.”

After we join Dylan in the living room, Max heads back into the kitchen to finish preparing lunch. He insists he doesn’t need any help.

And he cooks too…

I’m beside myself, so grateful for the distraction of Dylan. The one and only time I met Dylan was when I defended Max at the show.
I have some work to do to get on his good side.

Luckily, he seems good-natured and doesn’t appear to hold a grudge. He takes Riley and me out to the patio. There’s a small steep hill at the edge of the property where the beach begins. The waves crash just beyond the narrow strip of sand, and the sound of the ocean can be heard inside the house.

The breeze whips my hair around my face, and it feels glorious. When I look to the horizon point where the water meets the sky, I can’t believe the vast magnificence of the ocean. It must be incredible to live here, right on the edge of the earth.

Max beckons us inside, and we sit around a table facing the view. He carries plates of linguini with grilled salmon in a butter, lemon and caper sauce. There’s a bowl with a mixed salad and a fresh loaf of French bread.

Dylan helps with the wine and pours everyone a glass of crisp Pinot Grigio.

There’s music on the stereo, echoing through the large room.

Riley regains her bearings and entertains us with stories about product design gone bad and corporate shenanigans. Between the nonflammable PJs that burst into flames during product testing to her office-mate who was escorted out by security last week for spending hours ‘researching’ hard-core porn on the company computers during office hours, Riley has a way of making everything comical and much more entertaining than it probably is.

When we’re done with lunch, Max explains the general idea and specs for the book. The work will be organized from the early years and influences to the initial notoriety, when Max became accepted as an important emerging artist and, finally, a commentary on where he is now and what the future might be. Obviously, the work is going to require a lot of research and interviews.

“So, Ava,” Dylan asks, once Max is finished. “I’d love to read some of the books or articles you’ve written. What would you recommend first?”

I look up and a nervous knot forms in my stomach. “Um…I-I’ve never been officially published.”

His blank stare shifts to confusion. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, you’ve never been published?” He looks horrified.

“I haven’t,” I admit. It seems pointless to lie about it. He’d find out soon enough anyway.

He turns to Max. “You told me she was perfect for this. What the hell are you doing? Is this some type of joke?” He pushes his chair back angrily. “Don’t you realize how important this is, not just for you, but for us and everything the gallery has worked for?”

Max is angry now too. “She
is
perfect for this, Dylan.”

Not wanting to hear Dylan’s response, I stand and walk down the hallway, hoping they didn’t see the tears of frustration running down my face. By the time I get to the bathroom, I’m shaking with anger.

Why has Max done this to me? Why has he put me in a position to be ridiculed and questioned? He has to know this will only get worse.

I take deep breaths, willing myself to calm down before splashing cold water on my face. When I’m finally calm again, I gather up my nerve to go back to the table and tell them that my part in the project is over. Deep in my heart, I know that Dylan’s right. They need a professional to write this story, not a neophyte with a full-time job.

When I open the door, Max is leaning on the wall of the hallway waiting for me. His somber eyes meet mine.

“Come on,” he says and lightly touches my shoulder. “Let’s take a walk.”

I silently follow him out the side door, through the security gate and down the stone steps to the beach. We walk up to the shore and let the water wash over our feet. We stand there for a couple of minutes, not saying anything, just looking to the horizon.

I finally turn to Max. “You know what I’m going to say.”

“No, Ava, you can’t let Dylan get to you. He’s so fucking wound up about the book that everything aggravates him.”

“Max, I’m so flattered, really flattered, that you asked me to do this. But I let reason get away from me. It was a crazy idea. And as happy as I am to think it could work, I realize I’m in over my head. I think it’s time to let it go, so you can find a real writer who’ll do a brilliant job.”

His face falls, and his reaction gets to me more than I would’ve anticipated.

“You can’t give up, Ava. I need you. I need you to do this…for me,” he says, looking like he’s in pain.

I fight my natural inclination to soothe and take care of him, and instead focus on his words.

“What do you mean,
you need me, Max
?” You don’t even know me.” I say, shaking my head.

He turns to face me and he grabs my forearms. “I told you, Ava, it’s just a sense I have. Nothing’s ever felt more certain. You’re going to help because you’re good for me.”

“Ahhhh,” I groan in frustration, and I walk down the beach. He follows along beside me. “It’s this
savior
thing again, Max. It’s crazy. Can’t you see I’m no one’s savior? I’m just an ordinary girl…a completely ordinary girl.”

“Ava, damn it,” he grumbles, pulling on his hair with both hands, in frustration. “Why can’t you see there’s nothing ordinary about you?”

We walk another length of the beach until we reach a point where the jagged rock landscape prohibits us from walking further. A gust of wind off the ocean blows my skirt up. Max sees my lavender finery, but doesn’t say anything, even though I’d like to know what he’s thinking.

Embarrassed, I smooth my skirt down and we sit in the sand.

“It’s such a beautiful day,” I say softly, attempting to lighten the mood and change the subject.

He has a very serious expression and looks like he’s not ready for small talk.

“How long have you lived here, anyway?” I ask.

He pauses for a moment and then looks back toward the ocean. “Full-time, about six years.”

“Wow, what an incredible place to work and live.” I smile. “But does it get lonely being so far away from the city?”

“Sometimes,” he admits. “But most of the time I prefer solitude.” He looks up at the house. “We better get back. They must be wondering what happened to us.”

When we arrive at the house, Riley and Dylan are on the couch having an animated conversation and don’t seem to notice we’ve returned.

I watch Riley with curiosity.
She’s flirting with Dylan.
And it seems to be working. At least the day wasn’t a total wash.

When it’s time to leave, Max walks us to the car. He leans over my door. “Will you do something for me, Ava?” he asks with hopeful eyes.

“What’s that?”

“Come with me to Hennessey and Ingalls next week.”

“The art bookstore in Santa Monica?”

“Yes. Let’s just look through some books on other artists, and talk some more before you make up your mind.” He’s giving me
the look
, that damn look. It’s almost impossible to turn him down.

“It’s only fair, Ava. At least see what Max wants to show you,” Riley says, egging me on.

Thank you, dearest friend, for throwing me under the bus.
I give her the evil eye.

He takes a step back and pushes his sleeves up his sculpted arms. My eyes wander up from his bare feet, over his worn jeans, his broad shoulders and handsome face. He’s over six feet of masculine perfection and distracting in every way. A breeze from the ocean hits him, and he turns his face sideways. The sinking sun backlights his perfect silhouette.

This view of him engulfs me. I feel doused in flames and what I want at this very moment has nothing to do with writing. I’m burning for him. I desperately desire to be up on that deck wrapped around Max with the ocean breeze at my back. I don’t want to be his savior nor his biographer, I just want to consume him, and I hate myself…knowing that doesn’t make me any better than his art groupies.