Unmasking Maya by Libby Mercer

“A sweet, funny and refreshingly subtle little romance that’s as quirky and original as its host city. Thanks to Libby Mercer, I’ve just left my heart in San Francisco too!”

♥ Heidi Rice, USA Today Bestselling Author “Filled with wit, attraction, secrets and set to speed: won’t-let-you-stop, this is a fast read that’ll satisfy the inner woman of any reader.”

♥ Rebecca Berto, “Novel Girl”

“Mercer lets her personality shine through her writing, creating a vivid and uplifting narrative. She gives all the detail you would expect from a lunchtime gossip with a close friend, ensuring that the reader is wholeheartedly on the side of Maya.”

♥ BestChickLit.com “This was such a fun, delightful, intelligent read. It’s a smooth blend of chick-lit and romance, being chick lit in plot, tone, structure, all those key points, but with a romantic focus.”

♥ Shannon, “Giraffe Days”

Copyright © 2012 by Libby Mercer

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any

manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Unmasking Maya is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is

entirely coincidental.

Libby-­‐Mercer.blogspot.com        

Chapter One

I didn’t know if I felt more like jumping up and down or passing out.

Leaning against the distressed concrete wall, I could feel my heart

hammering wildly inside my chest as I surveyed the scene before me with a

critical eye. After sending a silent plea up above for the night to go well, I ran

through my mental checklist.

Impossibly high ceilings? Check. Dusky natural light filtering down

from the skylights? Check. Roving waiters zipping around with pretentious

hors d’oeuvres? Check. Grand dames of the San Francisco art world sipping

on champagne? Check. Assorted whimsical characters milling about to

amuse the intellectuals? Check.

Check and mate. Or so I hoped. It was too soon to tell if the opening was

a screaming success, but I figured I could allow myself to be cautiously

giddy.

With a glass of champagne plucked from a nearby drinks table, I set off

on a stroll through the clusters of art aficionados, intending to catch snippets

of their conversations.

“The tartan piece is deliciously feral, don’t you think, Martin?” said an

impeccably dressed man with a pencil moustache.

“Hm. I prefer the quiet grace of the lace and chiffon series,” his equally

stylish friend replied.

I took a triumphant sip of champagne. So glad I’d come.

“Sweetheart, we need to leave now if we’re going to make our dinner

reservation,” said a youngish man whose pale skin popped out of his all-

black ensemble.

“In a minute, sweetheart,” replied his sweetheart, who was coiffed,

clothed and polished to perfection. “Don’t you just love the dotted Swiss

cotton piece and wouldn’t it look fabulous in our guest room?”

Nice. The dotted Swiss piece would rake in nearly three hundred dollars.

I sauntered on further.

“Strange the artist isn’t here to discuss her work,” said a woman with cat

glasses and a husky voice.

“Rumor has it that there is no Maya Kirkwood. It’s a made up name,”

said her friend, a young man with a complicated angular hairstyle.

Halting in my tracks, I swallowed a gasp and my heart rate kicked into

overdrive. With trembling hands, I reached into my handbag and pulled out

my iPhone under the guise of checking my email so I could linger without

being too conspicuous.

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard that one too. They’re saying some big name

designer is moonlighting as a fine artist. People are speculating that Maya

Kirkwood is really Jean-Paul Gaultier.”

I bit my lip to stifle a smile. Jean-Paul Gaultier? That was too hilarious.

“Gaultier? No. I think Maya Kirkwood is really Proenza Schouler,” her

friend replied.

Gosh. Talk about your ego boosts. I put my phone away and felt my

giddiness steadily bubble up and triumph over my nerves. It was time to step

back onto the sidelines again before I did something really stupid like outing

myself. Scanning the space, I spotted my agent, Inez, over by the layered silk

sculptures, and I hurried over to join her.

