Work Of Art: The Unveiling Part 19

After eating breakfast, transferring my bags to our room, and changing, we decide I'll ride with Jess to the art show, while Dylan and Max meet with a writer from the New York Times at La Posada. Being apart from Max after finally truly being together is inevitable and painful. He doesn't look happy about it either, but he pulls me into his arms and promises he'll find me at the show as soon as he can.

When we're safely in the car, Jess turns to me. "I gotta say, girl, you are a little hard to keep up with. Just five days ago, I had to drag you out of bed because you were depressed you'd been fooled by your a.s.shole married admirer. Then, at the airport, you and Max are best buddies. I must've missed the part where you two fell head-over-heels for each other. So, now you're in love?" she teases, rolling her eyes dramatically.

Listening to Jess describe it makes my situation sound absurd. But Jess knows the truth, and she's testing me. I give her a long look.

"Oh, Jess, you know I've always wanted him. I was just too scared to admit how I really felt."

She laughs heartily. "Well, yeah, girl, I didn't think you'd ever admit it...that you'd allow your heart to go there."

"Fair enough. I've been shut down for a long time, but when I was in his arms last night, I don't think I've ever felt happier."

"Oh, baby." She smiles tenderly.

"Look, you're my dear friend and you're close to Max. You know better than anyone the hurdles we face. I don't think for a minute this'll be easy, but I also don't think I can fight my true feelings anymore."

"I'm more optimistic than you think. Yes, you may be the perfect woman for Max...you've always known I felt that way, but what you don't know is that I think he's good for you. He's brilliant, fun, intensely loyal, and he'll challenge you. I think you need that. You guys have the chance to be an incredibly powerful couple."

My heart soars at the idea that we can be more together than we are alone.

She gives me a serious look. "I don't have to tell you that you'll need to figure out how to deal with his dark side. It won't always be easy-sometimes it'll be h.e.l.l. But show me a relations.h.i.+p that doesn't have to work through c.r.a.p, and I'll show you a facade."

"I'm sure you're right." I take a deep breath.

"But enough of that. Let's just stay in our happy place and celebrate that my Ava is in love. Oh, and did I mention that he's one great-looking f.u.c.ker. You sure know how to pick a hot man!"

"Hot doesn't begin to describe him." My eyes grow wide as I remember last night.

She laughs and arches her brow. "That good, huh? Well, I'm not surprised. He's an artist, after all."

At the art show, we put on our badges and grab a map to orient ourselves. We're just about to walk down the first aisle when a big man pa.s.sing us looks at my badge and stops in his tracks.

"Ava Jacobs?" The man inquiring has unusual coloring-flaming red hair, tan skin and a smattering of freckles. His dark green eyes pop against the unruliness of his red hair, and he's dressed in expensive, hip clothes.

I scrutinize him, trying to remember if I know him. "Yes, I'm Ava. Pardon me, but do I know you?"

His badge is twisted sideways, and he flips it back in place. "No, you don't, but let me introduce myself. I'm Nick Castallani, senior editor at Rampart in New York. I was just talking to Jonathan Alistair about you last week. He let me pre-read your work on Maxfield Caswell, and it was excellent."

I blush and glance down, but then force my gaze back up at him to accept the compliment. "Thank you, Mr. Castallani."

Jonathan recommended me to another publisher. And not just any other publisher, but one of the most prominent publishers in our field. For all the resentment I hold for Jonathan, there are things I will always appreciate; mostly that he believed in my talent and wanted me to succeed.

Jess s.h.i.+fts by my side, and I realize my oversight. "Please, let me introduce my good friend, Jess Chandler. You may be familiar with her work."

He shakes her hand. "Yes, Ms. Chandler. I'm really enjoying your latest paintings from the New York street scenes...very dynamic."

"Thanks, Mr. Castallani, and call me Jess." Her shoulders pull back with an air of confidence.

"Ladies, please call me Nick." He turns to me and says, "Jonathan and I go way back, and he suggested you for an upcoming project of mine. I'd love to talk about it. How long are you in Santa Fe?"

"I'm here until Sunday."

"Let's meet for lunch or drinks. Let me see..." He checks his schedule on his phone. "How about lunch tomorrow?" He has the stereotypical a.s.sertive personality of a New Yorker.

"Lunch sounds good."

After what happened with Jonathan, I don't ever want to have new business meetings over drinks again. I need a clear head, and that means no alcohol of any kind.

We exchange numbers and agree to meet tomorrow around one at the restaurant just down from the show.

