The Masterpiece

by Francine Rivers

  Roman asked for Belton Molotow and Spanish Montana spray paint. The weight of the cans in his pack gave him a sense of purpose. He returned to his rented room and practiced drawing the scene etched in his mind. He simplified it. Fewer lines, more contrasts. He’d have to work fast, and that meant every line and curve had to express something important, something that created an impression. Black, white, red, and gold—four colors, more than enough to make his statement.

  Satisfied with the piece, Roman had to practice until he could do it in less than three minutes. When that didn’t work, he bought butcher paper, masking tape, and scissors, and made a stencil. When he had everything ready, he walked the streets to find a place to put up his piece. He chose a wall near the Piazza del Risorgimento, and Sunday just before dawn to do it. He put on his black jeans, T-shirt, hoodie, and gloves. He grabbed his gear.

  A window slid open with a bang as he taped the stencil to the wall. He kept his head down, his face hidden, as he pulled out the cans of spray paint and went to work. He finished in under three minutes, removed the stencil. He heard someone laughing as he stowed his gear and took off running.

  He didn’t think his graffiti would last a day, and he felt a rush of satisfaction when it was still there three days later. When a college student at the guesthouse said he’d go back to New York City if he had the money for a return ticket, Roman offered to buy the guy’s motorcycle for the price of one seat in economy class. The two storage compartments on the bike were more than enough for what little he’d brought with him.

  Roman drove north to Florence. He stayed a month, then moved on to Venice. The summer heat made the air taste like sludge, and crowds of tourists jammed the city. Roman headed for the Swiss Alps.

  In every city where he spent more than a day, Roman left a statement behind, a piece of graffiti to speak to the masses. He’d been traveling around Europe for three months when an idea fixed itself in his head, a challenge that would land him in a French jail—or gain notoriety for the Bird. He headed for Paris.

  He spent three full days at the Louvre, haunting the halls, feasting on the art. He watched the guards, checked out the placement of security cameras, timed distances, memorized corridors, floors, and hallways. He bought slacks, a white shirt, a trench coat, and a fedora, then went back to buy a large book on Renaissance art and a canvas bag with the museum logo.

  When Roman had his plan and everything he needed to pull it off, he did his first oil painting on an eight-by-ten-inch canvas—an owl on a pine branch, one eye open, the other closed, its beak a smug smile. He signed BRD in small bubble letters in the bottom right corner. He bought a gilded frame and museum wax.

  On his last day in Paris, Roman went back to the Louvre. He looked like any one of a hundred other well-dressed visitors perusing the masterpieces in the hallowed halls of the world-famous museum. He wore the fedora pulled forward and down to obscure his face from security cameras. He paused here and there, pretending interest in a painting or plaque, while savoring the adrenaline rush.

  Roman knew exactly where he was going and had the timing down to the minute. It took less than that to take his painting from the museum shop bag and press it on the wall space next to an oil of two hunting dogs. Skin prickling, he felt a guard looking his way. Roman shifted the museum shop bag as though the book inside had become heavy. The guard lost interest. Roman stayed for another minute, smirking. He took his time leaving the hall. The guard walked right by his painting without noticing it. Chuckling, Roman left, wondering how long it would take for the staff to realize something didn’t belong.

  GRACE BARELY SPOKE with Roman over the next few days. He worked as though chained to his drafting table. She’d never seen anyone so obsessed. Did he enjoy the work that much, or did he simply want to put the project behind him so he could move on to the paintings still on the easels, the ones Talia was eager to add to the others Roman had finished for the show she wanted to schedule?

  She wondered if he’d eaten anything in the last few days, until she’d seen the frozen dinner boxes and tinfoil trays stuffed in the garbage can under the counter. Grace reminded herself Roman’s private life was none of her business, and felt her conscience nagging her. Shouldn’t a personal assistant be concerned about the health of her boss? Grace headed down the hall and went upstairs to the studio. She stood in the doorway, but Roman looked immersed in his work. He also looked like he had a blinding headache. “Can I get you anything?”

