Hearts Unleashed Read online

  “Oh, right. Why didn’t I think of that? Okay, smuggle out some crumbs for me and the other riff-raff. Please trickle down, Little Miss One Percent. But wait. Wait. What’s this meeting about?”

  “No idea. I don’t even know what the exhibit is. Gotta go.”

  Chapter 6

  MONDAY NOON

  Cynthia passed through the oversized doorway, where a museum guard greeted and escorted her to her destination. The echo of their footsteps was unbelievably loud as they moved through empty cavernous corridors, passing gallery after gallery.

  The guard turned left and, walking on a large white tarp_____the exhibition was clearly still in the process of being installed_____pulled apart a floor-to-ceiling red velvet curtain, revealing two oversized steel orbs, probably eighteen or twenty feet tall, painted to resemble gigantic breasts. The effect was startling and funny. The fronts were sensitively, nearly photo-realistically rendered to replicate the warmth and softness of flesh. But the opposite sides were unpainted, rusted metal, giving the impression of some kind of massive ocean buoys or water mines. They weren’t unlike the huge breast balloon from the Woody Allen movie Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex *But Were Afraid to Ask, except they were not balloons. On the contrary, they looked to Cynthia like they probably weighed a ton each. These were monumental mammaries…simultaneously formidable, indestructible, tender, and sexy.

  As they passed through the curved triangular opening formed by the intersection of colossal boobs and floor, Cynthia looked up and had the sense of being in an x-rated production of Gulliver’s Travels, The Incredible Shrinking Man, or Attack of the 50-Foot Woman.

  And then she saw the rest of the room: an exhibition of erotic art throughout history. There were Incan pots, Greek statues, Japanese prints, Picasso paintings, Egon Schiele nudes, erotic illustrations, “abstract” work that really was not abstract in the slightest, all depicting intercourse, oral sex, every style of sex, in every imaginable position and pre or post-coital situation. Tons of nude photography too…from Edward Weston to Mapplethorpe to Helmut Newton. It was an amazing display. It was like mainlining a potent hit of erotic fantasy just being in there.

  The guard appeared a bit embarrassed. “Miss Amas,” he said, pointing to a small, elegant table with two chairs in the middle of the room, “if you would, please have a seat. Miss Radcliffe will be with you shortly.”

  Cynthia sat down and continued to drink in the sights. There was a small painting depicting a satyr with a tree-limb-like erection about three times the length of his body and a beautiful fox-faced woman tickling its tip with a peacock feather. All manner of woodland creatures were perched upon or dangling from it, all with devilish expressions of euphoria and sexual mischief. It had an early Renaissance feel. Cynthia thought maybe it had been painted by someone like Pieter Brueghel or Hieronymus Bosch during the 15th century. She stared at it, mesmerized.

  “Hello, Cynthia. I see you’re a Petra Von Reudenhoff fan?”

  “A Petra Von Who-inhoff?” asked Cynthia, turning around to see Ava Dodd Radcliffe standing before her. “Oh, the painting,” she continued, “I guess I didn’t know I was a fan until just now.”

  Cynthia stood up and they shook hands. Ava’s face was much more beautiful in person. She had the kind of lustrous complexion that cannot be captured by photography or faked with make-up. It was as if her bone structure, skin, and blood flow all conspired to create a radiance that was far, far more than simply the sum of its parts. She was dressed in the kind of loose, lightweight, casual clothing that is so simple, at first glance it seems inexpensive. But the closer you look the more you realize it is incredibly well made…impeccable design and construction. It seemed effortless. This particular ensemble was probably five thousand dollars worth of effortlessness.

  “Don’t worry,” Ava said with a small, but thoroughly charming smile, “I just discovered Petra myself a few months ago. I curated this show. It’s the first major exhibit of erotic art in a major American museum.”

  “I’ve certainly never seen anything like it,” said Cynthia, surveying the contents of the room again. “Certainly stimulating.”

  “I know,” said Ava. “It’s hard to think about anything else when you’re in here. But I’m hungry for actual food too…let’s eat.” They sat down. “Sutherland?” Ava called softly, glancing over at a short handsome man in a black suit and white apron, who was standing in the far corner of the room. Sutherland disappeared. “Sutherland is wonderful. He’s been with me for years. He traveled all over the world with Jonathon and me. Very devoted. And a superb chef.”

