“All white.”
“I think I look distinguished. You’re not getting rid of me yet. The tests have been clear, and I’m feeling good.” He patted his stomach. “Looking good, too. I’m keeping the weight off and walking a couple of miles a day. Funny thing about cancer. It reminded me I’m mortal. It doesn’t make sense to put off the things I want to do.”
Jasper talked. Roman tried to listen. Troubled, he thought about death. He’d lost his mother and the only friends he’d ever cared about. It was safer not to care. Less painful.
“Bobby Ray Dean.”
The name jarred Roman. “No one has called me that in ages.”
“You’ve come a long way, son, but you still don’t know who you are or what you want, do you?”
“More.”
Jasper folded his arms on the table. “More of what?”
“Life. Meaning.” He wished he knew.
They went back to the Topanga Canyon house. Roman gave Jasper the grand tour. Jasper offered the paintings on easels a cursory look and made no comment. Roman could guess what he thought. Problem was, Roman agreed.
Jasper picked up one of the crumpled papers scattered across the studio floor and opened it. He picked up a few more. Roman knew what they were. Sketches of a gang kid in a leather jacket leaning against a graffiti-covered wall, a young boy looking out a bay window, a naked girl with her back to the viewer, her long hair curling down to her waist. “These are good, Roman. Ever think about doing a show?”
“I’ll probably do one this summer.”
Jasper glanced at the three unfinished paintings on easels. “You don’t have to limit yourself to modern art.”
“The pay is good.” Roman leaned against his drafting table. “I have no illusions. I took your advice and went to Europe. Remember? I’ve seen the masters. I even left a calling card at the Louvre.”
“Calling card?”
“Never mind.” The Bird had left a piece of work glued among the masters—a winking owl perched on a pine branch. He jerked his head toward the easels. “That’s the best I can do.”
“I doubt that.”
“Yeah, well, a lot of people out there like to think they know art. I figured out what sells.”
They headed downstairs. Roman opened a couple of sodas. Jasper looked around the living room with the huge black sectional couch, massive modern table, and big-screen television mounted on the wall. “It’s pretty Spartan, even for a bachelor.”
“Haven’t had time to decorate.”
“You need a wife.”
Roman gave a derisive laugh. “For what?”
“Companionship. Comfort. Have some children.”
“You aren’t married. You don’t have kids.”
“Cheryl and I were married for twenty-four years, the happiest of my life, before she died. We wanted to have children. It just never happened.” He smiled. “That’s why I’m so attached to you.”
“Bull.”
“I’d get married again, if I met the right woman. Up to now, no one comes close to the one I had.”
Roman thought of Grace Moore.
“Chet and Susan want to know when you’re coming home for a visit.”
The Mastersons had been the closest thing to family Bobby Ray Dean had ever known. “I’m sure they have a full house, just like they always did.”
“Fewer these days, and you were special.” When Roman didn’t say anything, Jasper changed the subject. “So, you gave up doing murals.”
“I’ve got one more. In San Diego. I found someone to do the fill work. I’ll be heading down soon to add in the details. Hector will apply the protective coat. Saves me a lot of time, and I can get on to other things.”
“Hector?”
Roman told the story. Dry of ideas and looking for any inspiration, he’d gone to a flea market to sketch vendors. He spotted a man painting ceramic pots. He was skilled, and he was quick. Roman found someone to translate and offered the man a part-time position doing the fill work on a mural project in Beverly Hills. Hector Espinoza agreed, and they shook on it. “He works for me whenever I need him. I don’t know what he does in the meantime.”
“Nice to know you have friends.” Jasper’s tone was dry.
Roman laughed it off. He barely talked to Hector. They didn’t speak the same language, literally. They still had trouble communicating, but had come up with a system of numbers for colors so Hector knew what to do. Roman didn’t know anything about the man and figured he was probably undocumented. He paid him well, and the partnership worked. “Hard to make friends with someone who doesn’t speak my language.”
“Is that why you hired him? So you wouldn’t have to carry on a conversation?”
“Is this a psych session?”
Jasper let it go. They talked of other less personal things until after midnight. Jasper unrolled his sleeping bag on the leather couch. Both were up early the next morning. Roman made omelets, French toast, and coffee.
“You haven’t lost your touch.” Jasper raised his cup. Roman didn’t tell him he had a personal assistant who could make better. He knew Jasper would start asking questions, and Roman didn’t have any answers.
On the way out the front door, Jasper pushed the doorbell and set off the chimes. Roman called him a foul name. Jasper laughed. “I’ll be down this way again, sooner than you think.”
“The couch will be ready for you.” Roman stood outside until Jasper drove out of sight.
At two minutes to nine, the chimes went off again. When Roman opened the door, he knew by the look on her face that Grace Moore had decided to move into the cottage.
“That happy about it, huh?”
“We’ll have things to discuss first. After work.”
This girl didn’t make anything easy.
The hint of triumph on Roman Velasco’s face set Grace’s nerves on edge. The coffee had already been made. “You must have been up early.” She headed toward the office. “I’ll check your messages first.”
“Not yet.” Roman dug into his front pocket and slapped a key on the counter. “So you can come in without setting off those—” He stopped short of saying something that would offend her. “Make it the first order of business today to find someone who can reprogram that thing before I rip it out of the wall with my bare hands. I’d rather not have it go off like church bells ringing in a New Year.”
“I’ll take care of that, but you can keep your key.” She slid it back to him.
“It’s an extra, and it’s for convenience, yours and mine.”
“I’m not comfortable having your house key.”
His mouth tightened. “Take the—darn key, Ms. Moore.”
She knew he’d almost said something else. Maybe she was being unreasonable. Harvey Bernstein had given her a key. She took Roman’s and attached it to her key chain. “I’ll knock before I come in.”
“Just to make sure I have my pants on?”
She started toward the office.
“I need your cell number.”
Grace faced him. Alarms went off inside her head. “Why?”
“In case I need you.”
“I work nine to five. I’m not available before or after that. Or on weekends.”
His eyes darkened. “It’ll save you steps.”
The doorbell sounded again, and this time he forgot to curb his tongue. Her eyes flickered at the words that came automatically. “It’s Hector. Another irritating employee. The guy doesn’t speak enough English to get what I’m saying. We have to resort to sign language, and I’m not in the mood this morning.”
“Maybe I can help you. I took Spanish in high school.” She followed him to the front door. Roman opened it and waved her forward to face a wiry Latino with a startled look.
She introduced herself, and he grinned broadly. Hector responded in a stream of rapid-fire Spanish until Grace held up her hands in surrender and said, “Please slow down.”
He obliged, and Grace translated for Roman, who stood by watching them with a less-than-pleased expression. “Hector says you called, but he doesn’t know why.”