  Frowning, he rubbed his forehead. “More coffee.”

  “You probably have a headache because you haven’t eaten all day. You can’t live on caffeine, Roman. I can make you a sandwich.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Well, that was easy. “Do you want it delivered or at the counter?” The man didn’t have a dining table, unless he counted the one on the patio. It was too cold, and the wind was up, so that wouldn’t do.

  Roman tossed his ink pen into a tray. “I need a break.” Standing, he stretched, the T-shirt pulling taut over his muscled chest. “I’m beginning to see zebra stripes everywhere.”

  Grace entered the kitchen and checked inside his refrigerator. “What would you like?”

  “Whatever you find. Might be some roast beef in there.” Roman walked to the windows.

  Grace put bread and an unopened package of deli roast beef on the counter. “This is the first time I’ve seen you enjoy your view.” She looked for other things to add to the sandwich. “It would make a beautiful painting.”

  Hooking his thumbs into his pockets, Roman glanced back at her. “Not my thing.”

  “Too bad. What do you like on your sandwich? Mustard? Mayo? Nothing?”

  “Anything and everything available.”

  She found lettuce, cheese slices, a tomato, a red onion, and bread-and-butter pickles. “Hector called. His work is almost finished. He went to the zoo. He loved it.” She slathered mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “Talia won’t bother you, but she wants to set a date for the show. And you got a call from the mayor of Golden. He’s interested in commissioning you to paint a mural for the town.”

  “Never heard of the place.”

  “I googled it. It’s a new community born out of a ghost town that was once a boomtown during the Gold Rush.”

  “You can’t believe everything you read on the Internet.”

  “I know.” Grace cut the thick sandwich in half and put it on a plate. “Someone named Jasper Hawley left a message.” She slid the plate across the counter. “I hope he’s a friend because he said he wants a bed to sleep in and a home-cooked meal.”

  Roman laughed. “Yeah, well, he was my teacher at Masterson Mountain Ranch. It’s a group home in the Gold Country, probably not far from the newly invented old town of Golden.”

  Group home? A dozen questions popped into Grace’s head.

  Roman sat at the counter. “Not even curious enough to ask?”

  She knew she needed boundaries with this man. “Your checkered past is none of my business.”

  Roman took a big bite out of the sandwich. Raising his brows, he made a sound of male pleasure that brought a tingle she hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Grace couldn’t help but be curious about Roman Velasco, but his surroundings were enough to tell her he valued his privacy. She poured him a tall glass of orange juice.

  He looked amused. “Trying to take care of me?”

  “I know which side my bread is buttered on.” He’d already finished the first half of his sandwich. Was it that good, or did it mean he was starving? He was taller than Patrick, and her ex-husband could put away two sandwiches, an apple, and a bag of chips without effort. Of course, he’d spent most of his time working out. “Shall I make you another sandwich?” He nodded, and she laid out two more slices of bread. “Okay. I’ll ask. Why did you end up in a group home?”

  “It was that or jail.” He picked up the glass of orange juice and washed down the last bite of sandwich.

  Jail? “What did you
do?”

  “Got mad. Tagged a few buildings.”

  Grace didn’t know what he was talking about, and he didn’t elaborate.

  Roman watched her make the second sandwich. “Hawley still keeps tabs on me. Calls me one of his lost boys. He’s making sure I walk the straight and narrow, I guess.” He finished the orange juice. “End of story.”

  She took that to mean the end of the subject, and didn’t press. “How long have you been up here?”

  “Here? As in Topanga Canyon? Just over a year. I lived on a beach before this.”

  With his looks, she could easily imagine him on a surfboard in Hawaii. The big kahuna with a bevy of beach bunnies trailing after him. “I can see you in a beach shack.”

  “One beach is like any other. I got tired of all the people around. I wanted space and quiet.”