  Sutherland appeared again and served food, wine, more food, and more wine. It was incredibly delicious, but Cynthia barely tasted it because as soon as Ava launched into explaining why they were there, all other concerns were trumped.

  “As you may know, Cynthia, I married Jonathon Radcliffe when I was young. Incredibly young. I was so in love. It never even occurred to me I’d live without him. I mean he was a lot older, but still, I guess I was in denial about that. And I certainly didn’t think he’d die at sixty-four. I was planning on at least twenty more years. Anyway, I’ve been quite numb for the past two years. I sit on the boards of some corporations…plus this place, the symphony, and lots of other cultural institutions. So I sort of increased my involvement with all that, you know, to keep busy.

  “Anyway, Jonathon and I had collected art for a long time and a portion of it was of an overtly sexual nature. It started when I became interested in the Leda and Swan myth…the story of how Zeus took the form of a swan and seduced, some say raped, Leda…the mother of Helen of Troy. Many, many artists have depicted Leda and the Swan throughout art history_____from the Greeks, the Romans, in sculptures and mosaics, to the Renaissance, DaVinci, Michelangelo, and all the way to modern day. There are many beautiful versions and I own a couple of the very best: Peter Paul Rubens, as a student, painted a copy of a Michelangelo, which itself did not survive. But the Rubens, which hung over our bed for fifteen years, is right over there.”

  Cynthia turned and saw the painting in question. She had noticed it when she walked in, but now it took on a warm glow and presence that was undoubtedly enhanced by Ava’s story and the painting’s history. It was truly gorgeous. Leda and the large swan were entangled in the act, her lips and his bill kissing delicately, their gazes fixed upon each other’s eyes. It was undeniably erotic, but also surreal. How many women fantasize about making love with a large water foul? And yet, the beauty of the painting_____the stunning arrangement of red-orange bedding, brown and white feathers, and peachy flesh, together with the perfectly composed, choreographed positions of this highly unlikely couple_____made one believe it. You could totally buy that it might happen, that it might be, well…good. Ava and Jonathon had not only “bought” it, they’d literally bought it.

  “It is incredible,” said Cynthia.

  “I know. And, well, what happened was this. When Jonathon died, I didn’t want to sleep in our bedroom. I tried sleeping in every other room in the house, but I couldn’t. I literally could not fall asleep for a month. Never more than a catnap here and therethroughout the day. Finally, I moved to our house in Hawaii, but that was no better. I tried the place we have in the South of France…outside of Nice. Nothing. This was becoming a worldwide bout with insomnia. The Guinness people should probably have been notified. But finally, I returned here, to the Brentwood house. I arrived at around eleven in the morning and, despite the fact that it seemed completely wrong, I was drawn back to the master bedroom for the first time. I walked in and looked up at Leda and the Swan. I own a lot of houses but that painting felt more like home than anything else in my life. I wished I could be in the painting. An incredible rush of emotion came over me and I collapsed, weeping, upon the bed. I slept for three solid days. And I had some very strange dreams.”

  “Wow,” said Cynthia. She realized that she had been frozen with her mouth open, a forkful of linguini dangling in front of
her face.

  “Please,” smiled Ava, “have a bite. I’ll pause.”

  Cynthia was a little embarrassed. She quickly chewed, swallowed, and put the fork down.

  “Anyway,” Ava continued, “I don’t want to bore you by recounting dreams. I hate when people do that.” She took her first sip of red wine. Then another. One more. Her lovely lips were slightly stained by the cabernet.

  “Ava, I really don’t think I would be bored. At all.”

  Ava smiled. The naturally rosiness of her cheeks intensified by twenty or so percentage points. She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped herself with two fingers to her lips. She closed her eyes for a moment and opened them again.

  “I’ve missed him so much,” she said. “Even the boring stuff, the homey stuff. Eating breakfast, taking baths together. I might miss that the most. In a weird way, there’s no greater comfort than in sharing the mundane.”

  “I know,” said Cynthia, “I agree.” She was thinking about Pete and how they hadn’t had the chance to get to the point where sublime moments like that occur.

