The Masterpiece by Francine Rivers
Grace was honest with the Garcias about her change of heart. They all knew nothing was final until Grace signed the papers, and she told them she had decided she couldn’t do it. Selah understood in the beginning, but it had become clear over the last few months that her attachment to Grace’s son had grown stronger.
“Are you sure about this move?” Selah sounded more like a grieving mother than a supportive friend.
“I can’t live here forever, Selah. I need to be on my own. I can’t stay dependent on you and Ruben.”
“You’re part of our family. We’re not asking you to go.”
Grace held Samuel closer. “As soon as I’m settled, I’ll start looking for childcare.”
Selah looked crushed. “Why would you give him to a stranger when you have me?” Ruben put his hand on his wife’s knee. Selah ignored him. “I’ve been a mother since Javier and Alicia were born. I’ve been . . .” She hesitated. “You know Samuel will be happier with me than some stranger. You know that. You can leave him with me during the week and have him on weekends. You can pick him up on Saturday and bring him back on Sunday. He will be safe with us. You want him safe, don’t you? You know how much we love him. He’s like a baby brother to Javier and Alicia. Please, Grace. Don’t give him to someone you barely know.”
Grace felt torn.
Ruben looked as worried as Selah, but she wasn’t sure it was for the same reason. He’d accepted Grace’s decision to keep Samuel, and though Selah said she had, they both knew she still hoped Grace would change her mind again.
Selah had been in the delivery room with Grace, holding her hand and encouraging her through a difficult birth. Selah had been the first one to hold Samuel after he was born. Even after Grace changed her mind about the adoption, Selah wanted her to stay. She insisted Grace stay home and nurse Samuel for the first three months before trying to find a new job.
Seeing Selah’s distress, Grace felt ungrateful and selfish. Selah had been as much a mother to Samuel as she had, and more so in the last few weeks since she’d started working for Roman Velasco. She was gone up to twelve hours a day and barely had any time with her son. Last Saturday, he’d cried in her arms and reached out for Selah.
“Samuel thrives here, Grace. He has family. You wanted us to be his family.”
Grace felt a sharp pang at Selah’s reminder.
Ruben gripped Selah’s hand firmly this time. “Selah.” His tone was full of disapproval.
Selah’s eyes filled with tears.
“We will not hold Grace back. Samuel is her son, not ours. Would you have given up Javier?” Selah started to speak again, but Ruben pressed on. “This is part of a healthy transition, mi amor.”
The sooner Grace left, the better. “I have most of what I need in storage to set up the cottage. I’ve called my church. Volunteers are helping me move on Saturday.”
Selah gasped. “Saturday! You don’t have a crib.” Her eyes glistened. “Where will Sammy sleep? On the floor?”
“I bought a crib yesterday.” She had gone back to the thrift store where she’d purchased the gently used car seat as well as a high chair, crib bedding, and toys. “I have what I need.”
Selah looked hurt and angry. “You still need time to find childcare.”
“I know.”
“You need to check references carefully.”
“I know.” Grace fought tears.
Selah’s tone softened. “Please, don’t take him like this. Let me take care of him for you.”
Ruben looked ready to cry at his wife’s anguished appeal. He gave Grace a pleading look. “Perhaps a little more time would help, chiquita. You could leave Samuel with Selah while you move in. I can help, too. I’m free on Saturday.”
Grace knew she couldn’t help with a baby in her arms, and Selah seemed to understand everything was going to change. Maybe a little more time would be good. She didn’t want to make a hasty decision about childcare. Selah was right. One couldn’t be too careful these days. She’d have to talk to people, check references. Meanwhile Samuel would be safe and happy with people he knew.
Samuel stirred in her arms. Heart aching with indecision, Grace kissed the top of his head. He should be asleep in his crib, but she’d wanted to hold him so she’d be strong when she talked with Selah and Ruben. It hurt to accept the logic of Selah’s arguments. Selah would give him better and more loving care than he would receive in a day care center, even if she found a good one. He would be one among a dozen other children, while here, he would have Selah’s complete attention.
