Becoming His Muse, Complete Set (45 page)

“It turned out that we both wanted the same thing.” Before I can interrupt again he says, “Some kind of reconciliation between you and Logan.”

I’m very confused. “Warren wants
that
?”

Lowell appraises me again and sighs heavily. “I think what he wants is for you to get back on track, to be happy again, and maybe
get dressed
before noon like other people.”

Tess must be giving Warren daily reports behind my back. I haven’t returned any of his calls so maybe I’m partly to blame.

As Lowell adjusts his tie, I pull my borrowed robe tightly across my chest and purse my lips. “This is not my finest moment. I’m well aware of that.”

“The same is true for Logan. I’ve never seen him in such a state.”

Despite my best efforts to remain detached, I feel an inkling of curiosity. As I let it rise to the surface it grows in intensity until it becomes concern, and then it expands like a rash until I’m at the brink of the love I’ve been suppressing for weeks.

With a catch in my voice, I say, “I don’t care.”

Lowell raises an eyebrow. I know I don’t sound very convincing. I turn away and bite my thumbnail. Quietly, I say, “I don’t
want
to care.”

“Look, Ava. I know that what’s gone down has been painful, embarrassing on so many levels, has strained your relationship with your family, put your degree in jeopardy, and possibly shattered your love for Logan and your dreams of moving to New York.”

I look at him, feeling a fiery temper uncurling in my belly. “What do you know of my love or my dreams? Did you hear it from
him
? Well, he stomped all over everything I cared about.” My voice is rising in pitch. “I know about Jesse, Lowell. And the baby. Tell him that when you see him next. Tell him he’s a liar and a cheat and—”

“Jesse Myers? That’s old history, Ava.”

“Not that old. And he kept it a secret.”

“On purpose? I don’t see why he would.”

“Because he’s a cowardly, lying seducer, that’s why.”

Lowell sighs and shakes his head. “I didn’t realize you were so angry, Ava.”

I cross my arms and scowl.

“Do you even know why you haven’t heard from him?”

“Because he’s a selfish, exploitative bastard! He
left
me, Lowell. He just ran away!” I start to shake and tremble, with rage or despair I’m not quite sure. Maybe both. “That night Derrick and Casey played their stupid video and when I turned around, he was gone. At that terrible moment, he wasn’t there for me.”

But Warren was. He was my rock that night. And Ruby helped me. And my cousin Tess has seen me through these dark, foggy days. Where has Logan been?

“It’s partly my fault, Ava,” says Lowell quietly and seriously. He clears his throat. “I called him that night. Because his mother died. I had him booked on a flight to Florida at midnight.”

“
What
?” I freeze with disbelief. That’s not possible. In a squeaky voice, I say, “The night of my art show?”

Lowell nods. “Brain aneurism. Logan was devastated.” Suddenly I feel terrible. Terribly, horribly, emotionally selfish. An ache spreads through my body as this news penetrates my awareness.

“But why didn’t he tell me. Why didn’t he call?” I whisper.

“You truly don’t know?” Lowell searches my eyes, seemingly surprised to find me so confused.

I shake my head and watch him quizzically. I could understand if Logan was devastated and grieving. Maybe he didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Lowell leans forward.

“Your father, with his legal finesse, managed to get a restraining order to keep Logan away from you.”

“
What?
” Now I’m sitting straight up in my chair.

Lowell holds up his hands. “The last thing I want to do is add more strain to your family dynamics, but you need to know that he would have tried seeing you or calling you if he could have.”

I am shocked. My anger bubbles back to the surface and this time it’s directed at my father.

“You came all this way to tell me that?”

“Partly. But there’s something else I need your help with. Oh, and I brought you a letter.”

I inch forward. “From Logan?”

He nods. The thought of a letter from Logan is like a lifeline and I feel my fingers twitch in anticipation of holding it. I glance at the large envelopes on the table, wondering which one contains the letter.

“Even a letter breaches the restraining order so you have to promise to keep it secret.”

“I’m good at that.” I’m anxious to read the letter, but Lowell also said there’s something he needs my help with.

