The Inspiration (15 page)

His driving is smooth and confident, as he turns on to Beverly Boulevard, heading east. We pass street after street of eclectic boutiques, cafes and coffee bars before he makes a right onto Alta Vista and pulls over in front of a house about eight houses down from the corner.

He gazes past me at a small Spanish home with hand-painted tile wrapped around the picture window and a tangle of palms, bird of paradise and flaming fuchsia bougainvillea in the yard. An old decorative wrought iron gate is open to the front patio. He has a soft look in his eyes.

He grips the steering wheel tightly and clears his throat. “This is where I grew up.”

I smile. “It’s beautiful. I love the style of the house. It has so much character.”

“Yeah, my mom loved old Spanish homes, the hardwood floors, thick plaster walls and coved ceilings. The house is built around a wonderful tiled patio with a fountain. We used to eat outside a lot. I have a lot of good memories from the years I spent here with her.” He opens the door of the car and gets out.

We stand on the sidewalk in front of the house, and he looks up and down the street, taking everything in. I wonder what he’s thinking and how he’s feeling.

“Do you come here often?”

“No, I never do. It’s still too hard because it reminds me of my mom and how much I miss her.”

“I understand.” Sadly, I do…better than he may realize. “How long did you live here? This is where your mom raised you instead of Malibu, right?”

“Yes, Mom bought it after the divorce when I was four, and I lived here until I left for college.” He tips his head, still gazing at the house. “I’m so glad to see they haven’t changed it. I was worried they might have torn it down and built some big modern house in its place.”

“What about the Malibu house? What’s the story behind that.”

“My parents actually bought that house before I was born, and my mom got it in the divorce. My dad took the Beverly Hills house. People thought she was nuts when she used up all her money to buy this. They assumed we’d live in Malibu, but she didn’t want to raise me there. We’d only go for the occasional weekend and sometimes in the summer.”

It’s fascinating and so different from my childhood.

He shrugs. “My mom always felt the kids in Malibu were entitled and disconnected from the real world?”

I nod. “I bet she was right.”

“She wanted to raise me in the city and send me to public school so I’d have a realistic understanding of things.” He pulls back his shoulders and smiles. It makes me feel that he’s proud of his mother for raising him the way she did.

“And your dad?” I wonder out loud. “Is he alive?”

His expression falls. “He’s still alive, but we don’t have a relationship. I haven’t seen him since Mom died, and I barely saw him before that.”

“I’m sorry, Max.”

He looks at me and starts to say something, but he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “We can live our lives with regret or resentment for what we didn’t have, but whatever our experiences were, they shaped who we are now. So I just have to believe this was the path I was supposed to have.”

I study him, surprised to see some of the depth Dylan had talked about. After a moment, I decide to lighten things up.

“There are a number of houses on this street. Did you have a lot of kids in this neighborhood?”

He laughs, “Oh yeah. We would organize our own Olympic games in the summer. Those were good times. Oh, and kick the can. We would play until it was so dark we couldn’t see any longer.”

“We had this tent Mom would let me and my friend pitch in the back of the garden and we’d play survivalists in the wilderness.”

“That must have been fun. I would’ve loved to have met you when you were a little boy.”

“In retrospect, I was a nerd and really shy, always drawing and reading and lost in my own imagination. The bigger kids teased me, but my best friend Bobby lived next door, and he defended me. He also dragged me outside to play as often as he could.”

I smile, happy to know he had a friend to look out for him.

“See that Mexican restaurant down on the corner called El Coyote?”

I nod as he points to a low white building with red awnings, a trio of payphones on the side, and an old metal sign on the roof. It’s the type of place that looks like it’s always been there.

“Mom and I would have enchiladas there every Sunday night. The waitresses wore these traditional Spanish dresses with big hoop skirts that were so big they couldn’t walk down the aisles without their skirts tipping up. I always tried to sneak a peek under those skirts.”

So he was always a ladies man.
I laugh to myself.

“This must have been a fun area to live in.”

“Sure, there was an art supply store just down Beverly that I practically lived at. The owner, Kirk, had to kick me out at night so he could close the store. Every Saturday I used to ride my bike to the museum. All the guards knew me and would sometimes bring me food from the cafeteria.”

“So that’s where you honed your power of persuasion.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. Come on, I’ll continue the tour. Let’s drive by my high school and then go to Farmers Market and get something to eat.”

We get back in the car and drive west about a mile until we get to a big public high school at the corner of Melrose and Fairfax. “Three years before I started high school, they established a fine art magnet here so I was lucky. It was like a small art school within the school. I had some great art teachers who encouraged me in my work. I probably would’ve never ended up at Pratt, hell I probably wouldn’t be who I am today, if I hadn’t had that experience.”

After that, we head to an L.A. mainstay, Farmers Market, a collection of permanent stalls with every kind of prepared food, including stands with baskets of fresh fruit, bakeries, a doughnut shop and a place where you can watch them make candy. Metal tables and chairs from the 1940s are grouped together so people can pick up a sandwich or some coffee and hang out with friends. And since it’s entirely outdoors, clusters of old-fashioned scalloped-edge umbrellas in different colors provide shade.

“I love this place,” I say as we weave our way through the market.

He nods. “It’s always mixed with an eclectic group of people, from L.A. hipsters, to old locals, to tourists from all over the world. My favorite group is the game show contestants who wander around, still wearing their name tags from CBS Studios next door.”

I smile. “That’s great—so LA.”

