The Masterpiece

by Francine Rivers

  What did Grace do on the weekends? Did she have a steady boyfriend, some nice-looking, button-down guy with a nine-to-five office job? Someone who’d take her to church every Sunday?

  And why was he thinking about her so much?

  Roman muttered a curse under his breath and sat up. He’d hired her because she wasn’t his type. He now had a dependable, trustworthy, nice-looking girl working for him. A good girl. All his experience was with the other kind.

  He couldn’t imagine Grace in a nightclub, let alone looking for a hookup on Friday or Saturday. She wasn’t the kind of girl who’d have hot sex with a stranger, call Uber for a ride home at two in the morning, and make it to work the next day.

  He’d wasted enough time sleeping. He didn’t need to waste any more obsessing about his personal assistant, who had already made it abundantly clear that they weren’t going to get personal. He should be happy about that.

  Work would get his mind off her. He headed for the studio and drew four more zebras. He tossed his pen in the tray.

  What was he doing with his life? Where was he going? What did he want? He felt an aching homesickness. But how would he know that when he’d never had a home?

  After his mother disappeared and CPS placed him in foster care, he’d run away from every family who took him in, eventually finding his way back to the Tenderloin to look for her. It wasn’t until he was ten that he learned what happened to her. He stopped running away from his foster homes after that, as long as the “parents” gave him freedom to do what he wanted. He did best with those who were only interested in the government money they received to give him room and board. Inside, Bobby Ray kept running.

  From what? To what? He didn’t know. That’s what frustrated him. That’s what caused the pressure to build inside him until the Bird had to fly.

  The Topanga Canyon house was still and silent. Deserted. He felt like a ghost haunting the place. The property had been in foreclosure, a freak and fortuitous opportunity that dropped into his lap. He couldn’t even remember how it happened, but the Realtor said it would make a great investment. So what if the place was far too big for one person and had a guest cottage he’d never use. He wouldn’t have to live here long. Market value was climbing. He could sell now and walk away flush with savings. And then what? Go back to Europe? Ride around the country on a Harley? Buy a boat and sail the seven seas?

  It had been over a year, and time muddied his recollection. He sometimes wondered if he’d imagined the encounter. He had been high that night, restless, until he saw the blonde. He had only fleeting memories of a long, silent ride to his place, then heart-shaking urgency, starbursts, and tears. She left, like a dream he couldn’t fully remember. He had gone out into the night after her and seen her slip into a car that sped away, taillight red eyes staring back and mocking him.

  That night had been the awakening.

  Roman sat at his drafting table again and stared at the migrating wildebeests and zebras. Some were running, some walking, all going somewhere out of instinct. Roman felt like an outcast among his species. He didn’t like gathering at the watering hole anymore, or rutting with any attractive, healthy female selected from the herd. He had no plans to procreate. Restless, he wanted to be on the move to his own Serengeti, wherever it was. He feared one more wrong step would take him over the edge into the abyss.

  Something wasn’t right, but he didn’t know what was wrong.

  He had already achieved what most Americans wanted: the big house, the fast car, a rising career, money, sex whenever and however he wanted it. He should be happy. He should be satisfied. But he felt hungry for more. How much would it take to fill the void inside him?

  Frustrated, he swept the drawing off the table. As it flapped to the floor, Roman grabbed a random can of Krylon spray paint and headed for the back wall of his studio.

  BOBBY RAY, AGE 15

  Slouched in the front seat of Sam Carter’s white Chevy Impala, Bobby Ray watched unfamiliar territory fly by. He’d never been outside San Francisco. Now, here he was in the wilds, more trees than houses, no freeways, just a winding road. They’d stopped once to eat at McDonald’s and use the john. The social services caseworker kept close tabs on him. “I know you want to run, Bobby Ray. It’s my job to get you to the group home. What you do after that is up to you.”

  The peaks of the Sierra Nevada grew nearer. The longer Sam Carter drove, the edgier Bobby Ray got. He was used to bustling streets, alleyways, noise. Golden Gate Park had been the closest to what he was seeing out here in nowhere land. Sam glanced at him. “You’ll be okay.” Bobby Ray clenched his teeth as Sam talked about the Masterson Mountain Ranch. Bobby Ray tried to drown out the man’s voice by going over the route in his head. He’d have to remember in order to find his way back. He hadn’t seen any buses running on the country road.