“There’s another reason you’re here?”

“Yes, the matter closest to
my
heart. Apparently, the college, represented by the firm Nichols, Baines and Woodrow is suing our publisher to claim the rights to Logan’s novel.”

My ears perk up. That’s my father’s firm.

“Why?”

“They think they have a case because Logan wrote most of the manuscript on campus while in their employ. It’s not as if they plan to do anything with the manuscript. It’s his best work to date and they want to bury it.”

“That’s ridiculous.” No doubt my father’s the mastermind behind that suit, in cahoots with Dean Ascott. My anger and indignation are beginning to solidify inside me.

“Logan’s in such a bad state he says he doesn’t care, he’ll just write another book, but
I care
. This book is
good
, Ava. It’s
important
.”

He pushes the thick envelope toward me and says, “I brought you a set of galleys, in case you’re interested.”

“Galleys?”

“It’s the last proofed copy before the manuscript goes to the printer.”

I look at the thick envelope. Inside is the story that Logan was working on the whole time we were together?

Lowell reaches for the other, thinner envelope and opens it. A white business envelope slips out when he removes some pages. I wonder if the white envelope is my letter. I call on all my patience not to seize it and rip it open immediately.

Lowell scans the pages he’s holding. “These here are the early reviews for the new book.”

He reads selected lines.

“
O’Shane’s most daring and provocative work to date
.”

“
Surprisingly, full of genuine heart
.”

“
Expect the unexpected here. Still as raw and forceful a talent as ever he was, but softer edges are at play, and a sense of hope we’ve not yet seen
.”

“
Award-winning writing.
”

“
The character of Anna is fascinating and shows a whole new depth of character development from this already accomplished writer
.”

I open the thick envelope. Inside is a bound sheaf of 81/2 by 11 pages that I have to turn sideways to read, as each page shows two book pages. I flip a few pages and alight on the dedication.

To A.N, who inspired every sentence you are about to read. And opened my locked heart.

I feel a lump in my throat. It’s not until I push the bound sheaf away that I notice the title:
Stealing Stars
.

“I don’t know if I can read this.”

“You don’t have to,” says Lowell. “But based on the early press, the public, Logan’s fans, deserve the opportunity to read it. It’s good, Ava. Really good. You should be proud of yourself.”

“Me?”

“We both know Logan wouldn’t have reached this calibre if he hadn’t met you.”

“I can’t take the credit for his work. He did it. They’re all his words.”

“But they are
inspired
words. Will you help me get them into readers’ hands?”

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know. Talk to your father, or Dean Ascott?”

I nod. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you.”

Lowell stands up and re-buttons his jacket. “I should go. I’ve got to get the next train back to the city.” He leaves the pages and envelopes on the coffee table but picks up the white envelope.

“Your secret letter,” he says, handing it to me. I clutch the precious rectangle.

“Did he say anything about me when he gave it to you?”

Lowell meets my questioning gaze. “Whenever I’ve mentioned your name this past week he has the same cryptic response: “the muse has to choose.” That’s all he ever says.”

Lowell opens the door, ready to head out, but then he turns back. “Oh, something odd happened the other day. He tossed his Fedora off the Brooklyn Bridge.”

He shrugs in a what-do-you-make-of that kind of way and then walks down the steps.

I climb into my unmade bed and carefully peel open the white envelope. My heart skips a beat when I see Logan’s handwriting. I remember the first time I saw it scrawled inside his signed book.

Before I read the words, I look at the shape of the letters. Row upon row of inky waves undulate across the page. The images of his words to me. Containing the voice of his heart, I hope. I focus my eyes on each letter, the way they are arranged in certain sequences to make words, and I begin to read.

Dear Ava,

I’m sitting at my desk in my apartment in Soho. Outside the window, tree branches arc and unfurl their leaves. These branches were covered in snow when we were last here together. Not here, exactly. We didn’t look out this particular window together, and I’m sorry for that. I want to tell you why.

Up until last week someone else was living here. A woman names Jesse Myers. I ran away from her like I ran away from you. I’m very sorry on both counts, but for very different reasons.

