Work of Art ~ the Collection (109 page)

Cas

I open my eyes to the early morning light and wonder why I'm awake so early. I could really use more sleep but it's no use . . . once I'm awake there’s no going back. I rub my eyes and drag myself out of bed. One thing about getting older, it takes a lot more effort to get going in the morning.

I decide on a hot shower, but as I finish I hear something in my bedroom. I quickly wrap a towel around my waist and ease the door open. I’m relieved to confirm that no one is there, but then I realize that my partially unpacked luggage looks askew.

I step closer to the sitting chair where my carry-on is perched, and notice a faint glow rising out of one of the side pockets . . . Max's cell phone. That's exactly where I’d secretly stashed it.

I lift it up, and check the screen to see if Max just called Ava. His call record shows that he hasn't made a call since before I got him in Ojai. I check his texts next . . . bingo. My son finally pulled it off, and sent a text to his girl. Feeling guilty, but also insanely curious, I open the message, only to find three stark yet powerful words glowing off the screen.

Believe in me.

I'm so overwhelmed that I drop to the edge of the bed to sit and gather myself. I take several deep breaths as I sort through this surge of emotion. Isn't this all Max ever needed, from Ava, from me, from those he cares about in this world? My son may have a tough shell, he may be very difficult at times but in the end he just wants us to know that he can be a good man . . . someone deserving of our love.

There’s no doubt how much Ava believes in him. I know with all my heart that she’ll be overjoyed with his decision to come with her. All I can hope is that these few days together have shown him how much I believe in him too.

Max

While Dad finishes his shower, I take my coffee to the balcony and enjoy the Sunday morning quiet of New York. The streets below are fairly empty and subdued with the lavender gray light that settles between the tall buildings. A few delivery guys unload their goods, while an occasional person walks down the street at a leisurely Sunday morning pace.

I realize I like it. I like the feeling in this apartment high above the madness, and it's inspiring me. Vivid images form in my mind that I will soon rough out in my sketchbook.

I decide that when the weather permits, Ava and I will sit out here and gaze at the view while we have Sunday morning coffee, or an evening glass of wine. I smile widely as I imagine her out here with me.

Back in L.A. I'm sure Ava is still asleep and hasn't gotten my text, but before long she will be up, and hopefully heading to JFK. It's been so painful not to talk to her, but I have to admit it helped me immerse myself in the experience of being here with Dad. I've been able to take a step back from the jigsaw puzzle of my life and look at everything a different way.

I close my eyes and imagine seeing Ava, holding and kissing her. And then it hits me where I will meet her in Paris. It's absolutely perfect. I get up to find Dad and share my idea.

Cas

"I like it," I admit, even though it wasn't my suggestion. "It's very cinematic. So you will approach her from a distance? Will you charge forward and lift her up into your arms?"

"No, I think I'll be a bit more low key than that." He laughs.

"Too bad, nothing like a little drama in your romance."

"Oh, we've had a lifetime's worth of drama. I think it's about time we toned down the drama."

We spend the rest of the day finishing up plans. I email Louis at the Plaza with my message for Ava. Max decides that he wants to keep his studio set up in Malibu in case they travel back and forth, so we head back to the art supply store to get him an easel and enough supplies to get started. Luckily he knows some artists in New York that can hook him up with the right people for his canvases. So other than books and clothes and such, we decide that the apartment has everything else they need. It's more than move-in ready.

Early evening when he rolls his suitcase to the front hall, I feel a heavy melancholy settle over me. Just as I'm getting my groove at being a good dad to my son, our time is up. I can't help but wonder if the progress we've made will stick once he leaves this intense experience behind him.

We get the call that the car is waiting downstairs. I hand him his phone. "It's all in your hands now."

He smiles as he turns it on. "Look, there's a text from my girl."

"What does it say?" I ask.

"I do," he says with a happy sigh. “Ava believes in me."

"Yes, she does." I nod, remembering the message he was so determined to get to her.

He opens his leather messenger bag and puts his phone away, then rechecks for his passport and boarding printout. He pulls it out and looks at it.

