The Masterpiece

by Francine Rivers

  Brian winced. “Painful.”

  Not as painful as it should have been. She’d been hurt, angry, and most telling, relieved. Their last year together had been difficult. She’d seen the truth. “I hated myself more than Patrick. I saw plenty of warning signs, but chose to ignore them. I tried to make it work. What is the old saying about fools rushing in?”

  “And you have a child.”

  Grace hesitated, understanding the assumption Brian was making. She wasn’t ready to confess more sins. “Yes. A son. Samuel. He’s five months old and the love of my life.” Had he noticed her blush? Brian seemed to sense something, but didn’t press.

  “Charlene and I wanted children. That’s how I ended up in youth ministry. I love kids.” A good sign, Grace thought, then admonished herself. Brian talked about the program he’d started and ways he was trying to get the older and younger generations together. He joked about how too many people thought teenagers were out of control, beyond redemption, and to be avoided at all cost. He laughed. “Nothing’s changed. Plato bemoaned the younger generation.” He admitted teens could be perplexing and frustrating, especially the girls.

  Grace didn’t have to wonder why. “I can imagine how many develop crushes on you.” A handsome, charismatic, young widower? “You’d better be careful, Pastor Brian.”

  “Believe me, I am careful. I make sure I’m never alone with a girl, and I have plenty of adult supervision at our youth functions. A pastor can’t be too careful these days. It doesn’t take much to destroy a man’s reputation.”

  Or a woman’s.

  They talked over prime rib dinners. Grace ordered crème brûlée. Brian had warm chocolate fantasy cake. They lingered over coffee. Grace couldn’t remember ever having felt so comfortable with a man. Brian slipped the gift certificate and a twenty-dollar bill into the leather folder for the waiter.

  Grace noticed another couple leaving. “I think they came in after we did.” She glanced at her phone to check the time. “Oh, my.” She and Brian had been talking for over two hours.

  They left the booth and went outside. Brian held her sweater for her. They walked to her car, and he opened her door. “How far do you have to drive?”

  “I’ll be home by eleven. It’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Brian. Thank you for a wonderful evening.” His hand was warm and firm.

  “The kids will want to know how it went tonight. I’ll be telling them the evening far exceeded my expectations.”

  “My friends will be asking the same questions, and I’ll tell them the same thing.”

  Brian grinned. “In that case, would you like to join me and twenty-odd teenagers for a beach party Saturday after next?”

  “Were you setting me up?” Grace laughed. “Sounds like fun, but only if I can bring Samuel.”

  “Absolutely. Can’t wait to meet him.”

  On the drive home, Grace heard her phone signal an incoming text. She read it after she had parked. Shanice, of course. Call me when you get in. I want to know details.

  Shanice, a night owl, answered on the second ring. “Good time?”

  “It turned out to be a very nice evening.” Grace kept her tone bland.

  “Oh.” Shanice sounded disappointed, then brightened. “Nice enough to see him again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fantastic! Tell me everything.”

  “You’ll have to wait until Sunday.” Grace said good night and ended the call.

  Roman used a paint roller on the back wall of his studio before Grace showed up Monday morning. He didn’t want to see the look on her face if she discovered where his real passion in art lay. When she came in with his mug of coffee, the scent of fresh paint still hung heavily in the air. She looked at the back wall. “You painted the wall again.” She grimaced. “What do you call that color? Mud?”

  “Good description. It’s a little of this and that all poured into the same can, and that’s what you get.” He hesitated, then added, “Cities use it to buff graffiti.”

  “I hope that’s not your idea of redecorating.”

  He dabbed more red on the one remaining painting. Talia had picked up the other two. “I finished the transfer. I leave for San Diego this afternoon. I’ll be gone a week, at least. Maybe two.” Less if he worked long hours. If he ran short of any supplies, he could order what he needed and have it delivered. “I’ll finish this painting before I go. Talia can come and get it in a couple days.”

  “Is there anything in particular you want me to do here while you’re gone?”

