Free Work of Art ~ the Collection by Ruth Clampett Page B

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,