"Everything all right?" I ask.

"Couldn't be better because in three hours my plane is taking off, six hours past that I'll be in Paris, and around three hours after that Ava will be in my arms." He grins widely.

"And it’ll be a new beginning," I affirm.

He looks back at his ticket and raises his eyebrows. "Hey, this is First Class. I only booked business."

"Nothing but the best for you two," I say with a wink.

"Dad . . . you've done so much, I don't even know what to say." He shuffles his feet and looks down.

"Just say that you’ll hold your head up, and keep moving forward."

"Just like Mom said," he says softly.

"Take good care of that girl of yours. She's definitely a keeper."

His eyes spark as he looks up at me. "I will. Thanks . . . for everything."

I pull him into my arms and hug him tightly. "Just promise that this is a new beginning for us too, okay?"

He pulls away, looks me in the eyes and nods. "Okay."

I haven't shed a tear since Liz's passing. But when he steps into the hallway and the door closes, I feel tears make their way down my face.

Max

"More champagne?" asks the overly eager flight attendant.

"Sure," I say, handing her my glass. "I'm celebrating."

"Lovely, what's the occasion?"

"I'm head over heels in love, and I'm going to meet my beautiful girl in Paris."

She smiles graciously even though I can tell she's disappointed. "Lucky girl," she says before moving on.

I'm the lucky one, I whisper to myself.

The rest of the flight is one long extended fantasy about all of the ways I'm going to make love to Ava. I’m desperately craving her touch, needing to be inside of her and watching her expression melt when I take her, thrusting deeply as she calls out my name.

I've never been so grateful for those airline blankets. Mine works perfectly to cover the evidence of my searing desire. I don't think a flight has ever felt so long.

Once in our hotel suite I take the greatest pleasure in all of the signs of Ava's presence. There are lingering bubbles in the oversized tub, and her lotions are carefully lined up on the marble counter. I open the closet and am enchanted to see her clothes carefully hung; beautiful, special things she must have picked out just for our trip. I run my fingers across the butter soft silks, polished cottons and cashmere. But my final undoing is when I pull open the dresser drawer and find her lingerie. I lift the most delicate pair of satin and lace panties up and hold them in my hands, imagining them on Ava . . . the pale pink against her creamy soft skin.

Unable to control myself a moment longer I pull off my clothes and move to the shower. As hot water pours over me, I picture her with me, my lips moving from her lips, down her neck and to her breasts, as her hand slowly strokes me.

My hand is foaming with bath gel as my grip tightens.

I imagine pressing her against the wall of the shower, lifting her until her legs are wrapped around me. I thrust into her, pressing her against the marble as she moans and gives me everything.

I grip my hand tighter, imagining it's Ava. She’s wet, hot, keening with sensation and passion . . . begging me for more.

"I need you . . . I love you, Ava," I whisper over and over.

My knees buckle as I climax, flashes of her blinding me with their brilliance.

While I finish getting ready to meet Ava, I’m especially careful as I shave, slowly dragging the razor along my throat. There’s a feeling of ritual, a moment of great significance as I button up my pressed shirt, tuck it into my tailored jeans and pull on my fine wool jacket. I want to be smooth and tailored. I want to look so good that I’m the only person Ava sees. I finish with after shave—an exotic elixir that will pull her toward me until she is tight in my arms.

Oh fuck, I can't take much more of this anticipation.

My hands tremble as I gather my room key, wallet and cell phone. I check my watch for the hundredth time. She's probably still in front of the Monet's wondering how she'll feel when she sees me again. I decide to go slow, ease into my story and all the ways that our lives are about to change. As much as I want to, I won't sprint along the path and sweep her into my arms. I’m going to be calm and thoughtful, so she knows without a doubt, that I’m centered and ready for our lives together to truly begin.