That’s what worried Grace most. Was she being selfish? Was jealousy driving her? Would leaving Samuel in Selah’s care a while longer help her adjust or make things worse? She didn’t know, but she couldn’t allow her insecurities to overrule good sense. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Selah. This would be temporary.” She searched Selah’s face, wanting her to understand. “I’ll leave Samuel with you during the week. And I’ll pay you for childcare.”
“I don’t want money! I do it for love.”
“I know, but it’s part of me being independent again. Please. Try to understand. I love you, Selah. You’ve been like my sister. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and for Samuel, but I want my son with me full-time and as soon as possible.”
Selah let out a shuddering breath. “Yes. Yo comprendo.” She nodded, calm now. “It will all work out as it should.”
Grace prayed she was doing the right thing. “I’ll pick up Samuel Friday afternoon after work and bring him home Sunday afternoon.” She hadn’t meant to say home. She felt quick tears threaten and blinked them back.
“Yes. Good.” Selah spoke gently now. “Taking care of Samuel has always been my pleasure. He is our little angel.” Selah held out her arms, ready to take him.
Grace stood. You can’t have him, she wanted to cry out. Stop trying to take him from me! But to say such things was unthinkable after all Selah and Ruben had done for her. “I’m grateful to you both. Truly, I am.”
“We know.” Ruben understood, even if Selah didn’t.
“It’s late, and Samuel and I should both be in bed.” She put her hand on Selah’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
Selah looked up at her. She lifted her hand and cupped Samuel’s foot.
Grace didn’t put Samuel in his crib that night. She kept him snuggled in bed beside her.
Roman watched four men move furniture and boxes into his cottage. Grace had taken a large, wrapped item in earlier and made two more trips with boxes. She carried in a vacuum cleaner and didn’t come out again. He imagined her inside, issuing orders like a general. Put the couch over there, the swivel rocker over here, the coffee table just so. Everything would have to be in its proper place. She didn’t have much, so the process didn’t take long. Three of the men left, and the fourth stayed. Mexican, Roman guessed.
When Roman looked again later, Grace and the man were sitting on the low wall overlooking the canyon, talking. He didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. Roman thought about how well she’d gotten along with Hector. Maybe Grace had a thing for Hispanics. Roman had been mistaken for one a few times. Then again, he’d been mistaken for a lot of things, especially when he traveled and went through security. His mother had been white. It was anyone’s guess what the sperm donor was. Jasper said a DNA test could tell his ancestry. Roman Velasco didn’t want to know, but Bobby Ray Dean sometimes thought about it.
Roman concentrated on the transfer sheet. Last one and almost finished. In a few days, a week at the most, he’d be heading south to San Diego. He’d stay whatever time it took to finish the project. Two weeks, maybe less if he pushed himself hard. He’d start where Hector began and work his way across the wall. Hector would do the final protective coat.
Tossing the pen into the tray, Roman flexed his cramping fingers. He’d worked on giraffes dining on thorn trees for hours, struggling with the irony of drawing beasts free in the Serengeti for a hotel housing tourists eager to see captured animals li
He paced, daydreaming. What would it be like to go on a photo safari and take up-close-and-personal shots of lions and wildebeests? He had the money to spend time in Africa. Unfortunately, he couldn’t leave this project unfinished.
Maybe he needed another trip somewhere closer.
He went to the bank of windows overlooking Topanga Canyon. Grace and the guy were still talking. For a woman who barely said twenty words a day to him, she sure had plenty to say to that guy. They stood and hugged. The man kissed her cheek. Good friends, then. They headed for the front drive and disappeared. Roman’s pulse kicked up a notch when Grace came back alone and entered the cottage.
Maybe he should go over and say hello. It would be the polite thing to do.
Bad idea. They’d already established boundaries: boss and employee, now landlord and tenant.
