The Masterpiece

by Francine Rivers

  Grace wondered if Roman was upset with her the next morning. He hadn’t said much over breakfast, and now that they were on the road, heading north toward Bodie and Bridgeport, she couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “Didn’t you sleep well last night?”

  “No, I didn’t. Thanks to you.”

  “Me?”

  “I read until two in the morning. Genesis. Exodus. Gave up on Leviticus, whoever he was. Do you believe all that stuff?” He sounded ready for an argument.

  She wasn’t the kind of girl eager to pull on boxing gloves, but she still wanted to know. “Which stuff do you mean?”

  “God created everything in seven days. The serpent in the garden, Adam and Eve being kicked out, the angel keeping them from going back in, the plagues of Egypt. All of it.”

  She decided not to hedge. “Yes, I do.”

  Roman glanced at her with a sardonic smile. “Seriously?”

  He wasn’t the first to dismiss what she believed. Patrick had complained when she went to church on Sundays. He wanted her home with him. He nagged so much, she gave up church. She realized soon enough all he wanted was a cook to make touchdown taco dip for his chips while he watched sports on TV, or a quick, rough roll in bed so he could sleep through to Monday morning. Giving up church hadn’t changed the inevitable outcome of their relationship. She’d gone back to the Lord wounded and floundering. Work then became her way of coping, until a caring friend talked her into a night out.

  Grace swore she’d never stray again. Hold me close, Lord. Never let me go. Alone, she knew she’d drown and wash up on a sandy shore.

  Roman looked at her again. “Why?”

  The single word implied she was stupid. “Because it’s true.”

  “Give me a break!”

  “You needn’t be insulting. I’m as serious about my faith as you are about yours.”

  “I don’t believe in God.”

  “You believe in yourself. You believe you have control over your life and can live accordingly. That’s your religion.”

  He didn’t say anything for the next five miles. Grace wished she’d kept quiet. So much for being friends. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Roman.”

  “Who brainwashed you? Your aunt?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He’d never believe an angel came to her any more than Aunt Elizabeth had. The visitation had opened her heart to the Lord. How do you explain that kind of experience to an atheist? Or was he an agnostic? Did it matter?

  “I’d like to hear.”

  He looked serious, and she couldn’t see a way out. “There’s order everywhere: the stars, the seasons, the currents of the ocean, the air that moves over the planet, down to the cells that make up everything. I don’t believe that’s by chance or a series of accidents. It takes intelligence to create all that, intelligence beyond anything human beings can understand. That’s part of why I believe in God.”

  “There was a serpent in the garden.”

  Was he mocking her, or did he seriously want her to talk about what she believed? “Satan.”

  “You believe in a devil.”

  Just when she was beginning to enjoy his company! Was the rest of the trip going to be like this? “Yes, and I believe in hell, too. Everyone these days likes to think they’ll go to heaven or a better place somewhere. The truth is, the price for sin is death and hell. That’s why Jesus came. That’s why God sent His Son. Only Jesus could live a sin-free life and be the perfect sacrifice to ransom us. All He asks is that we believe. And I believe.”

  “I must have pushed a button and gotten the recording.”

  “You asked.” Hot tears threatened, and she looked out the window. Lord, You deal with him. “My ex-husband didn’t believe either.”

  “If faith matters that much to you, why did you marry him?”

  She gave a bleak laugh. “You have no idea how many times I asked myself that same question. He needed me. I thought I loved him. I was warned.” By her aunt as well as the quiet voice within her. “I just didn’t want to listen.” She had been so desperate for someone to love her she swallowed a lie.

  She didn’t like feeling exposed. Let Roman do the talking. “Why don’t you tell me what you believe?”

  “We’re born. We survive as best we can. We die. End of story.”

  She glanced at his profile. He looked grim, as though hope didn’t exist. “No wonder you’re so miserable.” She turned her face away. “Why don’t you read Ecclesiastes tonight? You have a lot in common with King Solomon.” Including his taste for women.

  Roman gave her an irritated glance and made the turn to Bodie.

