ON THE LONG DRIVE HOME, Grace wondered if the temp job was a gift from heaven or more trouble on the rise. Mrs. Sandoval had told her about the temperamental Roman Velasco. He was an artist, after all. Mrs. Sandoval had neglected to tell Grace the man himself was a work of art. Even unshaven, barefoot, and wearing wrinkled sweats and a T-shirt, he could model for GQ. Long dark hair, café au lait skin, all muscle, not an ounce of fat on him. The minute he’d opened the door, her defenses had gone up. Patrick was handsome, too.
Her hands shifted on the steering wheel. It didn’t do any good to dredge up memories best left buried.
Day one. A rough start, but a start, nonetheless. Five minutes in Roman Velasco’s house had confirmed his need for a personal assistant. Her first task of making coffee hadn’t been much of a challenge, other than hunting down the coffee and filters he’d put in a drawer meant for pots and pans.
The self-guided tour was an eye-opener. The bathroom off the office was lovely with cream-colored marble, polished nickel fixtures, and white crown molding. The fancy toilet with a heated seat and the luxurious shower made it clear the house had never been meant for a bachelor.
The rest of the five thousand square feet was equally gorgeous and echoed with every step. One large room was furnished with a torturous home gym contraption to keep the man in shape. Another contained an unmade California-king bed, armoire, nightstands, and dirty clothing and towels on a red marble floor. The other bedrooms were large white cells without furniture or window treatments, each with a private bathroom with expensive polished nickel or burnished bronze fixtures.
Roman Velasco’s studio had been the biggest surprise. He’d turned what must have been the master suite into a cluttered work studio. Light streamed in from the bank of windows, undoubtedly the reason he’d chosen the space for work. He’d splattered paint all over the beautiful hardwood floor. Crumpled papers looked like monstrous dust bunnies scattered about the room. Didn’t the man own a wastebasket?
The air smelled of paint, oil, turpentine. A cheap bookcase held dozens of volumes on art and biographies of famous painters, as well as sketch pads. Brushes of various sizes stood in Yuban coffee cans. Tubes, spray cans, and jars of paint lined makeshift shelves constructed of boards and cinder blocks. He had several easels set up, each painting senseless and modernistic. She hadn’t seen any work framed or hanging anywhere in his house. Even if she didn’t like what he painted, he should be proud of his work.
And why would an artist use mud-colored paint to cover whatever he’d been doing on the back wall? A five-gallon bucket sat in the corner, along with a tray with a dried-up roller. He hadn’t bothered using a tarp.
He’d received three personal calls. All from women. He didn’t want to talk to any of them. One hung up; two left messages.
The first business-related call came from Talia Reisner, a Laguna Beach gallery owner who wanted to know if Roman was working or playing around.
“Mr. Velasco is in his studio.”
“Thank goodness you’re on board. I’ve been after the boy to hire an assistant for months!”
Grace almost laughed. The “boy” looked thirty, and all man.
Talia rushed on. “He’s been buried under minutiae. We don’t want anything slowing down his momentum. He’s hot right now and getting hotter. In my opinion, he’s just begun to tap his talent. I sold his last painting yesterday, and I’ve had two calls already this morning asking when he’s doing a show. Is he painting? I keep telling him he should be painting!”
Grace had walked to the studio while Talia talked. There must be an intercom system in a house that size, but she didn’t know where it was and doubted Roman knew either. She’d suggest a new phone system where she could put someone on hold and call him. He’d glanced at her when she entered his domain. “One moment please.” She held out the phone. “Talia Reisner. She says she’s your business associate.”
Roman took the phone, punched the button ending the call, and tossed it back. “I’m not her employee. If she calls back, tell her I’m working. That’ll make her greedy little heart happy. If Hector Espinoza calls, I’ll talk to him. Everyone else can go to—” He broke off abruptly with a sheepish smile.
What a first day on the job!
Traffic slowed to a crawl. Grace had gotten off at five, but it would be well after six before she made it to Burbank. She’d have to fill her Civic’s gas tank twice this week, which wouldn’t leave much to save toward a deposit on an apartment. How was she ever going to afford a place of her own? Fighting tears, she tried not to let emotions take over. She’d cried enough in the last year to float a ship.
Grow up, Grace. You live with the mess you make.
Maybe God was punishing her. He had every right, considering how she’d behaved after the divorce.
Ruben, eyes fixed on the television news, raised a hand in greeting as she came in the front door. Alicia, a freshman in high school, and Javier, a senior, were in their rooms finishing homework. Selah had already put Samuel to bed.
“He was fussy, so I put him down at six.” She smiled as she placed the last glasses in the dishwasher. “Your dinner is in the oven, chiquita, still warm. How did it go today?”
“Fine.” She’d stick with him until something better opened. “I’m going to see Samuel.”
“He’s sleeping. Best to leave him alone.”
“I’ll only be a minute.”
“Sit. Eat dinner.”
Grace pretended not to hear. She’d been away from her son all day. She just wanted to hold him for a few minutes.
Samuel lay on his back, arms spread. He looked so peaceful, she didn’t awaken him. Adjusting the soft blanket, she leaned down. “I love you, little man. I missed you so much today.” She kissed his warm forehead and stood at his crib, just watching him sleep. Wiping tears away, she went back to the kitchen. Selah had set out a plate of rice, coleslaw, and a thick, cheesy enchilada. Grace thanked her as she took a seat at the kitchen table. Selah went into the laundry room.