  “Well, you certainly have that.” She put the second sandwich on his plate. “It’s quiet up here.” She closed the packages of roast beef and cheese, wrapped the lettuce, and put everything back in the refrigerator. Dampening a cloth, she cleaned the counter. “Are there any close neighbors?”

  “Other than you? No.”

  She hadn’t really thought about the remoteness or that he was the only human being close by.

  “Don’t get nervous, Ms. Moore. I don’t have any ulterior motives for offering you the cottage. It just seemed the best solution for both of us.”

  She relaxed. “Well, it was certainly the answer to my prayers.”

  “Prayers.” He gave a telling laugh. “I hate to disillusion you, Grace, but prayer isn’t what got you the place. You’re good at your job. I wanted to keep you around. That’s all. There’s no one out there listening or intervening on our behalf.”

  Grace had heard plenty of people dismiss God as though He were a figment of imagination to bring comfort in the dark. She might have come to believe the same thing if she hadn’t had a visitation when she was seven years old and hiding in a dark closet, terrified of the night and the monster that came with it. She didn’t talk about what had happened when she was a small child. And Patrick hadn’t felt any need to believe in anything but himself, or he would have felt bad about what he did.

  She had learned a long time ago not to argue theology. She hadn’t come to faith because someone gave her all the answers. She came to faith because she met and talked with someone who made her feel enveloped by God’s love. Still, she had to say something to this man who looked like he had everything and nothing. “I believe in God. Life can be pretty unbearable without something to believe in.” She met Roman Velasco’s gaze and didn’t look away. She had let herself doubt, and every time she had, disaster swiftly followed.

  “Any more orange juice in the fridge?”

  She got the message. No more talk about the Lord. She hadn’t intended to proselytize. “There’s just a little left. Do you want it in your glass, or would you prefer drinking it straight from the bottle?”

  “The bottle is fine.” He grinned as she handed it to him.

  “You need groceries.”

  “I guess you’ll be making another run to Malibu.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Roman pulled out his wallet and extracted a couple hundred-dollar bills. “How about some real food, for a change?”

  “I’ll need specifics. Can you cook, or is it a matter of adding a new variety and brand of dinners you can microwave?”

  “I can cook. I can even do laundry and make my bed. There are just other things I like doing better.” He smiled slightly. “That was a great sandwich, by the way. Can you fix anything else?”

  Grace knew where he was heading. Her list of duties kept growing. “This and that.”

  “Anything you cook will be better than what I’ve been living on. And it takes too much time to drive down to a restaurant.”

  A restaurant? Was he kidding? “I’m not a chef, Roman.”

  “Meat and potatoes. Meat and veggies. Meat and salad. Skip the kale and collard greens. I want to stay healthy, but not that healthy. Keep it simple.”

  He was taking a lot for granted. “Why don’t I make a trip to Walmart and pick up a blender? You can toss in a pound of ground round, some veggies, and press a button. Your dinner would be ready to drink in less than a minute.”

  He looked at her like she’d grown horns. Grace laughed. “Or I could buy you those protein shakes.” She picked up the empty orange juice bottle. “Do you recycle?”

  “I don’t know. Do I?” Roman got up and then sat on the stool again. He looked ashen.

  “I was only kidding.” When he didn’t say anything, she looked more closely. “Are you all right?”

  “Just tired.”

  “Maybe you should lie down for a while.”

  “Take a nap, you mean?” He gave her a sardonic look.

  “I’m not your mother, but you’ve taken all of thirty minutes for lunch at three in the afternoon.”

  “Hector’s waiting.”

  Hector was a lame excuse, but it wasn’t her place to quibble. What was pressing Roman so hard? Not money. He had plenty and didn’t spend much of it. “Hector works for you. You set the schedule.”

  “I just want to get the wall done.” His color hadn’t improved much. Why was he looking at her like that? He tilted his head, studying her. “Are you letting your hair grow out?”

  Her hand rose instinctively to touch the hair that now covered the back of her neck. She’d cut it short in penance. Her friends told her it was time to stop punishing herself. “I guess.”

