Roman tapped his forehead. “It’s all right here, my friend.” He looked up at the massive canvas and envisioned the lines and shapes already burning into place. Might as well get started. Stepping into the lift, he pushed the button to raise the platform. Grabbing a can of gray spray paint from a box, he tried to block out everything but the vision God had given him. He shook the can, pressed the button, and made the first wide curve. A fountain of energy welled up inside him and began to overflow to those waiting to do their part.
Crew members sat and watched. After a few minutes, Roman forgot they were there. He worked for three hours straight, moving the machinery, emptying cans of paint. When he tossed the last can into the box and pushed the button to lower the lift, everyone erupted in cheers.
Realizing they were cheering for him, Roman went cold. “Stop! Listen to me!” When he had everyone’s attention, he pointed. “This wall is a testimony to the power of Jesus Christ. It’s all about Him. If you came to work, here’s what you’re going to do.” He gave out instructions, tossing cans of paint to each and telling them where to start and where to work. “Okay, crew. Let’s blast this wall for Jesus.”
An hour later, Brian and Roman stood across the street, watching. “Wow!” Brian shook his head, amazed. “It’ll be done before the day is over.”
“Not completely. Once the kids have everything filled in, I’ll do the finish details. Hector has a crew lined up to do the protective coat.” He saw one boy ready to move on to another section. “Hey, Bando!” Limping across the street, Roman pulled another color out of the supply box and showed him where to work next.
Cars passed by. A few drivers stopped to watch. The crowd grew. A patrol pulled over, and officers got out. Roman recognized one. His stomach dropped, and his pulse picked up speed. The cop headed straight for Roman.
“Are you in charge here?” The policeman who had caught the Bird doing his work in the tunnel looked at the wall.
“Yes, sir.”
“Impressive piece. Sort of in-your-face, don’t you think?”
Roman didn’t see the need to answer. The officer looked around. “You got permission this time.” He smiled slightly. “Nice to see all these kids working on something constructive.” He winked at Roman. “Have a good day.” He went back to his patrol car. He and his partner got in and drove off.
Brian laughed. “You look pale. Were you expecting him to arrest you?”
“It crossed my mind.”
The next morning, Roman was less than pleased to find a TV crew on-site when he returned to do the finish details. His work crew was also there. Contemporary Christian music blared, a few kids doing hip-hop moves in the driveway. One did a backflip from a standing position. A reporter approached. Roman dodged the microphone and stepped onto the lift. He pretended not to hear the questions called up as the machine rumbled into action. It was going to be hard enough to concentrate with a dance contest going on without adding reporters to the fiasco. His phone vibrated. When he saw Brian’s ID, he answered. “Tell them to leave.”
“They want to know why Roman Velasco is painting graffiti.”
“I’ll talk when the project’s done. Right now, I have work to do.” He shut off his phone. A prickling feeling made the hair rise on the back of his neck. The Bird’s wings had already been clipped. Now, it seemed the Bird would be cooked. How much jail time would he be serving for all the identified pieces he’d done over the years?
That thought sent a shudder of fear through him, but he shook it off. He needed to concentrate and finish this masterpiece. No use worrying about the consequences now.
Whatever happens, I trust You, Lord.
Grace loved her new home. Samuel slept with her for the first few nights until she put his crib together and transferred him to his own room across the hall. She didn’t get much sleep the first night, listening to his screams of protest that turned into pitiful wails. She moved her bed so they could see each other. He finally wore himself out at one in the morning.
Samuel took his first steps at ten months. He toddled around the house and climbed on furniture. One tumble off the sofa taught him to turn over on his stomach and slide down until his feet touched the carpeted floor. Most of the time, he played contently in the office, toys strewn all around Grace’s computer desk. His inner clock told him when it was time for Mama’s full attention, and he could be quite vocal in claiming it.
Word spread, and VirtualGrace.biz quickly brought in more clients. Grace had enough work to meet expenses and put some into savings. When more requests showed up in her e-mail in-box, she made priorities and set boundaries: God first, Samuel second, work third. She got up early every morning to read the Bible and spend time in prayer. That quiet time steadied her for the rest of her busy day.