I wanted to throw my arms around Inez and thank her profusely for

pulling off such a fantastic event, but that wouldn’t do. Hardly the best way

to keep a low profile. Instead I greeted her with a nod and a conspiratorial

smile.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Are you kidding?” Inez shook her head, amusement dancing in her

warm brown eyes. “Can you not see all the red ‘sold’ stickers? This is an

amazing opening, chica. And by the way, I just sold the tangled tweed piece.”

Fighting the urge to shoot a triumphant fist into the air, I squealed under

my breath. The tangled tweed piece alone would cover next month’s rent.

“Awesome. That’s great news. Inez, you’re the best.”

She accepted the praise with grace before taking my hand, suddenly all

somber and serious. “Won’t you please let me introduce you tonight?

Everyone’s buzzing about the identity of the artist. Think how perfect it

would be if we enlightened them now. You wouldn’t have to make a big

speech, I promise. Just let me introduce you and then you say a little

something. Thank them for coming or whatever. Three sentences tops.”

I shook my head. “I told you from the beginning. I need to stay under the

radar. I’m sorry but this is non-negotiable.”

“Fine.” She sighed. “I guess I can work the phantom artist angle.”

Something near the entrance to the space caught her attention, and she

widened her eyes. “Oh good. There’s Stacey from The Chronicle. Better go

butter her up. And you should go talk to Derek Whitley from Unisco.”

“He’s here already?” I scanned the crowd and zoned in on a pasty,

weedy guy wearing a corduroy jacket, Harry Potter glasses and unfortunate

white running shoes. That had to be the Silicon Valley CEO.

“Yep. He’s standing in front of ‘Tulle Landscapes No. 3’.”

My gaze swept across the space to land on a tall guy with close-cropped

dark hair. He had on a gray tee shirt and jeans – both so gloriously fitted,

they molded beautifully to his long, lean body. That couldn’t really be Derek

Whitley, could it?

“That’s the tech nerd from Unisco Corp?”

Inez chuckled. “I never said he was a nerd, but yes, that’s the guy. Now

get over there and start working the charm. This is a big opportunity for

you.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and placed both hands flat on my

back. “Go.” She propelled me forward with a firm push.

I went, and with each step, I marveled at how different this man looked

from the one I’d constructed in my mind. Where were the scrawny limbs, the

ghostly skin and the awkward stance? And what was up with the well-

defined muscles, the healthy tan and the confident posture? So Derek

Whitley was a hottie… Who’d have thought?

By the time I reached him, Derek had moved on to “Tulle Landscapes

No. 4”. Instead of walking right up to him and introducing myself, I stopped

a few feet away and turned my attention to the tulle piece mounted on the

wall.

Gazing at the piece I’d painstakingly created in my nearby loft, I

couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. I really was pleased with the

landscape series. No. 4 was a view of the night sky. Hundreds of Swarovski

crystals affixed to dozens of layers of overlapping black tulle created a

galaxy of stars in varying degrees of brilliance. Long strips of grayish-white

Ultrasuede represented a forest of barren trees with jagged branches, and

swirling patterns created with darker gray seed beads gave the trees a knotty

texture. Truly a stand out piece, even if I did say so myself.

Anyway.

I’d have plenty of time later to congratulate myself on my artistic genius,

but for now, my focus needed to be on the guy who’d expressed an interest in

commissioning me for a pretty major job. I had to talk to him.

Course it would be awkward to introduce myself now, after having stood

next to him for way too long without saying anything. I stole a discreet

glance at him, and man alive, the guy was smokin’! All chiseled cheekbones

and jet-black hair.

Okay. It was now or never, and it had to be now. Dipping to my reserves

of confidence and determination, I stepped forward with a smile. He turned

to meet my gaze and smiled back. Goodness, he had a striking pair of

cornflower blue eyes.

“So,” I opened, punctuating that small word with a friendly tilt of the

head, “what do you think of this piece?”