He scrounged through cabinets and the fridge for something to entice his appetite. He wasn’t hungry enough to fix anything. Turning on the sixty-inch wall-mounted television, he channel surfed. Nothing but sports and news, reruns of canceled TV shows and old movies. He turned the set off and stood at the living room windows, thinking about how much Grace liked the view. He’d seen far better during his travels. Bored and tired, he stretched out on the couch and let his mind drift. Images formed in his imagination. Pulling the black book and pencils from under the couch, he sketched quickly. A woman looked back at him with wide, dark eyes, her lips curved in a Mona Lisa smile. Muttering a curse, he ripped the page out and crumpled it in his hand.
Roman pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. He was getting another headache. A drive with the windows down would help. He’d kill time walking the beach at Malibu, have a hamburger before he came back. Maybe he’d meet a hot, willing girl. He’d been celibate far too long.
Two hours later, Roman sat on the beach, watching the crash of waves. All he’d done was change scenery, not his mind. He could almost hear Jasper Hawley’s voice. Where are you going this time, Bobby Ray? What are you looking for?
Roots? Wings? He didn’t know. He just needed to get out of the house and away from his next-door neighbor.
It was after two in the morning when he got home from dinner at a seafood restaurant and a long drive up the coast and back. He slid the glass door open. Outside, the stars shone brightly, but he ended up looking over at the cottage instead. The lamps were on inside. Grace must still be organizing the place.
Or maybe she was afraid. No city lights out here.
It had taken time for him to get used to the darkness, too.
BOBBY RAY, AGE 15
The library had halls of books and quiet alcoves. Bobby Ray pulled books and turned pages, making quick sketches of Civil War uniforms and gear. He got so immersed in pictures of Gettysburg, he didn’t think about the time until his stomach cramped with hunger. He hadn’t had breakfast or lunch. Books still open on the table, Bobby Ray left the library and headed for a hot dog wagon. He bought two hot dogs and ate on the steps of the Civic Auditorium, imagining what he’d paint on the pristine white surfaces of government buildings.
He returned to the library to finish the drawings, then headed for Reaper’s party. It would still be going strong.
An ambulance and two police cars with lights flashing were parked in front of Reaper’s apartment building. Probably another domestic disturbance. Reaper laughed the other day about a guy getting knifed by his old lady when she caught him coming out of another woman’s apartment. Bobby Ray headed for the side of the building, figuring he could go up the fire escape and use the door on the roof to get into the building. As he moved among the curious bystanders, he overheard a man talking. “. . . couple of boys got shot at a party on the third floor . . .”
Bobby Ray stopped. “What’d you say?”
The man looked at him and frowned. “You live in there? I’ve seen you around.”
“I have friends in the building.”
“Good thing you weren’t with them.”
Bobby Ray got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Parties went on all the time in this place. It didn’t mean anyone he knew got shot or did the shooting.
Two paramedics brought out a stretcher. Bobby Ray exhaled a curse when he recognized Reaper. He was ashen, unconscious, an IV attached to his arm. Bobby Ray tried to push through, but a cop blocked his way and held up a hand in warning. “Stay back.”
“He’s a friend of mine!”
“Then you’ll want him to get to the hospital.”
Reaper didn’t look good.
As the ambulance left, sirens blaring, a coroner’s van pulled into the vacant space. Bobby Ray waited, feeling sick. When the men finally came out with the gurney, Bobby Ray knew by the size and shape of the body bag that Lardo was inside it. He struggled not to shed the hot tears burning his eyes.
Bobby Ray spent the rest of the night spraying wrath on the walls of the Tenderloin. He emptied his marker and every spray can in his backpack. A cop car rounded the corner and screeched to a halt. Bobby Ray ran. Tires screamed as the squad car backed up and spun. Bobby Ray bolted down the nearest alley and over a wall. Stripping off his gloves, he tossed them into a pile of trash. He heard the siren’s whoop-whoop and saw flashes of light as he heaved his backpack behind a Dumpster. Not slowing, he cut across the street. Another squad car pulled right in front of him. Bobby Ray’s momentum took him over the hood. He hit the pavement hard and lay stunned, gasping for breath.