Samuel always awakened by six. Every morning after breakfast, when weather permitted, Grace strapped her son into a jogging stroller she’d bought off craigslist and took him out for a mile run. She often thought about Roman doing his weight-machine workout. She had to get some exercise when most of her day was spent at a computer. She found a bicycle at a thrift store, and every clear afternoon before Samuel’s nap time, she strapped him into a bike seat, and took him on a thirty-minute ride. She also took breaks so he could play in the backyard. When it rained, Grace played with Samuel on the rug.
She met Angela Martinez over the side fence. Angela and her husband, Juan, had a nice yard, too, but the back third was taken up by a garage for Juan’s truck, trailer, and John Deere mower for his landscape maintenance business. Angela was a homemaker, rearing three active children: eight-year-old Carlos, five-year-old Juanita, and two-year-old Matías. Angela had plenty of sage parenting advice. Juan asked if he could prepare the soil and seed Grace’s vegetable boxes. Both families would benefit from an eventual harvest. George and Dorothy Gerling thought that was a great idea and gave permission.
Aunt Elizabeth came up in November to celebrate Samuel’s first birthday and surprised Grace with a sizable check. “I don’t know what he needs or likes at this age. You use the money however you want.”
Grace hugged her aunt. “It’ll start his college fund.”
A delivery truck showed up, along with Dorothy and George announcing they’d bought Samuel a red race car bed. George went right to work assembling it. “Every boy dreams of race cars.”
Dorothy put on sheets stamped with little cars and a matching bedspread. “I couldn’t resist!” She left a spare set for Grace. They couldn’t stay long. George had a golf outing with buddies, and Dorothy had a book club meeting.
Aunt Elizabeth was painfully polite until they left. “What a waste of money!” She stood with hands on her hips looking at the new bed as though she wanted to dismantle it with an ax. “Don’t they have grandchildren of their own to spoil?”
Samuel clearly liked his big-boy bed, though Grace intended to keep him in his crib a while longer. He could spend nap time in the race car. “They have one daughter, single and in the military.”
“Oh.” Aunt Elizabeth’s shoulders relaxed. “Well. No wonder.” She sighed. “At least there’s a nice, thick rug on the floor and the bed isn’t so high he’ll fall off and fracture his skull.” With that grim blessing, she swung Samuel up into her arms. “Come on, Rapscal. Let’s play with the Duplo blocks I brought you.”
Aunt Elizabeth called, upset, a week later. “Did you give the Gerlings my address? They sent me an invitation for Thanksgiving.”
Grace confessed and waited for Vesuvius to erupt. When her aunt didn’t say anything, Grace sent up a silent prayer before searching for a concession. “If you’d rather it was only the three of us, that’s fine. Your place or mine. I just don’t want another Thanksgiving to go by without you.”
“On that we certainly agree.” The long pause made Grace bite her lip. Her aunt sighed. “It was actually a very sweet invitation.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind?”
“I’ll let her know I’d love to come.�
� Her tone was tinged with slight sarcasm. “I hope she doesn’t put oysters in her stuffing.”
Thanksgiving Day with Dorothy and George turned out to be very pleasant. Christmas was fast approaching, and Grace found herself thinking more about Roman, wondering how he’d celebrate the holidays. She’d thought time and distance would diminish her feelings. Most days she was working so hard, she didn’t think about anything but Samuel and what needed to be done to provide for him.
Evenings were different, and nighttime, the hardest. She had vivid dreams about Roman and sometimes awakened in tears.
Today was one of those days when she couldn’t get Roman out of her head. Samuel toddled over and wanted to climb onto her lap. She worked that way for a while and set him down to play again. A few minutes later, he came back. Grace closed her laptop and lifted Samuel. “Okay, little man.” She kissed his warm neck and breathed in his sweet, baby scent. “How about a bike ride, Rapscal?” He loved bike rides and flapped his arms, making her laugh.