Those striking blue eyes widened slightly at the question, but then they

narrowed a bit as he focused on the tulle piece. He studied the artwork for a

moment before turning back to me. “Honestly? I think it’s fairly ridiculous.”

Ridiculous! I fumed. Who did this computer geek think he was? Yeah,

all right. Maybe he looked like an Armani model, but let’s face it –

underneath the chiseled cheekbones and gorgeous eyes, the guy was a big

time tech nerd. It was then that I noticed the NASA logo printed on the front

of his tee shirt. Yep, total dork. He probably went to Star Trek conventions.

“Ridiculous?” I managed through clenched teeth. Then, remembering

my manners and remembering the guy was a potential employer, I offered a

half-hearted smile. “What exactly do you think it is about this piece that

makes it ridiculous?”

Derek’s striking features seemed to droop just a tad, as if I’d asked him

to look after a tribe of toddlers or something. But he quickly fixed his

expression and arched an eyebrow at me before glancing back at the piece.

“I just don’t see why this should classify as ‘art’.” He did the air quotes

thing with his fingers and it took every ounce of willpower I had not to slam

a stiletto into his kneecaps. He turned to me with a neutral expression,

apparently unaware that he was offending me. “I mean, I can appreciate the

craftsmanship,” he said. “That’s actually pretty impressive, but excellent

craftsmanship doesn’t necessarily equate art. Or it shouldn’t, anyway.”

“Hm.” I folded my arms over my chest. “Tell me, then. What constitutes

art?”

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed as he held my gaze

and he didn’t say anything. I had the distinct feeling that he was examining

me with the intent to label me and file me away in the appropriate category.

Let’s just say that I felt a tad bit uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Not that

I’d ever let it show.

“That’s such a subjective question,” he finally said. “Everyone has his or

her own unique definition for what classifies as art.” He shrugged and pulled

an iPhone out of his back pocket. After glancing at the screen, he frowned

and put it back in his pocket.

Talk about your diversionary tactics… Score one for Maya.

“Yes, but I’m asking how you define what classifies as art,” I said, happy

to be back in my comfort zone as opposed to under his microscope.

Course I didn’t get to stay in my happy place for very long. Derek stared

at me without blinking for what seemed like forever. My insides quaked

under his cold, blue gaze and I thought for sure he must know until finally

(finally!) he responded.

“To me, a true work of art is loud and it’s complicated,” he said. “It’s

dramatic, it’s powerful, it has endless depths and it carries a clear message.”

He motioned to the fabric work in front of him and I breathed a huge

sigh of relief. He didn’t know.

“This is very beautiful but it doesn’t speak to me, and I’d be surprised if

it speaks to anyone,” he continued. “This may sound harsh, and I’m sorry if

you’re a fan of the artist, but this fabric ‘art’ thing,” again with the air quotes!

“is strictly surface.”

“It is, huh?” All the fears I’d had about him realizing my true identity

dissipated to make room for anger and indignation. I had to clamp my lips

together to keep from saying something impassioned – and unprofessional.

“I’m afraid so. As beautiful as it is, this ‘piece’,” and again with the air

quotes! “doesn’t seem any different from those complicated dresses that the

big designers do.”

Hm. Now, that was interesting. “I assume you’re referring to the Paris

couture creations?”

“I guess.” He shrugged.

“I see.” And I did. If the guy couldn’t appreciate the brilliance of haute

couture, maybe he was just way too left-brained to grasp my art. My hackles

flattened and the smile I gave him was genuine. “Well, I would argue that

Paris couture is art. If you’d ever seen the designs up close, you’d

understand. From cut to draping to every miniscule tuck and fold, the

construction is inspiring. And don’t even get me started on the color

combinations, the textile pairings and each painstakingly placed little

embellishment.”

“That’s interesting,” he conceded with a half nod. “But aren’t those

outfits just vanity projects for the designers? Those things are so impractical

– no one ever actually wears them, do they?”