  Her gaze kept drifting to that blasted wall still marred by faint outlines of the darker colors and shapes beneath. Was she trying to figure out what he’d painted? He made a downward stroke of red, lifted the brush away, and set his palette aside. “Why don’t you shop for furniture? Jasper Hawley said he wanted a bed to sleep in the next time he comes to visit.”

  She kept looking at the wall, tilting her head slightly. “I need to know your taste.”

  “Anything but shabby chic or French country.”

  She laughed. “I’ll have you know I paid good money for my furnishings. Only the best of what the Salvation Army had to offer.”

  “You won’t need to be that frugal on my dime.”

  “What about bedding?”

  “That, too. Pillows to sleep on.”

  “How about decorative pillows?”

  “Like the five you have on your couch?”

  She looked surprised. “You counted them?”

  “I remember what I see. You also have one on your swivel rocker, and I’m guessing a dozen more on your bed.” He wiped his hands on an oily cloth and decided he’d better change the subject. “Buy something that never goes out of style.”

  He’d been striving for quality since his beginning in the Tenderloin, where it was scarce as money.

  “How much are you willing to spend?”

  “My bedroom set cost forty grand.”

  “What?” Grace gasped. “Where do you find furniture that expensive?”

  “I hired an interior decorator.”

  “Oh. Why don’t I call her? She’ll know what suits you better than I do.”

  “What makes you think it was a she? And maybe I want something different this time.” Grace was about as different as a girl could be from those he’d known up to now. “Something a little more . . . I don’t know. Classy. Use your instincts.”

  “You might be sorry.”

  “It’s only furniture, Grace.”

  She looked at the wall one last time. “If you leave the ladder in here, I can repaint that wall a nice eggshell white.”

  “It’d take more than one coat, and what’s the point?”

  “It’d be a nice clean canvas so you can start fresh.”

  Start fresh. If only he could.

  WITH ROMAN IN SAN DIEGO, the big house felt empty, the polished gray French oak floors echoing Grace’s every footstep. She spent the first day painting the studio wall, and then called Selah. “I’ll pick Samuel up after work. He can stay with me this week.”

  Selah said he would be too much for her on the job. Grace should leave him with her and keep to the plan for weekends only. Grace insisted she could manage. Selah asked if she had permission. Grace lied and said of course. She hadn’t asked, but why would Roman care, as long as the work got done? When he returned, she might ask if he minded a child in the house.

  Selah didn’t think it was a good idea. “Samuel has an appointment with the pediatrician on Thursday. You would have to take time off for that, and you know how fussy he is after a shot. He always runs a fever. It’ll be much better for him to stay here with me.”

  Grace bristled. Why did it have to be a tug-of-war? “I want more time with my son, Selah.”

  “I know you do, chiquita, but you must think of what’s best for him. Samuel will be bouncing back and forth enough as it is, staying with you on weekends. He needs continuity. You don’t want him to feel like a yo-yo, do you?”

 
; Grace wanted to insist, but she felt selfish for pressing. Selah was probably right. Samuel might not be content entertaining himself in a playpen in her office. She wouldn’t be able to put duty aside to play with him whenever he or she wanted. Selah would be able to see to his every need. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Everything in good time, chiquí. He’s doing so well. Everything will work out just as it should.” Selah’s mantra—and true enough.

  Grace went shopping for guest room furniture and bedding and didn’t spend anything close to forty thousand dollars. By the time Roman returned, all would be in place, including the few touches she had added to make the room more welcoming. Back at the house, she checked the office voice mail and found a message from Roman. “Where are you? Call me.” He sounded irritated and repeated his cell phone number twice. “Call me!” She added it to her contacts, but called him back on the office line. He didn’t even give her a chance to say hi.

  “Why didn’t you answer the phone?”

  “I’ve been shopping for bedroom furniture.”

  “Oh.”

  “I just got back. Your guest room will be furnished by the end of the week. Stickley Whitehall.” Hopefully that information made it clear she hadn’t been sunning herself on a beach in Malibu.