  She sighed. “Do you want to hear some history?”

  “Something other than the brochure I read and practically recited to you?”

  Grace breathed in and out slowly as she did a search on her phone. She read about the gold- and silver-mining boomtown that had boasted ten thousand inhabitants in its heyday—sixty-five saloons, gamblers, prostitutes, and a reputation for violence and lawlessness. A little girl, on hearing where her daddy planned to move the family, said, “Good-bye, God. We’re going to Bodie.”

  Roman parked and got out of the car.

  They walked among the dilapidated buildings. Grace paused to peer through windows, while he stood waiting, hands in his jacket pockets. A church, a saloon, a store. She looked through the window of a small house where a prostitute had once conducted business. “What a miserable life that must have been.”

  “She picked it.”

  Annoyed, she started to walk on, then decided not to let his comment go unchallenged. “Do you really think a woman wants to be a prostitute? I can’t imagine anything worse than having to sell my body to any guy who wanted to use me. I think women do that kind of work as a last resort.”

  He looked angry now. “They aren’t forced into it.”

  She was sick of being the brunt of his ill temper. “That depends on what constitutes force in your dictionary, Mr. Velasco.”

  “Spoken like a college girl, Ms. Moore.”

  “What if a woman lost her husband on the way out West? They didn’t have the same rights and opportunities men did. Or the physical strength. What if it was a girl on a wagon train and her family died of cholera or typhus? Can a woman plow a field and build a cabin on her own?” The only way she could stop herself from saying more was to walk away from him. He fell into step beside her. She quickened her pace.

  “She could get married again.”

  “What if all the men were like you?” Grace blushed, but she couldn’t bring herself to apologize. “If the girl had an education, she might find a job as a teacher, but most women weren’t allowed the privilege of education back then.” She made a sweeping gesture encompassing Bodie. “How many schoolhouses do you see out here?”

  “What about now?”

  “Now?” She didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “What excuse does a woman have now?”

  How could he be so insensitive? “Sometimes people make mistakes they can’t undo. Sometimes people are so beaten down they don’t know how to get back up. And there will always be people who want to keep them in their place.”

  “And you know this how? From some textbook?”

  Trembling with anger, Grace faced him. “What happens to a fourteen-year-old girl who gets pregnant and her parents kick her out? What if her boyfriend was just using her and doesn’t care what she does? How does she make a living? The people she thought loved her don’t. Where does she go? How does she earn money to buy food or keep a roof over her head? So she sells herself once, just so she can eat. Then she feels so dirty nothing matters after that. People look at her like she’s trash anyway. Now she believes she is. She can’t see any way out.”

  All the anger went out of him. “Any of that ever happen to you?”

  “No, but it doesn’t mean I can’t have empathy.” Clearly, he didn’t. Feeling sick, Grace walked away.

  Roman didn’t follow her, but s
he felt him watching her. She went to the next corner of the town grid before she looked back. He stood where she’d left him, hands shoved in the pockets of his black leather bomber jacket, looking at the ramshackle house where the prostitute once lived.

  They met at the car, both calm. “I’m sorry, Roman. I didn’t mean to get on a soapbox.”

  He pushed the ignition button. “I can see why you like psychology. You can make a career of rescuing people for the rest of your life.”

  Like Patrick. “No, thanks. Been there, done that, and it ended badly. I’m having enough trouble sorting out my own life to be of any use to others.”

  “Sounds like we may have something else in common.”

  BOBBY RAY, AGE 10

  Bobby Ray reckoned he had been in more than fifteen foster homes by now. He ran away from eight. If he couldn’t get out, he got thrown out. He set fire to one garage. He threw a foster brother’s bicycle into traffic. He kicked dents in the side of a brand-new foster family van. He chucked a bag of dog feces into another foster family’s hot tub. Some foster couples collected monthly checks and let him run wild, until the police found him back on Turk Street.