Jess and I peruse a few aisles to see the exhibits before heading over to Adam's booth. Brian's talking to another publisher, and Adam greets us. We compliment him on how everything looks great, and he's clearly happy with how smoothly setup went.

He has several important collectors scheduled over the next couple of days, so the show already feels promising. It's weird that he isn't expecting me to work, but considering how much smaller it is than New York, I'm sure they'll be okay.

Adam watches me for a second. "I saw Jonathan at the hotel last night. He normally doesn't come to this show. Did you see him?"

"Yes, we talked briefly." I feel uncomfortable, but Katherine walks up and gives Jess and me hugs before Adam continues.

"He was very upset when I saw him. He looked like h.e.l.l and was checking out of the hotel. Did something happen? Do you want me to talk to him?"

Two arms wrap around me from behind, and Max pulls me against him. My heart skips a beat and I grin. Adam raises his eyebrows suspiciously. Katherine, on the other hand, lights up like a Christmas tree.

"h.e.l.lo, Maxfield," he says, eyeing Max's arms around my waist.

In contrast, Katherine smiles at Max warmly.

"Adam, Katherine," Max says casually.

"Ava, let's talk about this another time." He takes Katherine and turns toward someone who's just entered the booth, while Jess turns to talk to Brian.

If Max feels slighted, he doesn't show it. He kisses me lightly.

"How was your interview?"

"Fine. He was very organized, so it went quickly. It's for a piece about a number of artists, so he didn't need to go into great detail."

He puts his arm over my shoulder and leads me down the aisles. I notice every group we pa.s.s recognizes Max. When we reach the meeting area at the center of the show, he stops and turns to me. "So, is Adam upset about something?"

"He saw Jonathan checking out of the hotel last night and thought he looked upset, so he asked if I'd seen him."

Max scowls. "What did you tell him?"

"Just that I had seen him briefly."

"Yeah, and Adam looked thrilled to see me too," he adds sarcastically. "I know he's your stand-in dad and I respect that, but it's not like you're sixteen and have no idea what you're doing."

I can't resist teasing him. "Do I know what I'm doing? Is it smart to fall in love with a crazy artist?"

"Yes, when the crazy artist is crazy in love with you." He pulls me in his arms and kisses me with abandon in plain view of the art world...dealers, curators, publishers, art groupies, and his watchful peers. This simple gesture will spark countless questions, destroy many fantasies, and tell the world unequivocally that I'm his love. I kiss him back, showing he's my love too. He may be a wild and brilliant mess, but d.a.m.n it all, he's mine.

Chapter Fourteen / With Georgia's Blessings.

I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn't say any other waythings I had no words for.

~ Georgia O'Keeffe "It's really all about the act of s.e.x as art."

"Excuse me?" I sputter.

The six-foot Chinese beauty throws her waist length hair over her shoulder and waves her hand toward the row of oil paintings. "Dane photographed himself performing s.e.xual acts with twelve different women, and then painted these abstractions from the photographs."

"Really?" I feign interest, when all I really want to know is how a woman of such insane proportions finds clothes that fit. She's dressed head to toe in black, and when she turns sideways she practically disappears. She opens a sleek, black, leather notebook.

"Yes, we've already sold seven of the series. He's so hot right now." She lowers her voice and says, "He's an excellent investment."

I've wandered into this booth during another visit to the art show, and she's misidentified me as a customer. I pull out my exhibitor badge, put it on, and try not to smirk. Too bad Max isn't here. He'd love to hear her talk about investments.

Max has to work the rest of the afternoon, meeting collectors and other industry people Dylan's lined up. So, I've taken the opportunity to wander the show alone and see what the other artists are showing.

I determine that Dane Rush is an opportunist, and his gimmick seems to be working if the paintings really are selling-you never know for sure. I thank Tamara, exotic saleswoman extraordinaire, and work my way down the aisle.

Next, I see the work of an artist named Carolina Rossmore. I find her paintings particularly interesting because they're done over black and white photographs. Her technique leaves a bit of the photograph bleeding through, which makes for an interesting juxtaposition.

On the next aisle, I discover an Italian sculptor with marble and bronze abstracts of elegant curved shapes joined together that I find lyrical and appealing. I resist the urge to run my fingers over the dips and swirls of the forms. The salesperson is already dealing with someone, so I have plenty of uninterrupted time to enjoy his work.

