“We didn’t sit for him.” Susan looked teary. “He drew them from memory. After lights out, with a flashlight.” She shook her head. “He never did like rules.”
“These are so good.”
“The rawness is still in his work now, but he doesn’t draw or paint people anymore, does he?” Susan shook her head. “He has bonding issues, understandable after what he went through.”
Grace put the last sketchbook down. “Can you tell me?”
Susan studied Grace. “His mother disappeared when he was quite young. He was passed from one foster home to another. He was a runner and always ended up back in the Tenderloin, where he and his mother had lived. Not a new story. We’ve had a lot of boys from dysfunctional families—or no family at all. They don’t attach to people. It takes time to build trust, and some of them do their best to sabotage any relationship, especially if they start feeling something. That was Roman from the get-go.” Her eyes glistened. “He left the sketchbooks behind so he could forget us.”
Leafing through the last sketchbook, Grace shook her head. “I think he left them behind so you’d know how much he loved you.”
Susan wiped tears away. “I’d like to believe that.” She got up and checked the oven. When she sat down again, her eyes were clear. “I will believe that.”
Grace studied one picture of a young, pale-skinned girl with dark hair and eyes. “A girlfriend?”
“His mother. He was seven when she disappeared. He was in and out of thirty foster homes between the ages of seven and fifteen. There’s a lot of deep-seated anger in a child who’s been abandoned. Some turn to violence. Roman used paint to fight back.”
“Some hide or become people pleasers.” Grace realized she’d spoken aloud. She shrugged. “I was seven when I lost my parents. My aunt raised me.” She looked at Roman’s mother, trying to see any resemblance between mother and son. He must take after his father. Had he been a constant reminder to his mother of someone she had loved? Or someone who’d used and abandoned her? She remembered what Roman said about prostitutes in Bodie. “Roman talks about his travels, but not his past.”
“Don’t talk. Don’t trust. Don’t feel.” Susan nodded. “The mantra of kids who suffered at the hands of their parents.”
Grace never spoke of her past either. She’d always felt vaguely responsible for what happened in Memphis, though she didn’t know why. Her aunt couldn’t bear to look at her because she looked so much like her father, and Aunt Elizabeth had hated him. She had said as much to Miranda Spenser. It didn’t matter that she’d been quickly shushed and corrected. Grace had heard, and the seed was planted. She grew up doing whatever people wanted her to do. Aunt Elizabeth above all others, until Patrick came along and usurped her. Grace constantly tried to make up for whatever she’d done wrong.
How do you make amends for something you don’t understand?
Men’s voices came from outside. Footsteps on the porch announced their return. Susan closed the sketchbook she’d been looking at. “These are good, but not even close to what he’s capable of doing. Chet and I went down to San Diego last week and spent a few days. We wanted to see Roman’s mural.” She picked up the sketchbooks. “He keeps getting better and better, but he hasn’t come close to his real potential. If he can’t let go of the past, he never will.”
Grace knew the same truth applied to her.
The Mastersons invited José and Abbie over with their two tweens. Dinner was lively with conversation. José had been a tough gang kid when Roman shared a room with him. Now he was quick to laugh, fit and content. His wife, Abbie, an ordinary-looking girl with brown hair and hazel eyes, made Carlos and Tina mind their manners. Abbie brought two homemade cherry pies for dessert. Carlos and Tina, far from shy, talked about school and friends and what they were doing this summer. They teased their father about lazing around the ranch on horseback while they had to muck out the stables. José said he’d had his day; now it was their turn. Roman reminded him of the hours they’d both spent shoveling horse manure into wheelbarrows and spreading it over an acre garden.
When Susan rose to clear dishes, everyone helped. The men talked sports and local politics. Chet invited them all to make themselves comfortable in the living room. Abbie sat next to José. José put his hand on his wife’s thigh, and she smiled at him. Clearly, twelve years of marriage hadn’t put the fire out. Grace stood by the bookshelves, talking with Jasper.