As irritating as it was to hear those awe-inspiring creations referred to as

vanity projects, I managed to maintain my cool. Derek couldn’t help it. He

didn’t know any better.

“People do actually wear couture dresses, although I’ll grant you that

they rarely get worn more than once – and that’s because the people who can

afford them can also afford to never wear the same dress twice. It’s a shame,

really… which is why I – ”

I stopped myself just in time. Yikes, that was a close one. “Anyway,” I

continued, “that’s why I think it’s great to use textiles and ribbons and beads

and whatnot in fine art. Most people will never be able to afford a couture

dress, but a lot of people could afford one of these.” I swept an arm towards

the wall.

Derek had that same appraising look in his eye as if he was trying to

classify me, but the edges of his lips were turned up just a bit into a smile. Or

a threat of a smile, anyway.

“You make a strong case,” he said. “You aren’t by any chance an

attorney, are you?”

“Um, no.”

“I’m Derek.” He held out his hand.

“Nice to meet you.” His fingers closed around mine, and I felt a tingle in

my hand – a tingle that traveled up the entire length of my arm to tickle me

behind the ear. A bit disconcerting, for sure, but I did what I could to explain

it away. I was just a little rattled after having my work dissed in such a major

way, you see. That combined with the tech nerd’s hotness factor had me all

discombobulated, but I think I managed to maintain well enough.

“And you are?” he asked.

Oops. “Sorry. My um name is Sarah.”

“Hey.” He squeezed my hand again before releasing my fingers, sending

another electrical charge surging through my body.

Shit. I had to get out of there. It was bad enough that I was crushing on

the tech entrepreneur who so obviously was not going to hire me, but then I

had to go and introduced myself as Sarah. What could I have been thinking?

Just then, a willowy blonde walked by in a floral waft and I nearly had a

heart attack. She looked so much like a woman I knew back in New York

who designed underwear for Calvin Klein. I leaned into Derek in an effort to

hide from her, and peered over his shoulder to take a closer look. Turns out

she was a tad taller than her New York doppelganger, and her hair was styled

in a slightly different way. It wasn’t her. Phew.

“Did you lose something?”

I turned to face Derek, whose expression was blank apart from the

telltale raised eyebrow. I was firmly planted in his personal space, our chests

separated by barely an inch. I was close enough to feel the heat radiating

from his body, close enough to smell the spicy scent of his aftershave. My

heart started hammering like crazy and god only knows what kind of dippy or

depraved – or desirous – expression was written on my face. Yep, Derek

Whitley had to be questioning my sanity right about then.

“Sorry.” I jumped back, feeling the flames of mortification shooting up

the sides of my face. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” The edges of his lips curled up into an almost-smile.

“Well, it was nice talking to you, Derek, but I’ve got to go,” I blurted

out.

“Oh. Okay. Nice to meet you, Sarah.” He narrowed his eyes so an

almost-frown battled it out with his almost-smile.

“Likewise. Take care.” I flashed a quick smile at him before spinning on

my heel and heading for the entrance.

Inez was deep in conversation with someone, presumably the journalist

from The Chronicle, and she looked up as I passed her by. I mimed holding a

phone to my ear and mouthed the words “I’ll call you.” She nodded, giving

me the green light to bolt for the door.

Safely outside on the streets of SoMa, I took an enormously deep breath

of cool air and reassembled my wits. Life incognito was harder than I’d

anticipated.

* * * *

The next day I was curled up in my most comfy yoga wear, fashioning

rosettes out of delicate pink chiffon when the phone rang. Reaching past the

stack of woolens, I grabbed my phone and checked the caller ID before

answering.

“Hey Inez, what’s up?”

“Hey Maya. Great news. I just got a message from Derek Whitley. He

wants to go ahead and commission you to create that installation we spoke

about.”

“Are you serious?” I leaned back into the battered mustard yellow

loveseat and tried to wrap my head around Inez’s news.

“Of course,” she said. “I thought you said he wasn’t interested.”