  “Chet Masterson will understand you, Bobby Ray.”

  “Yeah. Right. Like you do. How long do I have to stay?”

  “Until you turn eighteen.”

  Two and a half years! Bobby Ray glared out the window. He didn’t see himself staying in a group home longer than a couple of days. Not out here in the sticks. A week, tops. He’d find a way out.

  And go where? Reaper and Lardo were dead.

  He spotted a sign. Copperopolis. It took less than a minute to pass through town. Bobby Ray cursed. “Where are we, anyway?”

  “The closest to heaven you’ll ever get.” Carter smiled. “Getting nervous, Bobby Ray?” He laughed. “Some people have all the luck and are too dumb to know it.”

  “Do I look like a country boy to you?” Tension coiled in Bobby Ray’s belly. How many miles was he from everything familiar? He knew how to survive in the streets. How to get by with less than nothing. “I got a raw deal and you know it, Sam. If I have to be in a group home, why not one in Alameda County?”

  “Because it’s right across the bay, and you’d run away again.”

  “San Francisco is my home!”

  “Just because it’s the only place you’ve ever been doesn’t mean it’s the best place for you.”

  “It should be my choice, shouldn’t it?”

  “You’ve been making choices all along, Bobby Ray. Your most recent choice landed you here. When we get to the Mastersons’, you’re going to have to choose whether you use this time to learn something useful, or see it as time served.” Sam gave him a weary look and turned onto another narrow country road. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you checking every sign. But I’d better warn you. If you split, you won’t get far. People know Chet up here. No one is going to give you a ride anywhere.” He gave a nod. “There it is.”

  A big barn, corrals, a long, single-story ranch house, two pickup trucks parked in a dusty front yard. Bobby Ray’s worst nightmare had come true. The court might as well have sent him to Mars.

  Sam turned left onto a freshly graveled road. As they pulled into the yard, two large German shepherds barked ominously. Sam chuckled. “Another reason not to run away.” He got out as a tall, broad-shouldered man with cropped dark hair came out of the house. He looked half–country hick in boots, jeans, and a plaid shirt and half–action figure. Bobby Ray had seen others with his confidence and aura, most with hard eyes and fists. This man had laugh lines around his mouth and eyes.

  A quiet word silenced the two dogs. “Good to see you, Sam!” His voice was deep, rock grinding in an earthquake.

  “How’s Susan?”

  “On the road again.” Masterson laughed. “She’s in San Antonio, visiting her folks.” He took in Bobby Ray with a glance. Bobby Ray pretended not to notice or care. “Long way from your neck of the woods, isn’t it, Mr. Dean?” Bobby Ray stiffened, sure he was being mocked. When he met Masterson’s gaze, the man grinned. “We’re glad to have you.”

  “I’m not glad to be here.”

  “Didn’t expect you would be. You look like a tough kid. It remains to be seen how tough you really are.”

  Sam opened the
car trunk. He said something low, and Masterson chuckled. “He wouldn’t be the first. He can try.”

  Sam handed over a thick file. “Everything you need to know about him is in there.” Bobby Ray knew it held family history, a list of foster homes he had been in and out of over the past eight years, along with his former foster parents’ reports, school records, test scores, court records, and whatever else the system had managed to dredge up and commit to paper in an attempt to describe who he was. Nothing worth anything. Nobody knew him.

  Masterson held the file flat on his large hand, as if weighing it. “Impressive.” His blue eyes sparkled.

  Sam looked edgy, ready to get back on the road. “I promised my son I’d be at his basketball game tonight. If I leave now, I’ll just make it.”

  Bobby Ray felt a twinge of jealousy. Must be nice to have a dad who showed up. Must be nice to have a father, period. Then again, you could always have one like Reaper or Wolf.

  Masterson slapped Sam on the back. “I’ll call in a couple of weeks and let you know how he’s doing.”

