Meaning Roman wasn’t. He’d been taught to play the role when necessary. “Why aren’t you still with him?”
“He retired and turned his business over to another firm. They were fully staffed.”
Roman looked her over again. He wasn’t sure he liked anyone making rules in his house, but then this one had done more in two hours than the combined efforts of the other four. And he liked her. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was her complete lack of interest in him. Might be nice to have someone who did the work and didn’t ask too many questions.
“So, we’re good?”
“For two weeks.”
He gave a soft laugh. “Okay. We’ve both got work to do. Let’s take care of the order so you can get going on yours.”
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.”