  “You’d look good with long hair.”

  Patrick had said the same thing. “Short is more practical.”

  He frowned and opened his mouth as though to say something, then changed his mind. “Thanks for the sandwiches.” He stood and swayed slightly. “I think I will lie down for a while.”

  “I’ll do the shopping now, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure. Turn off the ringer on the telephone.” He paused. “When are you moving in?”

  “This weekend.”

  It was almost six by the time Grace returned to the house. She headed for the studio to ask if she could have comp time rather than extra pay. Coming down the hall, she saw Roman sprawled across his bed. He lay as though he had toppled like a tree and not moved since. She felt a vague alarm.

  “Roman?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t move either. Was he all right? She stepped over the threshold, the urge to remove his shoes and cover him with a blanket almost overwhelming.

  Caretaking inclinations had gotten her into a world of trouble and pain once before. She wasn’t going down that road again. “Roman?” She spoke louder this time. He made a sound and moved just enough to reassure her.

  She retreated to the office, wrote a note, and left it on the kitchen counter, along with the receipt and change. She closed the front door quietly behind her.

  Roman awakened sweating, heart pounding. He lay still, fighting the sense of foreboding that hung in the darkness pressing in on him. He felt seven years old again, his mother gone for the night. Dark shadows moved on the wall, and he turned on the lights quickly. Nothing there. No reason for panic. Gradually his pulse slowed, and the fear dissipated. Get a grip. You’re not a kid anymore.

  How long had he been asleep? It had been daylight when Grace suggested he lie down for a while. He didn’t even remember what happened after walking into his bedroom. The digital clock glowed 1:36. Hours had passed in what seemed like a minute. Lost time. Wasted time. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he waited for the odd confusion to pass. Flipping switches for more light, he made his way to the kitchen, where he found a note, grocery receipt, and exact change.

  Rotisserie chicken and salad in the fridge. See you at 9 a.m. Grace

  He might be the artist, but she had better penmanship. Attractive, subtle, classy, with a hint of something he couldn’t define. Just like her. She was comfortable in her own skin. Unlike some of us, who’ve never been comfortable, no ma
tter what role we play.

  Roman ate half the chicken and all the salad. He needed to work, but he wasn’t in the mood for drawing the herd of zebra migrating the African plains. Stretching out on the black leather sofa in the living room, he looked out the windows. Grace was right. He hadn’t spent much time admiring the view, now obscured by inky darkness. It must be overcast. The night felt heavy, like tar, moist and cold, threatening. He fought his mood while trying to identify it. A growing emptiness? Hunger? For what?

  Grace Moore would be moving into his cottage this weekend. He was already having second thoughts. He didn’t want to become too close, and having her right next door might be a temptation. Too late to worry about that now. It was a done deal, unless she changed her mind. She hadn’t been wild about the idea in the first place, but her gaggle of friends had helped his cause. Now she saw it as an answer to prayer.

  She’d better not start talking religion to him. Though he had to admit that unlike other religious quacks he’d run into, she’d mentioned faith in a natural way.

  Why did people believe in a god they couldn’t see? The only time he ever heard Jesus’ name was in a curse. It went with the territory he’d inhabited until age fourteen. Masterson Ranch didn’t push religion. Chet and Susan had rules, but they hadn’t posted the Ten Commandments on some wall. Jasper told Bobby Ray the way a man used language made a difference in where he could end up. Gutter talk kept one in the gutter. Roman learned how to blend in, even knowing he’d never belong. He could play whatever role was necessary to get ahead. It had only been lately he’d begun to wonder if it was worth the effort. Roman Velasco’s mask kept slipping.

  What would Grace Moore think of him if she knew where he’d come from and how he’d survived? A ghetto kid with no father and a whore for a mother. A kid who ran drugs until he talked the head honcho into making him the gang tagger. What would she think of the Bird, who mocked the world that celebrated Roman Velasco but wanted no part of Bobby Ray Dean?