  He was smart. He was shrewd. Every textbook parenting technique was tried on him. None worked. He didn’t get along with other children. He didn’t trust adults. Several families said the boy needed stability and a forever home and tried to adopt him. He said no, hating them for what they were trying to do. Sheila Dean was his mother, and no one was taking her place. Not ever. She was out there in the city someplace, and he was going to find her.

  Miss Bushnell, the sad-eyed, weary social worker, had handed his case over to her supervisor, Ellison Whitcomb, a man who had put in twenty-five years in social services. Whatever feelings of hope and purpose he’d had when he started his chosen career had long since died in the heavy caseload of heartache and human tragedy. Bobby Ray was just another rootless, troubled kid with a thick file. Whitcomb talked with another caseworker in the corridor while Bobby Ray sat waiting and listening.

  “At least he hasn’t killed anyone.”

  Whitcomb gave a bleak laugh. “Give him time.”

  Whitcomb took a seat behind the desk. He looked worn-out. He opened a package of Tums and popped a couple into his mouth. A poster of a white, sandy beach with Florida in blazing letters hung on his wall. He asked Bobby Ray how many times he planned to run away.

  “As many as it takes.”

  “To do what?”

  “Find my mother.”

  Whitcomb didn’t say a word after that. He didn’t push or pry or even try to make Bobby Ray talk. He just leaned back, folded his hands, and studied him. Bobby Ray stared back, angry. He knew the game and didn’t break eye contact.

  “You’re not doing yourself any favors, kid.”

  Bobby Ray told him what Whitcomb could do to himself. Whitcomb tapped the file on his desk. “I’m going to be gone for five minutes; then I’ll be back.” Bobby Ray got the message. As soon as Whitcomb left the office, he grabbed the file.

  Bobby Ray Dean. Father: unknown. Mother: Sheila Dean.

  Bobby Ray read quickly.

  . . . arrested four times for prostitution . . . released on her own recognizance . . . overdosed on heroin in Starlight Motel, listed as a Jane Doe until identified by fingerprints.

  Bobby Ray’s heart stopped. He reread the last part, hoping he had gotten it wrong. His stomach dropped, and cold seeped through him. Mama’s dead. How could that be? Wouldn’t he have felt something? Known somehow, someway?

  Whitcomb returned, took the file from the desk, and tucked it away in the tall metal filing cabinet. “So now you know, Bobby Ray.”

  Mama still spoke to him in his dreams sometimes. I’m doing the best I can, baby. You know I’m gonna come back. Don’t I always?

  BACK ON THE MOUNTAIN ROAD, they passed high meadows, icy lakes, and towering pines. Grace was silent so long, Roman glanced over to see if she was asleep. She was wide-awake, faintly pensive. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’d like Samuel to see this. You can’t look at all this beauty and not believe. It’s harder in a city. There’s too much going on, too many distractions.”

  “And temptations?” Roman gave her a teasing glance. “Not to mention, all those angry people on the freeways. Always in a hurry to get somewhere.” Like him, they probably didn’t know where they really wanted to go or how to get there.

  “Can we stop?” She looked apologetic. “Just for a few minutes.”

  Roman pulled off the road at the next wide spot. Grace thanked him and got out of the car. He came around the car and leaned against it, watching her. The air smelled heavily of pine. Grace picked her way among some boulders and climbed up onto a granite ledge overlooking a narrow, plunging valley. A breeze came up, and she spread her arms as though she might take a few steps and ride the wind. Roman lifted his phone. She took another step forward, and his heart lurched.

  “Grace, stop!” Pocketing his phone, he went after her. He couldn’t see her for a few seconds and almost panicked. “Grace!”

  “I’m right here.” There was another ledge just below the one she’d been on. “I could walk another ten feet and still be safe.” She took a few more steps.

  He caught up to her, and gripped her arm. “Close enough.” When she looked at him in surprise, he let go of her.

  “You were the one talking about climbing Half Dome.”

  “Enough wandering around. Let’s go.”

  Roman went ahead of her and lifted her down from the stone table. She gave a soft, tense laugh. “You’re as sure-footed as a mountain goat.”

