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 living in enclosures.
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.