  Cynthia suddenly realized that Ava’s eyes had welled up. Attempting to speak at moments like that can be like the turn of a faucet. “Oh, my,” said Cynthia, “no need to continue.” She thought about getting up to hug her or touch her shoulder…to comfort her somehow, but it seemed way too familiar. She instead simply reached across the table and put her hand, palm down, within reach, if Ava chose to do so.

  And she did. She put her hand on top of Cynthia’s.

  “Thanks,” she said. “This is turning into quite the lunch.”

  She was right. The grand scale of the museum gallery, the erotic intensity of the roomful of art, the beautiful young bride giving up her career, the death-by-hang-gliding, and all of that, rendered the entire experience cinematic, almost overwhelming. Cynthia was deeply touched by the whole thing. In fact, she felt it was entirely possible that if Ava did burst into tears, she might very well follow suit.

  “Anyway,” said Ava, patting Cynthia’s hand and then reaching for the bottle of wine and filling both glasses, “suffice it to say that the dream_____really a series of dreams over those days_____was life-changing. I woke up knowing three things. One, I wanted to curate a show like this; two, I wanted to start painting again; and three, I wanted to start dating.”

  “So, wait. That’s when you called me?”

  “Well, no. Not immediately anyway. I made it known that I was interested in getting out of the house. There was a lot of interest…but mostly from the withered and wealthy. Apparently, everybody assumed that since Jonathon was older, I’d obviously want someone his age. I wasn’t necessarily against that. But outliving another husband wasn’t exactly a priority either. In any case, every unmarried, filthy-rich codger on Earth came knocking on my door. But every one of them left me cold. They all seemed like cheap imitations of Jonathon. And even the younger ones seemed dull. They wanted marriage, but obviously had a much greater passion for money_____theirs or mine_____than they’d ever have for anything else…including me.

  “Look, I don’t even know if I want to get married again. I did that at age twenty-one. Now I want…let’s just say, more.”

  She paused and took another large sip of wine, licked her lips, and continued.

  “In short, Cynthia,” Ava Dodd Radcliffe whispered, “I am sick of who I am. I’m sick and tired of being the good girl. I’ve had just about enough of this particular version of me. I’m going to be direct. Let’s face it; I could simply pay for it. Plenty of wealthy widows do. But I adore meaningful relationships. I care far too much about interesting people…their thoughts, their talents, and their ideas. So why not choose interesting people who also happen to be beautiful? And why not make them able to make me laugh while they’re making me squeal, for instance? Is that too much to ask? And why limit it to men? I want to know more. And feel more. A lot more. And why only one man or woman at a time? I don’t know, I’m just asking. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my husband dearly, but since I can’t bring him back to life, why not seek adventure? If I find the right one, so be it, but why not at least make the process, the journey, stimulating? In every sense of the word.

  “So, that brings me to you. Actually,” she said giggling slightly, seeming a little tipsy now, “that brings you to me. The proposal I was talking about. What about you finding me an evolving crew of scintillating conversationalists for dinner parties_____maybe for group vacations, retreats, and so on_____all of whom would be open to loving relationships…and, most importantly, extremely interesting connections. And at least for the first encounter, all total strangers to each other and me. These could be Second Acts events…we would sort of be working together in that way, but I don’t want any money for it…I’ll be paying you. You’d get the use of my various homes and locations…believe me, we’re talking a lot of pretty cool spots. If other people pair off, that’s fine. I’m not looking for orgies or anything…just a good time where I can meet a lot of interesting people. Yes, I want romance, but many of these people would simply become part of my social circle, you know? I desperately want some fresh blood in my life. I’m tired of old blood…old blue blood especially. My husband is gone and my many obscenely large homes scattered around the globe are devastatingly empty. I mean…dusty, echo-filled castles of sadness. In the two years since Jonathon passed, I’ve received no less than thirty-seven marriage proposals. And they’re all nice guys. But, I don’t know…marrying any of them feels like marrying death. In the short term, I’d rather go steady with life. If I’m emotionally capable of it that is.” Her voice cracked. “I’m totally aware that this is a big job, but I’ll pay you well.”