Closing the garage door, Grace pocketed the remote and set off down the street. They wore matching neon helmets, the only brand-new things she had splurged on so far. By the time they returned, she was tired and Samuel was sleepy from the cool wind in his face. She put him down for a nap in his race car bed and was intending to go back to work when the phone rang.
“Hey, girlfriend!”
“Hey, back atcha.” Grace laughed. In addition to frequent texts and e-mails, Shanice called every few days to check on her.
“How are things going?”
Sprawled on the sofa, Grace sighed. “Right now, I’m done in. I just took Samuel out for a bike ride.”
They carried on their usual friendly conversation for fifteen minutes before Shanice admitted she had another reason for calling. “I wanted to talk to you about Roman, honey.”
Grace’s heart started to pound. “What about him?”
“Well, he’s not the man I met in Topanga Canyon, that’s for sure. He and Brian have become good friends. Roman sold his house and moved into the apartment complex where Brian lives. He just finished a project for the church. You should see it, Grace. It’s drawing a lot of attention. Some reporters showed up, and there have been a couple articles on the piece. Check it out on YouTube. It’s amazing!”
“I’m glad to hear he’s doing so well.” Grace tried to keep her tone neutral, despite the wild beating of her heart and the surge of hope she needed to crush.
“Do you want me to tell Roman where you are?”
“Did he ask you?”
“No, but I’m sure he’d like to know.”
Grace closed her eyes tightly, unable to speak for a moment. “I think it’s better to leave things as they are.” If Roman loved her, wouldn’t he have asked about her by now? She left Los Angeles months ago.
“Are you sure, honey? He might have reasons for not calling you.”
Just as she had reasons for keeping her silence. God, am I doing the right thing? I don’t know anymore.
“If he does ask, can I tell him? I have no doubt he’s a Christian now, Grace, or I wouldn’t bring him up at all. I know how much you grieved over the guy. You still love him, don’t you?”
It wasn’t really a question. “All the more reason to keep my distance, Shanice. Roman never said he loved me.” Grace put a shaking hand to her forehead. “Can we not talk about him? Please. I’ve been trying hard to move on.”
“Doesn’t sound like you’re having much luck with that.”
How could she forget a man like Roman Velasco? Or was he Bobby Ray Dean now? Was he still the Bird, out painting walls at night? Roman Velasco, Bobby Ray Dean, or the Bird, she was still in love with him. “Keeping busy helps.”
They talked for a few more minutes and ended the call.
Samuel came toddling into the living room and climbed up so he could sprawl on her chest. She remembered how he’d slept on Roman this same way at the cottage. Lord, how long before this ache goes away?
That night, Samuel snug in his crib, Grace lay wide-awake. At midnight, she gave in to temptation, went to her office, and opened her laptop. She did a quick search on YouTube and found Roman’s most recent work. She drew in a soft breath when she saw Jesus on the back of a white stallion. The clouds painted at the building foundation line made the church look like it was floating. The wall was magnificent, but it was the man obviously avoiding the camera who held her attention. She pulled up other YouTube clips. Seeing him, even on a computer screen, increased her painful longing. She switched to Google and found a recent newspaper article. Talia Reisner must have supplied the reporter with a public relations package.
Images produced a screen full of pictures of Roman Velasco: at the gallery opening, working on the San Diego mural, in a nightclub, dancing with a beautiful blonde. She closed her laptop. Covering her face, she cried. God, make these feelings go away. Please. She took a Tylenol PM and went back to bed. Lying on her side, she looked across the hall at her son sleeping peacefully in his crib. Roman had been clear about what he wanted and didn’t want.
I’ve done everything possible to avoid ever having a kid.
It wouldn’t be wise to open the door to Roman again. Samuel needed a man who would love her unconditionally . . . and love her son no matter how he was conceived.