  “Whatever that is.” He sounded calmer. “Am I going to like it?”

  “I don’t know, but your guests will be very comfortable.”

  “Guest. Singular. Jasper. What about sheets, blankets—?”

  “Purchased. Jasper will have two pillows from which to choose. I’ll make the bed as soon as everything arrives.” She told him how much, and hoped he was a man of his word and wouldn’t yell at her. “It’s the kind of furniture that will grow in value.”

  “I’m sure it’s perfect.”

  He sounded distracted. Did he have something else on his mind? “I have some messages for you.” One from his financial adviser, another from a Realtor who had a buyer if he was interested in selling. Roman told her to tell the financial adviser he’d be in touch after the art show, and he wasn’t ready to sell.

  Grace gave a soft laugh. “I’m glad to hear that. I just moved in.”

  “Oh?” He laughed low. “Are you sleeping in my bed?”

  “I meant the cottage, of course.” At least he was in a better mood. “Do you have anything else you want me to do around here other than the usual? Anything that doesn’t involve entering your bedroom or studio? I did repaint your wall, by the way. You didn’t say I couldn’t.” When he was silent, she wondered if she’d overstepped. “I hope that’s all right.”

  “Just thinking. You could deliver the last painting instead of having Talia pick it up.”

  “I’ve heard Laguna Beach is a lovely town.”

  “You’ve never been there?”

  “Nope. All I’ve ever seen is what’s between Fresno and Los Angeles. Now I can add Topanga Canyon, Burbank, and the supermarket at Malibu.” She hadn’t had the money or time to travel. “Someday I’ll make it to Disneyland.” With Samuel.

  “You’ve lived a sheltered life, haven’t you? Well, here’s your big opportunity if you want to hand-deliver the piece. Which reminds me. I need your cell phone number.”

  Grace dispensed it without hesitation.

  “When I call, pick up.”

  “Yes, boss.” As soon as Roman hung up, she downloaded a suitable ringtone, then called Talia to set a time to meet at the gallery the next day.

  Talia Reisner didn’t look anything like the hard-edged businesswoman Grace expected. Dressed in a tiered, multicolored skirt and peasant blouse with a chunky turquoise-and-red coral necklace, her mass of curling red-and-gray hair pulled up in a loose chignon and held by Japanese hairpins, she looked like an aging love child from Haight-Ashbury.

  “Grace Moore! It’s nice to finally meet you in person.” Talia ignored the extended hand and hugged Grace. “Did you know there was a movie star by the same name? Grace Moore was around long before you were born and could sing like a nightingale. Where’s the painting?”

  Grace opened the trunk of her car. Talia reached in and carefully extracted Roman’s most recent painting. “Oh, look what the boy has done this time.”

  The boy again. Grace couldn’t help but laugh. She closed the empty trunk and followed Talia inside.

  The gallery had several showrooms with a variety of paintings, not walls laden with modern art as Grace had imagined. She paused to admire an oil of an elegant Renaissance vase filled with purple lilacs that looked so real she could almost breathe in the scent. She liked another of blue herons among reeds. A display pedestal showed off a bronze whale and calf; another, a pod of six dolphins. A large pottery platter looked like a star-studded night sky. Grace leaned in and read the price. “Oh, my!”

  “We go for the gusto.”

  “Everything in here costs more than I’ll ever make in a year.”

  Talia carefully placed Roman’s painting against a wall. “So? What do you think of it?”

  “I’m hardly one to ask.”

  “Because you know what you like, and it’s not modern art.” She gave Grace a sly smile. “I’ll tell you a secret. I wasn’t wild about Roman’s work in the beginning either.” Talia stood back and studied the painting as she talked. “He came in here with a chip on his shoulder the size of a boulder. He’d been up and down the row, and no one would even look at what he had in his car.” She laughed. “He was ticked off. Do you know what he said to me? ‘Just take a look. If it’s no good, I’m out the door.’ In much more colorful language, of course.” Talia tilted her head. “I know exactly what kind of frame this one needs.” She picked up the painting and moved it into her office.