  Bobby Ray didn’t plan on sticking around that long. “Where do I go? The barn?”

  “You stay where you are until I’m ready to show you in.”

  Bobby Ray muttered his opinion and turned toward the house. He’d forgotten the two dogs until they stood and bared their teeth. He swore again. Masterson chuckled. “Nice fresh meat, boys. Easy now. Stand still, Mr. Dean. They’re about to get to know you.” He gave a soft command and the two German shepherds moved around Bobby Ray. The hair rose on the back of his neck when they stuck their noses in private places. “Easy now. If you run, they’ll take you down. They’re just giving you a good canine hello.”

  “Don’t expect me to reciprocate.”

  “That’s a big word for a street kid.”

  Masterson gave another soft command and the two dogs sat, tongues lolling in doggy grins. Sam got back in the car and gave Bobby Ray a salute.

  “Come,” Masterson commanded, and the two dogs walked on either side of him. Grinding his teeth, Bobby Ray followed, making sure his pace let Masterson know he wasn’t one of his pets. “A word of warning, Mr. Dean. You go AWOL, and Starsky and Hutch will hunt you down.” He grinned at him. “They know your scent now. You can run, but you can’t hide.”

  Bobby Ray felt a chill run down his back. Was this guy for real? “There must be a law against using an attack dog on a kid.”

  “Did I say I’d command them to attack? All I’d say is ‘Go find Bobby Ray.’ A city kid can get lost real fast in all those hills and dales. Starsky and Hutch know every tree and bush, every rock and stream. They’ll show you the way home.” He gave Bobby Ray a measuring look. “I’m hoping I won’t have to send them after you.”

  Bobby Ray didn’t say anything more. Better to wait and get a feel for who this man was and what kind of place he was running. It usually didn’t take more than a couple of days for Bobby Ray to figure out how things worked.

  Five boys lounged in the living room. Two were stretched out on large, brown leather couches reading. Two others were playing a board game. Another was sitting at a table, reading a book and writing in a spiral notebook. They looked up and gave Bobby Ray a once-over when Masterson introduced him as Mr. Bobby Ray Dean. Bobby Ray made eye contact with each one so they’d know he wasn’t afraid of any of them, even if several looked older and tough. He wondered which one would be his roommate or if they all slept in a bunkhouse somewhere.

  The living room was big and well-furnished. There was money in the leather sofas and the polished oak coffee table. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered one wall opposite a massive stone fireplace. The ranch had an impressive entertainment center with a large-screen television and stereo system. Sliding-glass doors opened to a huge lawn with a soccer net at one end.

  The house was bigger than any he’d ever been in, with spacious bedrooms and bathrooms with double sinks, showers, and tubs, a professional kitchen connected to a dining room with a long table and straight-backed chairs. Another corridor had a laundry room and pantry and an office that looked more like a library. Another door led to separate quarters where Chet and his wife, Susan, lived.

  “We live a simple life here, Mr. Dean.” Masterson summed it up quickly. If you show respect and courtesy, you can expect to receive the same. Check the board daily for your rotation of chores. Everyone living at Masterson Mountain Ranch learned bachelor arts: how to cook, wash dishes, vacuum, wash floors, clean toilets and showers, do laundry and mending. Susan Masterson would start his training as soon as she returned from Texas, which would be tomorrow afternoon. Wake-up call at six, breakfast at six thirty, school from seven thirty, free time when you finished your assignments and chores. A master teacher came daily, and Bobby Ray could set his own pace. If you want to finish high school early, go for it. Any interest in college? No? Well, nothing was set in stone. He might change his mind after a few months of working with Jasper Hawley. Chet would be having one-on-one sessions with Bobby Ray three times a week starting tomorrow. Any questions?

  Bobby Ray had been given rules before. He’d never lived by them and didn’t intend on starting now.

  Chet gave him a slow, knowing smile. “It’s a lot to take in. You’ll catch on soon enough.” He nodded toward the kid at the table. “That’s José. Get your gear, Mr. Dean. You’ll be sharing a room with him. Second door on the right down that hallway.”