NOW THAT THE PROJECT WAS DONE, Roman found himself inundated with interview requests. He agreed to meet Tuck Martin, a freelance reporter, at Common Grounds, and asked Brian to join them. Talking about Brian and the crew was easy. Roman wanted them to get the credit they deserved. Martin was more interested in Roman’s personal history, life, and career as an artist. Roman stopped talking.
Brian smiled at Martin. “Roman is a little reticent about his personal life.”
“I gathered that.” He looked at Roman. “Is there a reason?”
Roman wished he hadn’t agreed to this. “Too many people have an unhealthy interest in other people’s business.”
“I’ve done considerable research on you, Mr. Velasco.” He talked for the next ten minutes while Roman squirmed. Tuck Martin had managed to dig out information from public records and interviews with retired social workers. He’d spent several hours with Talia Reisner and got an earful about Roman’s temper, bohemian ways, and reputation as a player, which led Martin to the nightclub Roman used to frequent and a few other shorter interviews with women he’d hooked up with. Jasper Hawley and the Mastersons were noticeably absent from Tuck Martin’s list, nor did he mention Grace Moore.
Roman pushed his chair back. “Seems to me, you have more than enough information to write your story already.”
Brian gave him a look that reminded Roman of Jasper Hawley. Hear the man out.
Roman remained seated. “Just what are you after, if that isn’t enough to write a juicy piece for People magazine?”
“I’m interested in the man behind the art.” Martin leaned forward. “A year ago, you were a loner living the good life on a mountaintop, and now, you’re down in the flatlands working with a crew of gang kids and painting a masterpiece on the wall of a church that meets in an industrial park.” He gave a soft laugh. “How did that happen?”
What could Roman say? “People change directions all the time.” He felt Brian’s glance.
Tuck Martin looked unconvinced. “Why did you bring a pastor to the interview?”
“He’s a close friend.” He jerked his chin at Brian. “He’s the one that came up with the idea.”
Brian shook his head. “I just offered Roman the wall. He and God did the rest.”
Tuck Martin gave Roman a wry look. “Do you agree with that statement? You think God had something to do with it?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Are you a Christian?”
Roman gave him a sardonic stare. “Don’t I look like one?”
Brian laughed. “A young disciple.”
“How did that come about?” Tuck looked at Brian for an answer.
Brian tilted
his head toward Roman. “Ask him what happened in Santa Clarita.”
When Roman didn’t speak up, Brian rose. “I’m going to get another cup of coffee. Need anything, gentlemen?” When neither answered, he strolled away. Roman knew what Brian wanted him to do, and he knew what response he’d get.
“I had a heart attack, died on the sidewalk, and went to hell. Jesus got me out.”
Tuck Martin laughed. “Yeah. Right.” He grew serious again. “Great joke, but now, I’d like to know what really happened.”
Roman just looked at him.
Martin frowned and searched Roman’s face. “You weren’t kidding, were you?”
“Never been more serious in my life.” Roman lifted his coffee, thinking he’d said more than enough, until he felt the nudge to go on. “I didn’t believe in God. Strike that. Maybe it’s closer to the truth to say I hated Him. I’d just had a heated conversation with a Christian. We’d called a truce and pulled in to have lunch. I dropped dead on the sidewalk.” He shuddered. “Looking back, the timing seems providential.”
Martin’s mouth twisted in a cynical half smile as he leaned back. “Tell me what it was like in hell.”
Roman measured Tuck Martin’s expression. “Someday you’ll see it for yourself.”
“Is that a polite way of telling me to go to hell?”
“Reject Jesus, and that’s where you’ll end up.”
“You’d allow me to put that in my story.”
“Can’t stop you now, can I?”
Brian came back as Tuck Martin turned off his recorder and dropped it in his backpack. “Do you know what he just told me?”
“I hope so.” He looked at Roman with approval. “Your NDE.”
Roman shrugged. “He doesn’t believe me.”
“It was a good thing Grace was with him in Santa Clarita, or he’d be dead. She knew CPR.”
“Grace?” Tuck Martin’s interest returned. “Talia Reisner said you had a personal assistant who lived and traveled with you.”
The Masterpiece Page 40