“Bennett’s Ice Cream!” Max calls out as we walk down an aisle. “That’s where I had my first job. As a matter of fact, I had my first hand job in the storeroom. Emily Young…I wonder what ever happened to her?”

“The storeroom? How romantic. Why don’t you Facebook her? You could become Facebook friends and have a repeat performance. I have several ex-boyfriends stalking me on Facebook.”

“No thanks.”

We wander around until we decide on Middle Eastern food for dinner, and we share a falafel plate and gyro sandwiches. About halfway through dinner, I realize I’ve never seen this side of Max—happy and relaxed. Maybe making peace with his past and present has been good for him.

We’re both quiet on the drive back to the gallery. He parks next to my car and turns off the engine. There’s a heaviness in the air, and I wait to see if he’ll address it. Another minute passes in silence before he finally turns to me.

“You know, Ava, I’ve never shown anyone my past. It’s too private and invasive. Yet it felt so right to share it with you. I mean, I know this is research for the book, but to me it felt like something more. I’m not sure what yet, but I want to find out.”

His blue gray eyes search mine, full of emotion and maybe fear. I hold his gaze, unwavering and hoping my eyes will tell him how much it meant to share these memories with him. I’m too scared to speak and I’m angry with myself for my fierce attraction to this complicated man. I’m afraid this delicate web woven between us will dissolve from the sheer force of my confused thoughts.

He looks at my lips and parts his before he leans a bit closer to me. The air is charged with electricity.

All of my logic escapes me as my guard and reservations come crashing down as I desperately hope he wants to pull me in his arms and kiss me.

All I can do is close my eyes and wait, hoping his heart’s desire will overcome the cautious inclination of his tangled mind.

T
he seconds pass and, with my eyes closed, I imagine his lips are almost on me. I prepare for my libido to spontaneously combust from the resulting heat and friction.

Max clears his throat. “Thanks again, Ava.”

The snap of the door locks provide the final shattering of my sad delusion.

I open my eyes and I try to conceal the horror creeping up and reshaping my face. I’m completely stunned.
How could I have misread his intentions so completely?
I can’t get out of the car fast enough.

“Yeah okay, bye,” I snap and jump out of the Porsche. I don’t look back as I fumble with my keys to unlock my car and finally fall into my seat. The tears of frustration fall as I start the engine.

What is wrong with you? Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why do you do this? Are you an idiot? You’re an idiot! Have you not paid attention to every signpost that man has held in front of you? You’re such a fucking idiot. Why in the hell would you want that womanizer to kiss you anyway? Have you lost your mind? He probably thinks of you like a sister—worse than his sister, his idiot loser moron sister. He’s probably on his way to pick up Sheila so he can fuck her brains out. Tomorrow you should quit this project and tell him you’re just not interested in writing his stupid fucking book. You should fuck Jonathan. You should fuck those stupid ex-boyfriend Facebook friends. You are so fucked!

This thread of destructive thoughts churns through my head until I’m finally home and have ingested three shots of Grey Goose. I’m almost glad Riley isn’t coming home tonight so I can spare her my epic tale that sinks my loser love life down to a whole new low.

In my drunken state, I stumble to my bedroom and board my bed—the ship to drift through a murky sea. I pray I’ll reach shore by morning.

I blink a few times, trying to understand the source of the annoying bright light before I realize it’s the morning sun pouring through my window. I sit up long enough to gulp an entire glass of water at my bedside and throw myself back on the bed with a groan. As I recall snippets of my late evening free-fall, I face the humbling realization I’ve hit bottom. Theoretically, things could be worse in the battle of the sexes, but it doesn’t help my mood.

I allow myself to wallow for a few more minutes and then give myself a talking to…it’s time to move onward and upward. And although I’d love to walk away from the project and never humiliate myself in front of Max again, I’m going to be adult and get the book done.

I get in the shower and plan my strategy for the day, remembering that Sean needs me to work in the printing studio.

I’m glad to work the press that day, the mindless repetitive motion, the beauty unfolding as we apply one color at a time on paper until the image forms. It’s good to spend the day around Sean. Despite his occasional bossy moods, he’s someone who makes me laugh and feel like I’m worth having around.

As I’m changing to meet Jonathan for dinner, I realize I didn’t have all my wits about me this morning. If I had, I would’ve never brought this outfit. The black pants are too fitted, although I have to admit they make my ass look great, the lavender sweater’s almost a second skin. My Agent Provocateur bra prominently defines my cleavage, adding to the effect.

I suppose by most girls’ standards, my outfit isn’t a big deal, but for me it is. I should be serving drinks in Vegas, not having a serious business meeting.

But if Jonathan is surprised when I join him in the bar at Chaya Brasserie, he doesn’t show it. He greets me warmly, kissing me on both cheeks.

“You look lovely in that color, Ava,” he says with a smile.

We start the conversation talking about an event
Art+trA
is holding for the opening of a
Women in Photography
show at the L.A. County Museum of Art. Jonathan has a particular passion for fine art photography so he’s very enthusiastic. As he talks, his expression’s warm and lively. It prompts me to pay more attention to the details about him.

I appreciate his handsome face and the way his sandy blond hair sweeps back off his forehead in waves. He must be in his late forties, but he’s obviously taken good care of himself. His body appears very fit with a flat stomach, strong arms and broad shoulders. But the detail that always delights me most is his tortoise-shell glasses. I love the cool retro style.

I feel a subtle shift while I study him, and I catch myself flirting more as we talk. When we go over the outline, he gives me specific directions for the interviews I’ve lined up. He seems pleased with how things are progressing. His compliment of my writing style is particularly gratifying.