  Grace followed. “What changed your mind?”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say. And it was a very slow day. I told him to bring in his best. He lined up a couple of paintings and wandered off while I studied them. I was going to say sorry, but then a customer came in. I can tell a serious buyer when I see one. He went through the gallery on a mission and stopped at Roman’s paintings. He wanted to buy one on the spot. I told him I hadn’t put a price on it yet. When he handed me his card, I knew I had something special. Roman had caught the attention of a curator from one of the finest modern art museums in the country. He was in Laguna Beach on holiday, just for the day. Talk about coincidence. He bought Roman’s first piece. For his private collection. An investment, he called it.”

  Grace looked at the painting again. “Clearly, I don’t appreciate art.”

  “It’s a matter of taste, but some people have an eye for new trends. Roman knows what he’s doing.”

  Roman’s mural impressed Grace far more than the modern art he set up on easels like an assembly line. The transfers anyway. She might never see the actual mural in San Diego. “This piece is so different from his other work.”

  “His murals, you mean.” Talia looked mischievous. “He did one for a friend of mine. An Italian Riviera scene—columns, bougainvillea, urns, and nymphs pouring water from pitchers. Roman has a wicked sense of humor. It took Leo six months to discover the phallic symbol. Several guests noticed before he did and had wagers on how long it would take him to spot it.”

  “What happened when he did?”

  “Leo’s a good sport. He laughed. He told me recently he gets a kick out of watching people’s expressions when they spot the hidden picture. It’s very cleverly done, I must say. He never figured out that Roman was calling him a nasty name, of course. Men like Leo never do.” She shook her head. “Roman has more gifts than he knows what to do with, but he hasn’t found himself yet. All he cared about when he came into my gallery was getting the paintings on a wall and seeing if they’d sell. I told him a real artist doesn’t care what people think. He said if Michelangelo could prostitute himself, so could he. I told him he either believed in what he was doing or he didn’t. He said he didn’t believe in anything.”

  That saddened Grace. She had
noticed the restlessness in her employer, as though even the best of what he did brought no sense of accomplishment or satisfaction. He worked hard but never looked content.

  “There was something about him,” Talia went on, “aside from how good-looking he is.” Her mouth tipped in a worldly smile. “Of course, I put his picture on every brochure. His face brings in the women, ones with money or with husbands who have money. The name Roman Velasco has a nice ring to it, too, don’t you think? Oh, so foreign and mysterious.”

  Grace caught her meaning. “You don’t think that’s his real name?”

  “Do you? Whatever mix he is, I don’t think he has a drop of Italian blood. Indian, perhaps; Arab, possibly. Black. Not that it matters. He’s not just beautiful. He’s interesting. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “I keep my distance.”

  “Probably wise.”

  Why would Roman make up a name? Did he have something to hide? She pushed curiosity away. Whatever his reasons, it wasn’t her business.

  Grace accepted Talia’s invitation to lunch. The waves glistened in the sunlight, seagulls rising and dipping on the wind. Talia talked about art, customers, travels. Roman’s ringtone came on: Elvis Presley singing “Big Boss Man.”

  “Roman.” Talia laughed as Grace dug for her phone. “Yes, boss?” She grinned at Talia.

  “Are you going to Laguna Beach today?”

  “I’m in Laguna Beach right now. The painting has been safely delivered. Talia and I are just finishing lunch. I’ll be heading back soon.”

  “You’re halfway to San Diego. Why don’t you come down?”

  Grace froze. He must be joking! Talia’s laughter stopped, and she watched Grace. Embarrassed, Grace looked out at the sea. “It’s after two. It’d take me hours to get back.”

  “Spend the night.”

  “What?” Her pulse shot up. “No!”

  His tone dropped. “I’m not asking you to spend it in my room, Grace.” He sounded amused. She felt the blush fill her cheeks. Talia noticed, too, and then he made it worse. “I can arrange for you to have a nice mini suite.”