“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.”
Annoyed, she dumped caution. “No, thank you.”
“Don’t you want to see the mural?”
“Another time.”
“I won’t be here after it’s done.”
“I know.”
“Wow. That was cold.” He didn’t sound particularly upset.
“You asked for it.” Her own emotions were another matter. “Did you have an errand you wanted me to run?” She tried to keep her tone neutral, so he wouldn’t guess what his teasing had managed to do.
“No.” He ended the call.
Grace gave a soft gasp at the abruptness and stared at her phone. Shaking her head, she tucked the phone away.
“The boy can be exasperating, can’t he?” Talia had a speculative gleam in her eyes.
More than Grace wanted to admit.
Roman didn’t call Grace again. He caught himself watching the clock every afternoon around three, usually minutes before she called him. She went over his messages and whatever mail had come in. She asked how the work was going, but he couldn’t tell if she was really interested or just being polite.
Roman eliminated the lion eating the baby giraffe before Hector arrived to start the final protective coat. People stood around, watching them finish the work. The wall looked impressive. It was the best work he’d done.
Clearing supplies and tarps, he wondered why he felt vaguely disappointed, as though he’d failed to include something essential.
“You don’t look happy, se?or.” Hector spoke in accented English. He’d been improving greatly over the last few weeks, and Roman felt a twinge of jealousy.
“Is Grace tutoring you in English?”
Hector grinned and raised his brows. “No. I met a girl. On the beach. Muy bonita. She teach me English. I teach her Spanish.”
Roman could tell by Hector’s expression that the two had jumped over more than language barriers. “Sounds like a nice arrangement.”
Hector pulled out his phone and showed off a selfie. The girl, a plump, sunburned redhead, looked smitten with her Latino Romeo. Hector looked victorious with his arm around her.
He pocketed the phone. “Is Grace coming down?”
“Isn’t one girl enough?”
Hector laughed. “To see the mural, jefe.”
“I don’t know.” Roman wasn’t about to admit he’d invited her and she’d said no. He caught Hector looking at him and stared back. “What?”
Hector nodded toward the reception desk, where a man was pointing him out to a middle-aged couple.
Roman faced Hector. “Let’s go have dinner. I don’t feel like playing nice with strangers.”
They got a booth in a nice restaurant down the street. Hector spent most of the time texting with his girlfriend. Conversation had never been easy with Hector, but even a stilted conversation would have been nice. Whatever she said made Hector decide to head back to Los Angeles rather than spend the night at the five-star hotel in San Diego. Roman waved him off and sat alone and had a brandy.
It was a little after eight when he got back to his hotel suite. He stood at the windows, feeling adrift. Grace hadn’t called today. Good excuse to call her. He took out his phone and tapped her number.
It took five rings before her voice mail kicked in. She didn’t offer the usual pleasantries or give her name, just instructions to leave a message. She didn’t even say she’d get back to whoever called. Roman didn’t leave a message. It was a Friday night and well past five o’clock. Why should she answer?
The heaviness increased in his chest. Too much steak, too much alcohol. His jaw ached. A dentist said he must grind his teeth in his sleep and recommended a custom mouth guard. That and less stress in his life. He felt a little off, and not just because he’d had a few drinks.
Why should he be stressed? He had everything everyone else wanted.
Stretching out on his bed, he tried to sleep. He was edgy, in need of something. He could go back to his old habits. Go to a club, hook up with a girl. But the emptiness always came back later. The inner tension never went away.
He turned on the television and rented a movie violent enough to distract him. His arm ached from reaching up and doing the fine work every day for the last several days. He rubbed the muscles. Another drink might help. He opened the minibar and took out three shot bottles of Scotch.
Roman relaxed after the third drink. Only the heaviness remained. He called Grace again. She answered on the second ring. “What?” She sounded groggy and annoyed.
“Are you in bed?
She let out her breath sharply. “No. I’m singing in a karaoke bar. What do you think?”