She relaxed. “Well, it was certainly the answer to my prayers.”
“Prayers.” He gave a telling laugh. “I hate to disillusion you, Grace, but prayer isn’t what got you the place. You’re good at your job. I wanted to keep you around. That’s all. There’s no one out there listening or intervening on our behalf.”
Grace had heard plenty of people dismiss God as though He were a figment of imagination to bring comfort in the dark. She might have come to believe the same thing if she hadn’t had a visitation when she was seven years old and hiding in a dark closet, terrified of the night and the monster that came with it. She didn’t talk about what had happened when she was a small child. And Patrick hadn’t felt any need to believe in anything but himself, or he would have felt bad about what he did.
She had learned a long time ago not to argue theology. She hadn’t come to faith because someone gave her all the answers. She came to faith because she met and talked with someone who made her feel enveloped by God’s love. Still, she had to say something to this man who looked like he had everything and nothing. “I believe in God. Life can be pretty unbearable without something to believe in.” She met Roman Velasco’s gaze and didn’t look away. She had let herself doubt, and every time she had, disaster swiftly followed.
“Any more orange juice in the fridge?”
She got the message. No more talk about the Lord. She hadn’t intended to proselytize. “There’s just a little left. Do you want it in your glass, or would you prefer drinking it straight from the bottle?”
“The bottle is fine.” He grinned as she handed it to him.
“You need groceries.”
“I guess you’ll be making another run to Malibu.”
“You’re the boss.”
Roman pulled out his wallet and extracted a couple hundred-dollar bills. “How about some real food, for a change?”
“I’ll need specifics. Can you cook, or is it a matter of adding a new variety and brand of dinners you can microwave?”
“I can cook. I can even do laundry and make my bed. There are just other things I like doing better.” He smiled slightly. “That was a great sandwich, by the way. Can you fix anything else?”
Grace knew where he was heading. Her list of duties kept growing. “This and that.”
“Anything you cook will be better than what I’ve been living on. And it takes too much time to drive down to a restaurant.”
A restaurant? Was he kidding? “I’m not a chef, Roman.”
“Meat and potatoes. Meat and veggies. Meat and salad. Skip the kale and collard greens. I want to stay healthy, but not that healthy. Keep it simple.”
He was taking a lot for granted. “Why don’t I make a trip to Walmart and pick up a blender? You can toss in a pound of ground round, some veggies, and press a button. Your dinner would be ready to drink in less than a minute.”
He looked at her like she’d grown horns. Grace laughed. “Or I could buy you those protein shakes.” She picked up the empty orange juice bottle. “Do you recycle?”
“I don’t know. Do I?” Roman got up and then sat on the stool again. He looked ashen.
“I was only kidding.” When he didn’t say anything, she looked more closely. “Are you all right?”
“Just tired.”
“Maybe you should lie down for a while.”
“Take a nap, you mean?” He gave her a sardonic look.
“I’m not your mother, but you’ve taken all of thirty minutes for lunch at three in the afternoon.”
“Hector’s waiting.”
Hector was a lame excuse, but it wasn’t her place to quibble. What was pressing Roman so hard? Not money. He had plenty and didn’t spend much of it. “Hector works for you. You set the schedule.”
“I just want to get the wall done.” His color hadn’t improved much. Why was he looking at her like that? He tilted his head, studying her. “Are you letting your hair grow out?”
Her hand rose instinctively to touch the hair that now covered the back of her neck. She’d cut it short in penance. Her friends told her it was time to stop punishing herself. “I guess.”
“You’d look good with long hair.”
Patrick had said the same thing. “Short is more practical.”
He frowned and opened his mouth as though to say something, then changed his mind. “Thanks for the sandwiches.” He stood and swayed slightly. “I think I will lie down for a while.”
“I’ll do the shopping now, if that’s all right.”
“Sure. Turn off the ringer on the telephone.” He paused. “When are you moving in?”
“This weekend.”
It was almost six by the time Grace returned to the house. She headed for the studio to ask if she could have comp time rather than extra pay. Coming down the hall, she saw Roman sprawled across his bed. He lay as though he had toppled like a tree and not moved since. She felt a vague alarm.
“Roman?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t move either. Was he all right? She stepped over the threshold, the urge to remove his shoes and cover him with a blanket almost overwhelming.
Caretaking inclinations had gotten her into a world of trouble and pain once before. She wasn’t going down that road again. “Roman?” She spoke louder this time. He made a sound and moved just enough to reassure her.
She retreated to the office, wrote a note, and left it on the kitchen counter, along with the receipt and change. She closed the front door quietly behind her.
Roman awakened sweating, heart pounding. He lay still, fighting the sense of foreboding that hung in the darkness pressing in on him. He felt seven years old again, his mother gone for the night. Dark shadows moved on the wall, and he turned on the lights quickly. Nothing there. No reason for panic. Gradually his pulse slowed, and the fear dissipated. Get a grip. You’re not a kid anymore.
How long had he been asleep? It had been daylight when Grace suggested he lie down for a while. He didn’t even remember what happened after walking into his bedroom. The digital clock glowed 1:36. Hours had passed in what seemed like a minute. Lost time. Wasted time. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he waited for the odd confusion to pass. Flipping switches for more light, he made his way to the kitchen, where he found a note, grocery receipt, and exact change.
Rotisserie chicken and salad in the fridge. See you at 9 a.m. Grace
He might be the artist, but she had better penmanship. Attractive, subtle, classy, with a hint of something he couldn’t define. Just like her. She was comfortable in her own skin. Unlike some of us, who’ve never been comfortable, no matter what role we play.
Roman ate half the chicken and all the salad. He needed to work, but he wasn’t in the mood for drawing the herd of zebra migrating the African plains. Stretching out on the black leather sofa in the living room, he looked out the windows. Grace was right. He hadn’t spent much time admiring the view, now obscured by inky darkness. It must be overcast. The night felt heavy, like tar, moist and cold, threatening. He fought his mood while trying to identify it. A growing emptiness? Hunger? For what?
Grace Moore would be moving into his cottage this weekend. He was already having second thoughts. He didn’t want to become too close, and having her right next door might be a temptation. Too late to worry about that now. It was a done deal, unless she changed her mind. She hadn’t been wild about the idea in the first place, but her gaggle of friends had helped his cause. Now she saw it as an answer to prayer.