The Unveiling (Work of Art #2) (3 page)

He cuts me off. “If this is about Max, Ms. Jacobs, then this conversation is over.”

My heart sinks, but I can’t give up yet. This man might hold the key that unlocks the door to finding Max. It’s our last option. I frantically search for the words that will keep him from slamming the receiver down, the quiet buzz of our phone connection a fragile ribbon pressed between my childlike fingers. One wrong move and my balloon of hope will slip out of my grasp and soar away from me…never to return.

I clear my throat and prepare to grovel.

It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.

~ Henry David Thoreau

D
espite my initial intent to grovel, I’m struck by a moment of insight. I’m talking to a Hollywood producer, so a little drama might be effective.

“Mr. Caswell,” I say quickly, “I know better than anyone what an
asshole
Max can be, but he helped me recently out of a jam, and I owe the asshole a favor.”

I hold my breath, knowing this approach is risky, but my gut tells me it’s the way to go.

He chuckles and asks, “Are you his girlfriend, Ava?”

I snort. “In his dreams. No, I’m his biographer, occasional companion, and personal savior.”

He laughs heartily. “I like you, young lady. I’ll bet you’re pretty too.”

A flirt, I can see Max’s apple didn’t fall far from the paternal tree.

“So I’ve been told. But I’m still not his girlfriend. I’m too good for him.”

“Hmm, I’m sure you’re right. Okay, what can I do for the beautiful Ms. Ava?”

“Max had a meltdown and disappeared. We think he may be staying with a relative, because none of his friends know where he is. He may be with his aunt, but we have no idea how to reach her.”

He scoffs. “That’s my son. He’s such a damn hothead. He could be with Ann. That’s not a bad guess.”

“Do you happen to have her contact information?”

“No, I haven’t seen Ann in years.”

“Well, how about her last name and where she lives?’

He pauses for a moment, tapping something in the background. “Emerson, Ann Emerson,” he says finally. “She could be living anywhere. She moved around a lot. But I remember she was a successful photographer. She might have a website.”

“Great idea. I’ll try that. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Well, it’s
you
I’m helping, my dear, because you seem worth it. Perhaps if the asshole ever talks to me again, you and I will have a chance to meet.”

“I’d really like that.”

“You know, my son would do well to end up with someone like you. A strong woman is exactly what he needs to chase his demons away. His mother babied him too damn much with all of his
issues
.”

“They were very close, weren’t they?”

“I’ll say, I was the third wheel, and you know that isn’t good for a marriage. Look, I would’ve never won father of the year. Max expected things from me that I never delivered, but I can’t rewrite the past. And he needs to fucking grow up and let it go if we’re ever going to have a relationship.”

“I agree, sir. And if I ever find him, I’m going to tell him that, Mr. Caswell.” Apparently, Max’s dad likes to share. I never thought I’d get this much information out of him.

“You do that, my dear. You’re really something.” He pauses for a moment. “Did you really write his biography?”

“Yes, I did,” I state proudly.

“Will you let me know when it comes out so I can get a copy?”

“I’ll send you one.” A rustle of papers lets me know I’ve taken enough of his time. “Well, I’ll let you go, and thank you so much, Mr. Caswell. It was a pleasure talking with you.”

“And I have a feeling it won’t be the last time. I’ll look forward to meeting you one day, Ms. Ava Jacobs.”

I hang up and I enjoy a moment of self-congratulatory splendor.
Score one for Ava,
I cheer inwardly, pleased that my sassy attitude paid off. I should go into politics, thanks to my previously undiscovered diplomatic abilities.

I’m not sure what I expected, but I found Max’s father intriguing. I wish I knew the real reason why he and Max didn’t have a relationship, instead of the superficial one he gave me.

As soon as I return to my office, I search for “Ann Emerson, photographer” on my computer. Sure enough, a number of galleries and articles come up, and as I scroll down, I find what I’m looking for: AnnEmersonPhotography
.
com.

The home page features a beautiful black and white photograph of two beach chairs and an overturned umbrella on the shore 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 God.”

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. Damn, that’s almost twenty miles.”

Bloody hell
, 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 God.” 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 damn, 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 glasses. 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-shell glasses I love so much. His hair’s a bit longer, which I find sexy 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 Saturday? 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. Flustered, 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 Saturday 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.