A cop stood over him. “You okay, kid? Anything broken?”
Bobby Ray managed a laugh. Okay? Broken? He felt betraying tears spill. Humiliated, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He never cried! The officer told him to stay still; they’d call an ambulance. Groaning, Bobby Ray sat up. Shoving helpful hands away, he stood on wobbly legs. He didn’t want an ambulance. Why were you running, kid? I’m late, and my mama will be worried. Is that so? We’ll give you a ride home. Where does your mama live? Have I done anything wrong, Officer? That’s what I’m wondering, kid. You want to try a different story? Why were you running?
Another squad car arrived and parked behind them. An older cop got out, shifted his thick leather belt, and pulled out a heavy Maglite. A younger cop followed. The older man aimed a beam of light straight into Bobby Ray’s face. “Gotcha! This boy’s been busy tonight.”
Bobby Ray winced, but didn’t look away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Hold out your hands.”
Bobby Ray did what he was told, knowing the cop was looking for paint stains on his fingers and clothing. Some taggers didn’t have the brains to wear gloves. “I’m clean. You wanna check behind my ears?”
“No need.” He asked the other officers which direction Bobby Ray had been running. Their answer pleased him.
Surprised, Bobby Ray found his wrists bound with zip-tie cuffs and himself shoved into the rear of a squad car. He leaned his head back against the seat and swore. The older officer drove while the younger radioed the station. The older officer looked at Bobby Ray in the mirror. “You got messy tonight, Bobby Ray.”
Pulse rocketing, Bobby Ray played dumb. “Who’s Bobby Ray?”
“Bobby Ray Dean, I’ve had my eye on you for a while. I know where you live. I know who your friends are.” He looked at the road ahead. “You’re lucky you weren’t at that party tonight.”
“Is that what you think? I’m lucky?”
“And too stupid to know it.”
If the officer knew about the party, maybe he knew what happened. “Who did the shooting?”
He didn’t get an answer.
Bobby Ray spent the next few days at the juvenile detention center, going through the drill. His caseworker, Ellison Whitcomb, had retired and moved to Florida. The new one, Sam Carter, eventually showed up with Bobby Ray’s file. Carter didn’t have Whitcomb’s cynicism, but he was a realist.
“They’re not going to be lenient this time, Bobby Ray.”
“
Sam Carter gave him a wry smile. “You want to sit there and tell me you’re not?”
Furious, Bobby Ray shoved the chair back and paced. “They haven’t got any evidence!”
“They have all they need. This might be a good thing, Bobby Ray.”
“A good thing? Tell me how.”
“It’ll get you out of the Tenderloin.”
“What if I don’t want to go?”
“I doubt you know what you want. Now the court decides.”
Bobby Ray found himself living in temporary lockup with kids older and tougher. He knew how to cover his fear while living in a dormitory with fourteen other roommates. He kept his eyes open and his back to the wall. He barely slept because every sound jarred him awake. He kept his distance, recognizing predators.
A guard brought Bobby Ray to a room furnished with a metal table and two chairs. He expected to see Sam Carter, but a tall, broad-shouldered stranger in a gray suit, blue shirt, and tie stood waiting. He smiled as he extended his hand. “I’m Willard Rush. I’m handling your case.” He had a firm grip. Willard Rush glanced at the guard, and the man went out, closing the door quietly behind him. “Sit down, Bobby Ray. We have some serious talking to do.”
Clasping his hands on the table, Bobby Ray gave Rush what he hoped was a cool look. He figured the judge had reviewed whatever evidence the cops had and decided it wasn’t enough.
“You have a court hearing Thursday next week.”
His stomach turned over. A week? “They didn’t have anything on me.” Rush’s expression changed enough to make Bobby Ray forget his fear and get mad. “You think I’m lying?”
“You had paint on your sleeve that matched the graffiti on eight walls.”
“So what? A little paint doesn’t prove anything. Maybe I accidentally brushed up against something and got it on me.” He leaned forward. “They need more hard evidence than that.”