The Inspiration by Ruth Clampett Read Free Book Online

what to do. It hits me that my experience with Max is no longer a 1940s romantic comedy, but a gothic romance novel. He’s a tortured Heathcliff, but I’m sure as hell not playing his Catherine. He watches me silently, his expression falling with each second passing.
    “Okay, I’ll stay for a while,” I finally reply.
    “Please sit next to me,” he says, as he reaches for me again.
    I pull off my boots and hesitantly climb onto the bed, sitting back against the headboard. His back’s to me and I can’t see his expression, but I can feel his tension.
    “Just relax,” I whisper as I push the covers down a little. Instinctively, I soothe him by running my hand through his hair, down his back and over his broad shoulders. As I repeat the motion over and over, I can feel his body settle bit by bit with each pass of my hand.
    He’s silent for a few minutes, but finally turns just slightly toward me. “Thank you.” His voice breaks with emotion.
    “You’re an angel,
my
angel.” And moments later, his breath falls into a steady rhythm.
    I continue to stroke him as he sleeps, realizing I may never touch him again like this, and I try to get my fill of the feeling of being connected to him. I marvel at his physical perfection. His hair’s so soft, such a contrast to his hard shoulders.
    I shake my head.
I’m in Max Caswell’s bed touching him while he sleeps.
What a strange couple of days.
    I rest my hand in the middle of his back and feel his heat beneath my fingers.
What happened tonight?
One minute he was Mr. Party and the next, a wounded soul. It didn’t make sense, but I know nothing about this side of Max. I lift my hand off his back, and inch-by-inch ease myself off the bed. Luckily, he remains asleep as I tiptoe to the sitting room with my boots in my hand.
    I sit for a moment on the couch and realize that I should leave him a note in case he wakes up completely disoriented. I find a pad and pen by the phone.
    Dear Max,
    I’m not sure how much you will remember, but I brought you back to your room after your show last night. You were pretty out of it and needed help from a friend. I hope you don’t mind that I was that person. Anyway, have no concerns—nothing unseemly happened, I just tucked you into bed and left.
    Drink lots of water, and hopefully your hangover won’t be too wicked.
    Regards,
    Ava
    I notice a sketch lying on the floor. In fact, there are drawings lying all over the room— some on the floor, some scattered across the desk and end tables. I can’t believe I’d missed them when I came in.
    The drawings have the ragged edge from being torn out of a bound book. I set my pad down and take a closer look. They’re all very loose-gesture drawings of a woman. There are loose sweeps of charcoal across the rough paper, some roughly blended. Then layered over are minimal cleaner lines from a dark pencil.
    The woman is nude in all the drawings and it feels like the sort of thing done during a life drawing class. They’re beautiful in their simplicity. I feel a pang of jealousy for whoever she is. She got to pose for Max here in his room. With that wave of jealousy comes the resolve to get out of his room and back to my reality.
    I go back to my note and add a final line before tearing it from the pad and laying it on his bedside table:
    P.S. I like your drawings very much. Who’s the subject?

    In the morning, I head to the exposition to oversee the guys packing up the art. I also go over all the details with the shipping company transporting our crates back to California. It’s a relief to know the show’s finally over and it’s been a success.
    On my cab ride back to the hotel, I ask the cab driver to drop me off in Central Park so I can take a leisurely walk in the brisk air.
    As I wander down one of the many paths that wind through the park, I watch the nannies pushing their strollers, the old couples sitting on the benches and the young people with their lunch bags and sodas. A