Work of Art ~ the Collection by Ruth Clampett Read Free Book Online Page A

the young people with their lunch bags and sodas. A middle-aged woman takes a picture of her daughter standing proudly in front of the pond. A gaggle of school children in uniforms walk past while their teachers try to keep them on course. My love for New York City swells up in my chest, and I vow to return soon, hopefully next time for pleasure, not work.
    I decide to turn down another path when I hear my cell’s ringtone.
    Maxfield Caswell.
    I’m only half-surprised. He’s probably calling to apologize for last night. I’m curious to see how he’s doing.
    “Hey, Max,” I say casually.
    “Ava.” He takes a sharp breath. “What are you doing?”
    “Um, walking in Central Park. Why?”
    “I was wondering if we could meet for coffee before you leave. You mentioned you guys were flying home tonight.”
    I’m amazed he’s remembered that detail. “Well . . . I just had coffee,” I say, trying to be playful to lighten the mood.
    “Okay, then tea. Where are you in the park? I’ll grab a cab and meet you now.”
    I look around for a landmark, impressed at his determination. “I’ll sit on a bench facing the pond at 61st Street, just in from 5th Avenue.”
    “Okay. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”
    I pace for a few minutes as my heart races, and I finally sit on the bench. What’s this about? I wonder. He doesn’t have to take me to tea. A thank-you call would’ve been sufficient.
    Each minute feels like an hour. I finally look up just as he exits a cab on 5th Avenue. He strides toward the pond and flashes that gorgeous smile when he sees me stand up from the bench.
    God, he’s beautiful, I marvel, allowing myself one last swoon before I steel myself for what’s to come. The only thing I’m sure of is I have absolutely no idea what’s going to happen.
    “Hi, you want to walk?” he asks casually as he approaches, pushing his hands into his jacket pockets.
    I nod and we stroll silently toward the park exit at 59th Street and 5th. The trees are all edged with a brilliant green as their coats of spring leaves are just breaking through. I’m trying to imagine that this silence isn’t awkward, but he gives me a break by finally speaking.
    “Thank you for looking out for me last night,” he says quietly, looking down at me.
    I smile. “It wasn’t a big deal. You didn’t have to come out of your way to thank me.”
    “I know, but I thought we could talk.”
    “Sure.” I realize that we’re now heading down 5th Avenue and he seems to have a destination in mind. He rests his hand on my back and leads me into a turn on 55th Street. The fancy doorman at the St. Regis Hotel tips his hat as Max leads me into the elegant lobby.
    “We’re having tea here?” I ask, glad I’m wearing nice slacks and a tailored jacket.
    “Yes, high tea. Would you prefer something else?”
    “Oh, I love high tea, but I wouldn’t imagine it’s your style.”
    “See, one of the many things you don’t know about me . . . I love high tea. I had high tea frequently with my mom, and this was her favorite place to go in New York.”
    My eyes grow wide. He’s taking me to his mom’s favorite place for high tea? Why?
    The hostess leads us to a low silk-covered settee facing a linen-covered table set with elegant china and silver.
    We must look like we’re a couple, I think, noticing most of the other seating options have traditional tables and chairs.
    We sink down into the loveseat with our thighs lightly touching. I open the tasseled menu to choose from a selection of over twenty teas, everything from English breakfast to exotic mango spice.
    I pause to admire my surroundings and the frescoed ceiling with delicate painted cherubs floating in a cloud-filled sky, the layers of intricately carved moldings framing each scene.
    I could get used to this .
    “Does your mom still come here?”
    “No, she passed away.” He looks down and shifts the fork on the table.
    “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Good going, Ava. Ask about