Grace ate alone, cleared and washed her dishes. She joined Selah and started folding Samuel’s clothes. Selah plucked a onesie from her and waved her away. “I can do it, chiquita. Go sit and talk with Ruben.”
It wasn’t the words that stung, but the implication that Selah wanted to handle everything that had to do with Samuel. Grace watched her fold Samuel’s onesie and press it onto a pile of other outfits she had bought. Ignoring Grace, she picked up a small T-shirt.
Grace didn’t want to feel resentful. The Garcias had been kind and supportive for months. When Grace told them she’d changed her mind about giving up Samuel, Selah told her she had time to think things over. Selah was never unkind, but she seemed intent on showing Grace she was a better mother for Samuel.
Lord, I’m grateful. I truly am.
Ruben looked up when she came into the living room. “How did the temp job go? Will it work into something more permanent?”
“Rocky. He’s an artist. He lives in Topanga Canyon.”
“No wonder you were so late getting home tonight.” He glanced at the news program. “Alicia has a volleyball game Wednesday night. We should leave by six.”
Grace got the message. If she couldn’t make it back in time, they’d take Samuel with them, and she’d miss another evening with her son.
Roman’s days became easier with Grace Moore on the job. She arrived promptly at nine, made his coffee, and went to work in the office. He’d already informed her to hold his calls. He told her which to ignore, which to answer. People called frequently, wanting murals. He debated taking on any more, finding them time-intensive and less lucrative than his work on canvas.
He felt pressed, but undirected. Did he want his work hidden away in a private home, or displayed for all to see? Murals gave Roman Velasco legitimacy, even though he was being commissioned to fulfill someone else’s vision rather than his own. He still occasionally spoke his own mind through the Bird’s simplistic graffiti, but with growing risk. It had become a game, more dangerous as time went by.
Rubbing his forehead, Roman tried to fix his mind on the mural. He had a deadline, and it was fast approaching. Don’t think. Just do the work and get the check. Concentrate on that.
Hiring Hector Espinoza had taken the pressure off doing all the work himself. The man was set to begin Roman’s mural for the lobby wall of a new hotel near the San Diego Zoo. Management had hired Roman to create an African savanna scene complete with migrating animals. Roman had almost finished drawing the design on transfer paper, which Hector would use to start the painting. Once Hector finished the transfers, Roman would drive down and do the fine detail work to bring life to the mural.
Roman dropped the pencil and flexed his cramping fingers. When had he last taken a break? He’d been working since sunup. Pushing the stool back, he stood and stretched while walking to the windows. He looked out at the canyon. Movement caught his eye, and he spotted a jackrabbit making its cautious way across the path down to the cottage the previous owners had built for an aging parent who didn’t live long enough to move in.
He’d been inside the cottage only once, when the Realtor took him on a final walk-through before he signed all the papers. It had the same square footage as the Malibu beach cottage he’d sold for an astonishing amount of money, most of which he’d sunk into this fortress.
Bobby Ray Dean couldn’t get any further away from the Tenderloin than this. He didn’t know who he was anymore. Somehow, Bobby Ray Dean had gotten lost between the Bird and Roman Velasco.
Grace had put the office in order by the end of the second week. She liked to stay busy. She was an active but quiet presence in the house, and he liked that. But this morning, she said she wanted to explain the new filing system. He had a feeling he knew where she was going with that. He’d said he didn’t have time.
A light tap at the studio door made him turn.
“Do you have time to talk now, Mr. Velasco?”
“Depends on what you want to talk about.” He faced her. “Don’t even think about quitting.”
“I told you I’d give you two weeks. You don’t really need a full-time personal assistant.”
“I like the way things are working.”
“I have a lot of downtime.”
“There are other things you could do for me.” He saw the wary look back in her eyes. She still didn’t trust him, but then, how well did they know one another? Everything had been strictly business since day one. Just the way they both wanted it. “Cooking, laundry, a little housecleaning.”
“You eat frozen meals. A cleaning service comes every Wednesday to pick up your laundry. And I’m sure you could easily find someone to change your sheets and make your bed.”
He sensed the innuendo. “I don’t usually invite women up here.” It was easier to leave a woman’s home than ask one to leave his.
“I’m not interested in your private life, Mr. Velasco.”
And yet she knew more about him than anyone else. Not that his paperwork told the whole story. “Can we cut the mister? Call me Roman.” He’d liked the formality at first. Now it annoyed him. “How about making a grocery run for me? I can’t spare the time right now. I’ll reimburse you for gas.”
“I’ll need a list.”
He gave a soft laugh. “You live by lists, don’t you?”
Her shoulders relaxed, and she smiled back. “You did say you wanted someone detail-oriented.”
“You probably know better than I do what I need.” He gave her two hundred dollars and told her the closest supermarket was in Malibu.
The phone rang several times while she was gone. He didn’t bother picking up. He ignored the front door chimes, too, until he realized it might be Grace. Opening the door, he took the two bags of groceries. “Any more?” She said she could manage and headed back to her car.
Sitting at the kitchen counter, Roman watched her empty the reusable bags. She stacked pizzas and frozen dinners in the freezer and put packaged salad mixes in the fridge. She’d bought orange juice, eggs, cottage cheese, and two jars of peaches, though he’d forgotten he needed them. She seemed to know what he liked.
Glancing at the clock, she quickly folded the bags. “I have to leave. I’m going to hit traffic.”
“Some calls came while you were gone. I let them go to voice mail, but—” She looked stressed, and it was almost five thirty. “They can wait until tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“Go.”
She did. As the front door closed behind her, Roman felt the silence fill the house.