“I didn’t think he was. He called my work ‘ridiculous’.”

She gasped. “He did not.”

“He most definitely did. I can’t imagine why he’d want to commission

me to create more ridiculous art.” I frowned, hating the fact that I’d let Derek

Whitley’s obnoxious remarks get to me. What did he know, anyway?

“That’s weird.” Inez paused a moment before continuing. “Anyway,

whatever his reasons are, he does want you to create the installation. Can you

meet with him on Monday at four fifteen down in Menlo Park to discuss the

plans?”

I would rather have walked down Park Avenue in polyester culottes and

a garish chartreuse tube top. The very idea of revealing my identity to the

man who thought my artwork sucked was bad enough. But the way that I’d

invaded his personal space and gotten all hot and bothered and then fled… I

winced at the memory.

Not my finest hour but I’d put it behind me, figured I’d never see Derek

Whitley again. But now he wanted to commission me? None of it made any

sense. If the guy really thought my art was ridiculous, why on earth would he

want to pay me no small sum to install my work at his company

headquarters?

“Maya? Yes?” Inez prompted.

“There’s just one thing… um.” I closed my eyes in a pathetic attempt to

ward off the waves of embarrassment. It didn’t work. “Okay. I know this is

going to sound strange, but I didn’t actually introduce myself to him.”

“What do you mean? I saw you guys having a conversation.”

“I know, but… the first thing out of his mouth was that rude comment

about my art, so I figured he’d never want to commission the work. I didn’t

see the point of unmasking myself as the artist, and so I didn’t.”

“Ay, dios mio.” Inez sighed. “Well, you’ll have to come clean. Let’s

hope he chalks up your strange behavior to a flaky artistic temperament.”

“That would only work if he considered me a true artist,” I murmured. I

reminded myself that he was a computer nerd who didn’t know what he was

talking about, but the fact of the matter remained: his words had left a fairly

sizeable mark on my ego.

“Butch up, chica. The man has an international tech company to run. I

seriously doubt he’ll get his panties in a twist because a woman he spoke to

for five minutes wasn’t upfront about her identity.”

I smiled. “Good point.”

“So I’ll confirm with him for Monday?”

“Okay.”

Oh god.

After we ended the call, I drew my knees to my chest, took a deep breath

and focused on the positive. I did a bit of mental math and as the potential

numbers started to take shape in my mind, Something akin to excitement

started to stir inside my belly. Once I got paid for the installation I might be

able to move into a more suitable apartment. That would be so cool.

My studio was beyond depressing. Every possible surface groaned under

towering stacks of fabrics and bags overflowing with ribbons and other

embellishments. A clothesline ran from the window to the bathroom door, set

up so I could easily de-crinkle fabrics with my industrial sized steam iron.

Groups of canvases lined up against the walls, intensifying the sensation I

sometimes had that the walls were closing in on me. My sewing machine was

stationed on the big cardboard box filled with winter coats and heavy

blankets that I had no use for in San Francisco. I had no closet and no dresser

so I – quite literally – lived out of a suitcase. The three suitcases stacked next

to the loveseat, to be precise.

It was a far cry from my stylish one-bed on Manhattan’s Upper East Side

with the pristine, polished wood floors and the funky artwork on the walls.

The memory of my former apartment carried with it a painful sense of

longing, but I banished it the moment it darkened my doorstep. Maybe I

wouldn’t be living in such cramped quarters for much longer. Despite the

awkward strings, this installation gig couldn’t have come at a better time.

I  hope  you  enjoyed  the  first  chapter  of  Unmasking  Maya!  If  you’d  like  to  find  out  what  happens  next,  you  can  download  the  entire  story  at  Amazon  for  $2.99.  Here’s  the  link:  Unmasking  Maya.  And  of  course,  I’d  love  to  have  you  visit  my  blog:  Libby-­‐Mercer.blogspot.com.  Thank  you  so  much  for  reading!    Love,  Libby