The Inspiration Read Online Free PDF Page A

flaming over my body and bright lights flashing through my head.

    The new light of morning illuminates my room as I slowly wake and try to figure out where I am and why my head’s throbbing. I shiver. I’m on top of the covers and spread eagle across the bed with one hand still wedged down the front of my tights. My left hand is stiff, and as I uncurl my fingers, my phone drops to the bed.
    Wow, I really was loaded last night.
I glance at the glowing red numbers of the clock on my nightstand. It’s just before six o’clock.
    I stumble out of bed, peel off the tights and tank top, and slide into my PJs. After brushing my teeth and gulping down a tall glass of water and two aspirins, I crawl into bed to get in a few more hours sleep. I hope I feel human when I wake up.
    The next time I open my eyes, my room is much brighter. After room service coffee and toast, I decide to disregard my hangover and enjoy my free time this morning with a museum visit. Adam said I don’t need to be at the exposition until one this afternoon. I put extra care into my appearance to make up for the out-of-control feeling last night, and as I approach the Guggenheim Museum in my tailored navy coat, high-heeled leather boots and sleek hair, I feel quite the New Yorker.
    The current exhibit,
Paris and the Avant-Garde: Modern Masters from the Guggenheim Collection
, is right up my alley. I take the elevator to the top and start the corkscrew descent that defines Frank Lloyd Wright’s unique design for the museum. The exhibit is heady stuff: Chagall, Gris, Picasso, Braque and, my favorite, Joan Miró. I’m delighted with Miró’s
Carnival of Harlequin.
The whimsical shapes create a surrealist party, and I get lost in that little world. I take my time in front of each painting, savoring the experience of seeing the works of art I’ve studied in books come to life in front of me.
    The feeling reminds me of the time my mom brought me to New York when I was in high school. She fell short in many ways, but she did try to share her love of music and art. She was always checking art books out of the library and teaching me about artists from different periods. Shortly after my dad died, she took some of the insurance money and we went to New York for a week. Every day we visited a different museum. The Guggenheim was in the middle of the trip and, after seeing the exhibit, we ate a fancy lunch in the restaurant on the lower level. That was a defining trip for me and certainly affected my decision to study art history.
    I reach the bottom of the Guggenheim spiral with just enough time to catch a cab to the hall. Adam is already busy getting ready for the day and gives me a warm smile. I debate whether to ask him about his conversation with Max last night, but decide with a steely resolve to push him out of my mind. With only two more days left of the show, I won’t be likely to see Max again for a long time.
    We’re busy with clients all afternoon and, right when it’s time to wrap up, Jess and company breeze in.
    “I thought we’d go by Zadi’s event first, and then stop by Max’s show.” Adam gages my reaction, but my face reveals nothing. This had been part of the planned trip, and I’ve prepared myself.
    “Am I okay in this?” I ask Jess, since my attire last night required substantial revision. She glances at my sleeveless knit sheath, which stops mid-thigh above my boots. A long pendant made from various antique Venetian beads knotted along a silk cord hangs around my neck.
    Jess tips her head and smiles. “Only a figure like yours could pull off that dress. It’s like a second skin. Is it cashmere? It looks so soft.”
    I nod and put on my coat, relieved to know I won’t have Laura working me over tonight.
    Zadi’s show,
House of Shadows,
is at the International Center of Photography on 43rd Street, and it’s already crowded by the time we arrive. Her large black and white photographs, still lifes, and interiors from abandoned