  “Comes from practicing parkour.” She picked up a pinecone on the way to the car. “You’re keeping that?”

  “It’s the perfect souvenir, don’t you think?” She held it to her nose and inhaled. “A gift from the Lord that smells like the forest.”

  He was getting used to the natural way Grace talked about God. He opened the car door for her. She slid in and tucked the pinecone into the tote bag, along with the rocks she’d collected along the way.

  “Your bag must weigh a ton by now.”

  “The Israelites picked up great stones when they crossed the Jordan River. When they reached the Promised Land, they made a memorial so they’d never forget what God had done.”

  He’d read the Exodus story the night before, but he didn’t want to get into another God conversation. Maybe there was a God, but Roman doubted He cared. He pulled onto the road again. “We’re only two hours away from Golden.”

  “Think you’ll accept the job?”

  “Doubtful.” Before she asked why they were on this trip if he’d already made up his mind, he told her to call Jasper. “See if he can meet us at Masterson Ranch.” He could have made the call himself with one press of his thumb on the steering wheel, but he wanted to change the subject.

  Phone to her ear, she looked at him. “Are we staying there tonight?”

  “No. We’re just stopping in to say hello.” The Mastersons probably had a full house. Roman wondered what kind of reception he’d get after so many years of avoiding this visit. He’d only seen Jasper because the man insisted on showing up periodically, invited or not. He hadn’t seen Chet and Susan since he aged out of the program at eighteen. They sent a Christmas card every December with a handwritten note inviting him to visit anytime. The door is always open. Roman figured it was merely a polite gesture. Why would they want to see him again?

  Maybe stopping by was a bad idea.

  “Anything wrong, Roman?”

  How long had she been looking at him? “Everything’s fine.”

  The old barn came into view as he rounded the curve of the narrow country road. Surprised, he saw the second mural he’d ever done still there, faded after so many years. The gates were open, Jasper’s blue Chevy parked in front of the house. On the porch, two German shepherds stood and barked. Roman remembered his first meeting with Starsky and Hutch nearly twenty years ago.<
br />
  Starsky and Hutch must be long dead, but these two shepherds could be related.

  Chet came outside and called out, “Be polite, boys.” The dogs’ demeanor changed to one of cautious greeting. A few sniffs at Roman, and they moved quickly to Grace. She held out her hand, and one licked her. The two dogs moved around her with wagging tails. Smiling, she stroked one, until the other nosed in for his turn.

  Susan and Jasper joined Chet on the porch. Roman pushed down the rising tide of emotions. Of all the places he could have taken Grace, why had he brought her here? He should have kept driving, rather than risk what could—would—turn into something humiliating. Chet came down the steps. He still had a full head of hair, though now white. He walked slower, shoulders slightly stooped, body thinner. Susan, wearing jeans and a button-up plaid shirt, still had a blonde ponytail. She’d put on some weight, but they both looked good for sixty-plus years of age.

  Roman held out his hand, but Chet pulled him into a bear hug. “It’s about time you came home!” Roman couldn’t speak past the lump in his throat. Why hadn’t he come back? What excuse did he have to offer?

  Chet let him go and slapped him on the back. “Look at you! You’re not a skinny kid anymore.”

  Susan put her hands on her hips. “I should be mad at you for staying away so long.” Laughing, joyous, she threw her arms around Roman. When she drew back, she looked at Grace. “And who is this pretty lady? Your wife?”

  Roman quickly dispelled that misconception. Smiling and relaxed, Grace shook hands with Chet and Susan. Jasper gave her a hug and kissed her cheek like they were longtime friends. The dogs stayed close to Grace. She scratched one behind the ears. If he’d been a cat, he would have purred.

  “That one is DiNozzo.” Chet chuckled. “And I think he has a crush on you. The other is Gibbs.” He clicked his tongue, and the two dogs followed him to the house.

  “Come on inside.” Susan waved everyone toward the house. “We have coffee, tea, lemonade.”

  Roman looked around. The place was quiet, but there were horses in the corral. “You still keeping boys in line, Chet?”