Everyone's busy with the business of selling art, which is the complete opposite of what drives the creation of art, and I wonder about the struggle for the two to coexist. Even the most purist gallery owners find themselves making compromises to make a sale and keep their doors open for business, while the artists have to clear their mind of the reports they receive on what is selling to be able to follow their heart instead.

Max seems to balance the tug and pull of being true to his vision, yet still dealing with the business side of marketing and sales. It's another reason I find him remarkable.

I smile. Max is never far from my thoughts, and I'm still a little off-kilter from the dramatic turn of events in our relations.h.i.+p. It's hard to believe that less than twenty-four hours ago I ran to his hotel room in the dark, not knowing if I'd have the courage to express what I felt for him. After so many crossed messages and so much bad timing, do we finally have fate on our side?

After the show closes at six, a group of us walk to the opening reception for Art Santa Fe at the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum. Adam talks with Nick Castallani, and I join them to say h.e.l.lo. Adam smiles widely when he hears I'm being considered for another project, and I can tell by the focused and intense way he speaks with Nick that he respects him. I hope that's a good sign moving forward.

A couple of enthusiastic collectors, who are sponsors of the show, have cornered Max, so I leave him to navigate his way through that conversation. Joe motions for me to join him and Jess at the bar.

Although Joe hasn't made a sale yet, there's some interest, so he isn't discouraged. Jess says she won't be satisfied unless she sells at least four of her paintings this weekend. We all know this is ambitious, but Jess does everything big.

After about an hour of wandering the crowd and making polite conversation, I take a few moments to check out the museum. It's an intimate, well-designed place, and to have a museum solely dedicated to a single artist's work has an incredible impact.

I wander from room to room, taking in O'Keeffe's colorful paintings. Some are abstract, but even the figurative tends to be simple subjects like an open flower or a stark landscape. One of her more unusual subjects is a cow's skull, which has become one of her iconic symbols of New Mexico.

Although the subject matter is minimal in content, the richness of the color and style is overwhelming. I wish every gallery room had a chaise longue to lie back on so I could let the sensuous color swirl around me and sweep me away.

I'm alone in one of the last rooms when Max finds me.

"Here you are. I thought I'd lost you."

"No, I just wanted to check out the museum. I was done making small talk."

"These shows are torture...too many people over too many days. By the end, I feel like I've lost my mind."

"You could've fooled me. You always seem right at home and so comfortable talking to everyone."

"It's a facade I've built up after years of practice. I may be good at it, but it doesn't mean I like it. By the way, who was that big red-headed guy you were talking to with Adam?"

"Nick Castallani from Rampart. He wants to meet me for lunch tomorrow to talk about a project."

A dark look crosses his face, but then it's gone. "Really? Why don't I join you?"

"I don't think so, Max. That wouldn't be professional, and you know it." I raise my brows and give him a stern look, so he knows I won't tolerate trouble.

"Well, pardon me for not trusting publishers around you."

"Gee, thanks. So, you don't think my talent warrants him hiring me?"

"You know that's not what I meant. I guess I'll try harder to tame the jealous beast inside me."

I take his hand. "You should, because I only want you, Max. You told me you love me, and I love you, and I'm not letting anything or anyone get in our way."

I turn back to the art on the gallery wall. He hugs me from behind and kisses my neck, as I continue to study the painting.

"Do you like O'Keeffe?" His lips graze my shoulder.

"Yes, it's curious though. On the surface, she was such a tough woman, but her work is so soft and feminine. Do you like it?"

"I've never been much of a fan, but I'm seeing it anew tonight. I wouldn't say it's feminine, as much as sensuous. I mean, this painting here reminds me of you." He runs his hands down my sides and rests them on my hips.

My eyes wander over the waves of soft color blending into each other. "Really? How does it remind you of me?"

"You really want to know?" He pauses, and I wonder if it's s.e.xual, because O'Keeffe's work is certainly noted for it. I can feel his breath on my neck, and his fingers press firmly into the flesh at the swell of my hips.

"Yes." I lean back against him.

"Okay, but this isn't really museum talk." He kisses me right behind my ear before lowering his voice. "This painting is how I see you between your legs. I could run my fingers over the painting's colors and feel you opening up for me."

I imagined his thoughts would go along those lines, but hearing it stirs me to my core. I gasp as heat flows through me.

"d.a.m.n, Max."

"Do you want me to tell you more?" He runs his tongue along the edge of my ear before taking the lobe between his teeth and gently biting.

"Please, handsome, more." I squeeze my legs together.