ROMAN SAW NO POINT in keeping a big house on a mountaintop when he was spending so much time at a church in the valley. He decided to clean out the detritus of his life and put the place on the market. He filled plastic bags with spray cans and tubes of old paint and had the pile taken to a toxic waste company.
It took three days to whitewash his studio walls, obliterating all signs of his work. A flooring company refinished the hardwood. A two-bedroom apartment was available in the complex where Brian lived. Roman applied online and got it.
He left most of his furniture in the Topanga Canyon house. The real estate agent, who specialized in selling luxury homes, had said the house was perfectly staged. Modern. Minimalist. “The furniture might just sweeten the deal. If not, we’ll sell it for you.”
He had his books, clothing, the bedroom furniture Grace had picked, and a fresh start ahead.
“Must be nice to have freedom enough to do whatever you want.” The real estate agent had looked envious.
Free? This was just the first step out of the cage he’d built around himself. Right now, he wanted to get as far away as possible from the life he’d created and live the one God had planned for him. And that seemed to be enlisting a group of ex-gangbangers into helping him paint graffiti on a church wall. Settled in his apartment with one bedroom dedicated to drafting table, art supplies, and books, Roman set to work on the drawings for the church mural. The project kept his mind off Grace. He’d handed over the landscape to Talia, giving her permission to sell it. When she asked what he planned to do next, he said it wouldn’t be anything she could put on a gallery wall.
As ideas took form on paper, his focus and excitement for the work grew. He’d be doing this piece in the open with a crew to help, but the rush he’d always felt doing graffiti was returning, keeping him going. He worked until his shoulders and back ached. He stood and stretched, pacing until the pain diminished, then went back to work. He didn’t feel driven; he felt inspired. This was something new.
Brian came by to see the progress. “I saw your other work at the gallery show, but this is something else!”
“Yeah,” Roman agreed without arrogance. He studied the painting. It looked like someone else’s work, not his own. God was in this, and Roman felt exhilarated, excited, alive. Art had always been his means of expression, a way to pour out his wrath and frustration, but this work had a whole new dimension. He knew the One who had inspired him and why. This universal Christ triumphant hadn’t come out of his mind, but had been planted by the Lord.
Praise God, all you people of the earth. Praise the Lord!
How many years had he been searching for something to fill the void in his life? He’d tried everything—wandering, work, women. He’d fallen in love with Grace, but now he wondered what would have happened if they had gotten together. He’d still have been hungry for more.
Grace knew the Lord and loved Him. She had tried to take Roman by the hand and bring him to the altar, but he’d resisted, even after his near-death experience in hell. Why had he been so stubborn?
Maybe Grace had to be out of his life in order for him to get right with God. As long as she’d been around, his thoughts focused on her. His desire had clouded his thinking, distracted him from heeding the call of God. She had already fully committed herself to living for the Lord. He hadn’t yet made that life- and soul-altering decision. Now, he understood.
I still love her, Lord. You know how much. You hear my prayers in the middle of the night. But, oh, God, as much as I love Grace, it doesn’t compare to what I feel in Your presence. I sense You all around me and inside me. You are enough. More than enough.
Roman knew only too well that God had the power to stop and start a heart. The life of any man or woman rested in the palm of His scarred hand. It took a trip to hell to teach him Jesus was the Way, the Truth, and the Life.
Prayer had become a constant, mindful conversation for Roman. Mostly one-sided. After so many years of silence, Roman couldn’t stop talking inaudibly to the One who truly listened, the One who heard beyond the words to the motivations deeper than Roman himself could analyze.
Change me, Lord. Put a new heart in me. Make me the man You intend me to be.
Roman had stopped praying Grace would call or write or pass along a message through one of her friends, and begun praying God would watch over her and Samuel, provide for their needs, protect her, guide her, bless her. Oh, God, please keep her away from guys like me. She deserves so much better.
Brian put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay? You seem a little out of it today.”
“I’m more in it than I’ve ever been.”
He tacked the drawings up on the wall and studied them. He wasn’t using transfers this time. He’d use narrow-stream, gray spray paint for the outlines and assign areas for his crew to fill in. No ropes and harnesses, either. He’d keep everyone safe on two rented, rolling mechanical lifts.
Brian looked worried. “How much will that cost?”
“It’s on me. So are all the materials. Just got the call this afternoon that my house sold.”
He’d come alongside Brian with the youth group. They were a tough, motley crew, eager to get started, especially the ones who’d repented of tagging buildings. They were itching to get their hands on cans of spray paint and not have to worry about being busted by the cops. Roman didn’t miss the irony of his situation: the loner organizing a youth group project, the reformed-and-redeemed graffiti artist doing his work in the daylight for anyone to see, and on a church, of all places. God sure had a sense of humor.
Roman power-washed the wall and let the kids prep it with white paint. It was a daylong job with two lifts, gallons of white paint, and sprayers. The next Saturday, Roman got there early, intending to have all the sections drawn before the crew of teenagers arrived, but fifteen showed up hours before they were scheduled. Parents came and others he hadn’t seen in church.
“You couldn’t have picked a better day.” Brian lifted his chin at the clear, cool fall morning. The mechanical lifts were in place, along with the paint supplies.
Roman had a bad case of nerves. “Everyone’s early. I didn’t expect a crowd.”
“Yeah, well, nothing we can do about that. Everyone wants to see how you do what you do. Where are your drawings?”
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.