Jesse and I lived together for six years. Nearly a year ago, she told me she was pregnant with my child, a child I didn’t want, which I know sounds terrible but was true. I did not want to be a father. I couldn’t stand the idea that there was any chance at all I might end up like my father. Jesse knew this. She still wanted the baby. So I suggested we get married. We went through the early motions, but neither of us were happy.

I’m sorry I never told you this. I probably should have, but I felt as if I were being given a chance to start over when I went away to teach, and when I met you.

When Jesse miscarried, I was secretly relieved, which I know sounds terrible but was true. She knew it. She knew I was broken. I think she hoped that having a baby might fix me, change me, help me move past the past. We argued for weeks, talked about breaking up, and then I had to go away to give this reading at your college. It was a relief to get out of the city, away from Jesse and our broken relationship, which we both knew was unsalvageable. When Dean Ascott offered me the position as writer-in-residence, I jumped at the chance to avoid going home. It sounds cowardly, I know. And for that I’m sorry.

It was Jesse I was talking to outside the gallery at Sukira Lyn’s opening. I had a chance to tell her I was sorry. I had a chance to tell her about you. She’s the reason we didn’t stay at my apartment. I told her she could stay there while I was away teaching and writing. She’s gone now. She’s with another man now, a man who’s not afraid to have a child.

My mother died, Ava. My mother died and I wanted to run to your arms and cry into your breast and let all of the burdens of the past fall from my shoulders. But by then mayhem had broken out at the gallery, Warren had his arms around you, and Lowell had booked me a plane ticket that I needed to race to make. By the time I’d been to the hospital and the funeral home, I’d been notified of the restraining order. I called Dean Ascott and tried to take the blame for everything. I never wanted you hurt by any of this. I’m used to hurt. I wanted to take it all on. I was more than willing to be the bad guy if it meant you could be free of shame and blame. But that’s never how it goes. Everybody ends up hurting.

I don’t blame your father for hating me. I understand he wants to protect his only daughter, but he should know I’m not a danger to you. I won’t bother you again after this letter. Leave the restraining order in place if you like. Maybe it’s a good thing. It will keep me from breaking a promise to myself. My promise to never bind your wings, to let you fly free and be the amazing woman you are.

I may have been the teacher and you the student but I know I learned more from you than you ever could have learned from me. You changed me, Ava. You made me a better man. You made me want to be a better man. And that’s why I left. Because I can’t be a better man. I’m too broken. That part of me didn’t change. What did change is that I know it now, and I will not seek to break others anymore. I’m sorry if I broke you. Some of the things I said and did were so rough, so arrogant, so much more about protecting myself than trusting you. I’m sorry for all of that. You were my last muse. My last and greatest inspiration.

My mother saw the good in me. Even before she got crazy. Now she’s gone. She was always my protector. She did her best to protect me from my father. She did the best she could do. When he died, after cracking his skull on the counter top, slipping drunk one night after sending my mother to the hospital yet again, I found him bloody and not breathing on the tiled floor in the wee hours of the morning. His hat had fallen off and rolled toward the front door. He always wore that Fedora, to the day he died. His stylish armor. I picked it up. Put it on. Vowed to myself that I would never end up like him.Vowed to my mother that I would take care of her, that she would never live in fear again. I coiled up my fear and hatred in that hat. I kept it close. My stylish armor. Soon I wasn’t myself without it. It became a part of me. The latch that kept the door to the past locked up and safe.

Until you came along. With your bright-eyed innocence, fierce passion, tender beauty, and indomitable strength. The hat, the hat. You were always urging me to get rid of the hat. I think you saw the good in me without it. The part of me stripped of armor was the part of me that you loved. And yet I never let myself feel safe without it. Until it was too late.

It’s gone now. A sacrifice to the East River. My parents are gone, the past is gone, my teaching days are gone, you’re gone, even the novel looks like it’s gone. So I’m free now. I can’t tell if it’s a beginning or an ending. Both perhaps. I’m like that bare branch unfurling a vulnerable green tip that will soak up the sun and rain until it colors and falls and gives up its place to a dusting of snow.