It’s finally time. After the cab drops me off I take a deep breath and move forward. In the grand garden of the Tuileries, the gravel crunches under my feet, as a breeze gently pushes me down the path. My first steps are measured. One, two, three paces . . . seventeen, eighteen, nineteen . . . an endless number of steps until I reach her. Narrow trees are lined on either side of the path like soldiers, reaching high, meticulously trimmed so that they’re pointing toward the sky. The sun is burning bright, the scattered clouds low enough that if I were still a boy I would try to catch frosty wisps with a net and save them in a jar.

I'm too anxious to look toward the horizon, for if she isn't there, I'm afraid my heart will burst. I love her . . . echoing over and over in my mind. The idea that she loves me too gives me the strength to keep moving ahead.

No matter where on this earth we end up, Ava will be always be mine and I’ll always be hers.

Forty-four, forty-five . . . sixty-one, sixty-two . . . the long shadows fall over me and I step into light, then dark, then light again. What if her heart has shifted, and she’s decided it's time for a new direction. What if her great adventure doesn't have an extra seat for me to come along on the ride?

My hands curl into fists but I consciously relax them and take a deep breath, letting go of the fear. I love her . . . she loves me.

Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one . . . I take an even deeper breath and look up.

Every single question is answered in her soft smile, as her Audrey Hepburn dress flutters in the breeze. She’s standing, patiently waiting. When I step closer I can see that her neck and cheeks are flushed with excitement. Every look and gesture confirms that she wants me too.

I’m tough, and resist the overwhelming urge to fall to my knees as I approach her. Instead I take her hand.

"Hi," I say softly.

She takes a step closer, biting her lip. Oh, I want to kiss her so badly. This kind of restraint is testing me to my very limits.

She smiles and her expression lights up. "You found me," she says. Other words fall between us but all I can do is look in her eyes and feel the overwhelming love.

She's wearing the necklace with the charms that I had made for her, a reminder of the dreams I always had envisioned for us. She wore it knowing what that would mean to me.

I pull her into my arms—just where she’s meant to be. I won't ever let her go. My heart beats to my internal chant, I love you, I love you, I love you . . .

She presses closer. Every part of her saying, I love you too . . .

Moments later when we sit so I can tell my story, she’s brave and asks the hard questions—about Chloe, about what I really want, and if I still plan to wait for her.

So when I tell her about dad’s offer, her eyes grow wide with hope.

“You’re really going to come with me to New York?” she asks, her eyes brimming with tears.

I nod as I place the keys into her open hands. “Yes, I am.”

The kiss that follows rivals Rodin’s Le Baiser for unrestrained passion, fueled by a love bigger than I thought I’d ever deserve or find. I’d been lost, and Ava didn’t just find me, she healed me.

I can’t wait to get her back to the hotel and into our bed, but first we have to celebrate what our future holds.

As I hold her tightly my heart silently speaks to hers.

Are you ready for our future, Ava? It beckons even when we are countless miles apart. It was imbedded in our DNA before we even met—woven in the threads of our past lives, and it formed the shield protecting us against the wall of fire we've just walked through.

But now our future is a smooth idea, full of hope . . . a blank canvas we will fill with vibrant colors, every shade and tone.

It's here, my love, up ahead where the light is brightest. Now take my hand and we'll walk there together.

Also by Ruth Clampett

Wet

Animate Me

Mr. 365

Many thanks to those of you

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~it’s much appreciated.

Acknowledgements

I began writing Work of Art over four years ago with a dream to one day publish it. It's a beautiful thing to have that dream realized.

My teenage daughter, Alex and I work and write in our family room, about ten feet apart from each other, and she's been my cheerleader, opinion giver, and occasional eye roller through the writing and editing of this trilogy. I hope I've shown her by example that if you work hard and put your whole heart into it, you can make your dreams come true.

I have so much love for my dear friends, both in my real life and online one who have encouraged and supported me. Big love to my Home Girls: Alex, Cheri, Lisa and Judy, my Lost Girls: Erika, Dawn and Susi, and dear friends Kellie and Suzie.

Huge thanks and appreciation for my editors: the amazing Angela Borda, Janine Savage and Janell Parque for making my words look good.