  José glanced up when they came into the living room. Clearly, he’d already been informed. The look he gave Bobby Ray held a warning. “The bed under the window is mine. You have the left side of the dresser.” It sounded like a dismissal. Bobby Ray picked up his duffel bag and went down the hall.

  Everything simple and functional: two twin beds; two desks with shelves, one already filled with textbooks; two reading lamps; two bulletin boards, one displaying the Mexican flag and half a dozen family photos; one corkboard with some pushpins. Bobby Ray yanked open the top left dresser drawer and dumped in his few possessions.

  He looked around at the clean white walls and itched to have a black marker in his hand. Images came: a party scene at Red Hot’s apartment, Reaper high on meth, Lardo dead, screaming faces all around him, a jail mess half-filled with caricatures of homey inmates, the kind that wanted to cut out your heart with a shiv. Bobby Ray sat on the end of the bed and rubbed his face, wishing he could rub away the pictures flashing through his head and the gut-aching sense of loss. He should have remembered it was better not to make friends with anyone. Here today, gone tomorrow.

  “What do you say I show you around the place?” José leaned against the doorjamb. He tossed an apple up and caught it.

  How long had he been watching? Bobby Ray stood. He was several inches taller than the older boy, but he knew size didn’t always win a fight.

  Everything about the Masterson Mountain Ranch felt foreign, especially the heavily pine-scented air. The only sounds were the rustle of pines, whinny of horses, birdsong.

  They walked around the place for an hour, and Bobby Ray didn’t see a single car go by.

  “You expecting someone?” José smirked. “You keep looking toward the road.”

  “How far are we from town?”

  “Too far to run, dude.” He nodded toward the barn. “Do you like horses?”

  Bobby Ray sneered. “I’ve never met one.”

  José jerked his head. “Come on, then. I’ll introduce you to a few. The Mastersons board horses. One of our jobs is to exercise them. Some of the owners come out to ride every day, but most live in Sacramento and only come on weekends or holidays.”

  The barn smelled of hay and fresh manure. José opened a stall. “Come on.”

  Bobby Ray looked at the size of the gelding and stood by the gate. “Is riding part of the bachelor arts program?”

  “It’s one of the best parts about this place.” José ran his hand over the horse’s back. The animal nudged him, and he stroked the white patch on its head. José took t
he apple out of his shirt and fed it to the horse. “Where you from?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “I’m from Stockton. My folks come up once a month. Well, my mom comes. My dad got arrested for grand theft auto. How about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Have you got family?”

  “What makes you think it’s any of your business?”

  José’s eyes narrowed and darkened. “We have to live together. I’d like to know who’s sleeping in the bed three feet from mine.”

  “Well, rest easy. I’m not gay, and I haven’t killed anyone yet.” He’d had enough of the barn, horses, and José. “Are we done?”

  “With the tour, yes. But we’re far from done. We’re just getting started.”

  Bobby Ray headed back to the house. What now? He didn’t know any of these guys. He didn’t want to know them. Frustration bubbled up inside him. José walked by him and went back to the table where he’d been reading and taking notes. Bobby Ray wandered the room, pausing to peruse the bookshelves: classic novels, biographies, books on carpentry, husbandry, auto mechanics, history, technology, science.

  The open archway into the kitchen allowed him to watch Chet Masterson working with one of the boys. Something smelled good enough to make Bobby Ray’s stomach ache with hunger. Another boy stacked bowls, napkins, and silverware on the kitchen counter.

  “Okay, gentlemen! Come and get it!” Masterson stood in the kitchen archway. “Chili and corn bread tonight.”

  Bobby Ray hung back until everyone headed for the kitchen. He followed their lead, picking up a bowl, napkin, silverware and serving himself. Tumblers of water sat on the table, full pitchers at each end. Tense, Bobby Ray took his seat. José ignored Bobby Ray while the others gave him quick, assessing glances before digging spoons into their chili. The corn bread was warm enough to melt the butter and honey Bobby Ray spread on it. After the first tentative bite, Bobby Ray dug into the meal. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything that tasted so good. When others got up for seconds, Bobby Ray did too.