  Cynthia was sort of in shock. She looked into Ava’s eyes. They still had that pre-cry look…glossy, translucent, blurred with moist reflection. Cynthia almost said, “Wow,” but then thought better of it. She felt like even the simplest verbal acknowledgement of Ava’s melancholy would push her over the edge into tears. She wasn’t against good cries in dark restaurants or bars…places that were a little less grandiose. Here it just felt too sad. The gleaming extravagance of the surroundings would shine a bright light on Ava’s vulnerability and she didn’t think Ava would want that.

  Ava Dodd Radcliffe wasn’t just looking for love, she was looking for a whole new life…new friends, new everything. Second Acts had never taken anything on of this scale. It almost seemed like too much to ask…too much to hope for. But Cynthia totally got it. She understood how Ava had arrived at this juncture. Aside from Jonathon himself, a big part of Ava’s life had been dedicated to serving the Radcliffe empire. Even the fun parts_____the lavish entertaining, celebrity-laden charity functions, the moving and shaking with corporate and cultural elite_____had all been Jonathon-based, Jonathon-adjacent…all linked inextricably to the Jonathon brand. When he died, a large part of Ava’s world must have just evaporated, or at least become painfully irrelevant. She was walking around with a huge Jonathon-shaped hole in her heart and in her life and she desperately needed to fill it with something.

  Cynthia loved a challenge, but this was a doozey. She really wasn’t completely sure it was a good idea. When it came right down to it, she might not have said yes except for one thing. She had an overwhelming desire to make Ava happy. This was an integral part of who Cynthia was anyway, but she had it bad for Ava. Even though they had never met, in a way she felt close to her before she even walked into the museum. Ava was the kind of celebrity you feel like you’ve already spent time with. She had seemed knowable from the very beginning of her career. She had the uncanny ability to touch you right through a camera lens. And when Jonathon died, that quality only intensified. Some people shut down when tragedy strikes. They pull a curtain down and shut out the world. But Ava wore her grief prominently on her sleeve, on display for the entire world to see. There is no way to hide one’s true self while subscribing to honesty under that kind of twenty-four hour, high-definition scrutiny.

  Cyn
thia leaned forward, moving as close to Ava as the table allowed, and smiled a confident smile that said, Yes, no problem, one new life coming up! What she really said was, “Yes, of course…I’m in.”

  “Wonderful,” replied Ava, closing her eyes for a moment in relief or appreciation. Then she reached over and lifted the silver lid off the cart Sutherland had parked nearby, revealing a spectacular display of pastries and cakes. “I think, by the way, that you should probably plan on being there, at least for the first one. I think a function like this needs a leader and if all goes as planned, I will be rather busy.”

  “Got it,” said Cynthia. “I assumed I would be. I may bring my assistant as well.”

  “Perfect,” said Ava, pushing a cream-colored, monogrammed, linen, business envelope across the table to Cynthia. “A retainer to get us started.” Then she indicated the cart with a slow, sweeping gesture, like a game show spokes-model. “Dessert?”

  Chapter 7

  MONDAY MID-AFTERNOON

  Cynthia emerged from the shaded entryway of the museum and into the brilliant mid-afternoon California sun. She fumbled for her sunglasses in her purse. It was like stepping out of a matinee and being shocked that it was still daytime. She was a bit dizzy from the wine and the intoxicating nature of the assignment she had just accepted. She felt like she might be in over her head. Her method had always been to provide extremely personal service and she had a feeling that she was privy to the emotional lives of her clients far more than your typical matchmaker. But this crash course in Ava Dodd Radcliffe gave her pause. Although Ava was wonderful in many ways, Cynthia also thought it was possible that she might be a little unstable. Creating an entirely new social life, one that was decidedly more adventurous, might be just a new way of masking her sadness. It would constitute such a radical departure, Cynthia was afraid it might be risky emotionally for Ava while she was still clearly dealing with grief. Cynthia was very good at listening and nurturing and helping people find that special someone, but she was not a therapist. She had considered that as a career at one point and there were some similarities in the two professions, but she really didn’t want to inadvertently cause Ava any more pain. She had to be very careful about who she brought into this plan. There would have to be a more rigorous screening process than ever before.