The Masterpiece

by Francine Rivers

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he couldn’t resist driving east to check out his work.

Talia Reisner had planted the idea of hiring someone to take care of what she called “the mundane minutiae of life” so he could concentrate on his art.

He felt pressed, but undirected. Did he want his work hidden away in a private home, or displayed for all to see?

She liked to stay busy. She was an active but quiet presence in the house, and he liked that.

stacked pizzas and frozen dinners in the freezer and put packaged salad mixes in the fridge. She’d bought orange juice, eggs, cottage cheese, and two jars of peaches,

It didn’t take long to get hooked on what the gang had to offer. The problem was, Bobby Ray didn’t like carrying what had killed his mother. Every night after he made a delivery, he’d dream about Mama in a cheap motel room. She’d be sitting on rumpled sheets, her body emaciated, her face ravaged by guilt and shame.

God, if You’re the one bringing all this about, please give me a clear message.

Because she had class, and having her around reminded him how far he had come up in the world. Unlike other women, who just wanted to drag him back down again.

Every time she tried to talk to God, she felt her words bounce back off the ceiling. Why should God listen to her prayers? She hadn’t listened to Him. She missed the friend who had come to her when she was a terrified, lonely child. She hadn’t heard his voice since the day she gave herself to Patrick.

too. I’m keeping the weight off and walking a couple of miles a day. Funny thing about cancer. It reminded me I’m mortal. It doesn’t make sense to put off the things I want to do.”

Troubled, he thought about death. He’d lost his mother and the only friends he’d ever cared about. It was safer not to care. Less painful.

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.

“I can cook. I can even do laundry and make my bed. There are just other things I like doing better.”

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.

the way a man used language made a difference in where he could end up.

What was he doing with his life? Where was he going? What did he want? He felt an aching homesickness. But how would he know that when he’d never had a home?

Sam handed over a thick file. “Everything you need to know about him is in there.” Bobby Ray knew it held family history, a list of foster homes he had been in and out of over the past eight years, along with his former foster parents’ reports, school records, test scores, court records, and whatever else the system had managed to dredge up and commit to paper in an attempt to describe who he was. Nothing worth anything. Nobody knew him.

If you show respect and courtesy, you can expect to receive the same. Check the board daily for your rotation of chores. Everyone living at Masterson Mountain Ranch learned bachelor arts: how to cook, wash dishes, vacuum, wash floors, clean toilets and showers, do laundry and mending.

Wake-up call at six, breakfast at six thirty, school from seven thirty, free time when you finished your assignments and chores.

that wanted to cut out your heart with a shiv. Bobby Ray sat on the end of the bed and rubbed his face, wishing he could rub away the pictures flashing through his head and the gut-aching sense of loss. He should have remembered it was better not to make friends with anyone. Here today, gone tomorrow.

It used to be standard in public schools. It’s the foundation of our language, traditions, systems of thought, politics, science. Studying Latin can teach you how to think analytically.”

Bobby Ray was used to teachers just putting in time, not loaded with enthusiasm. Hawley had stories for every subject and taught as though he knew the material inside out, upside down, and backward. He was so excited about what he was teaching, Bobby Ray caught his enthusiasm.

Talking to someone who cares can help you understand where you’ve come from and how to get where you want to go.”

Susan faced Bobby Ray, hands on her hips, and told him that by the time he left the ranch, he’d know how to cook a four-course meal, iron his own shirt despite living in a perma-press world, do his own laundry, and make a bed so tight he could bounce a coin on it. He’d even learn to clean the toilet and remember to put the seat down. “A future wife will appreciate that!”

Either way, you have to learn to be comfortable in clothes that will get you a job. You need to look the part for whatever career you choose.”

At eighteen, they’d be out of the program, off the ranch, and on their own. That’s the way the system worked.

He spent hours looking at John Singer Sargent’s watercolors of Venice and paintings by John William Waterhouse, transported to other places and times. He loved the sharp, bright colors of Van Gogh, the mask faces of Nolde, the starkness of Picasso.

If pseudonyms are good enough for superheroes, why can’t an artist have one?” Susan was kidding, but she planted a seed nonetheless. Bobby Ray Dean was the boy with the thick social services file, the castoff, the nobody who belonged nowhere. Roman Velasco had class. With a name like that, life could be a whole lot different.

He smiled as he extended his hand. “I’m Willard Rush. I’m handling your case.” He had a firm grip. Willard Rush glanced at the guard, and the man went out, closing the door quietly behind him. “Sit down, Bobby Ray. We have some serious talking to do.”

The warm waterfall shower felt so good, she lingered. Wash all my sins away, Lord. Cleanse my heart and mind from those memories that taunt me. Wash me whiter than snow.

Oh, Lord, I know I’m being selfish, but Samuel is mine. I want more time with my son, not less. I want to be a good mother, even if I can’t be with him full-time.

No point in thinking about all that now. She’d worked hard at ripping out the root of bitterness so she could forgive Patrick. Forgiving herself was another matter.

Grace was taken into child protective services the night her parents died and had been placed in foster care until Aunt Elizabeth turned up.

“I hated myself more than Patrick. I saw plenty of warning signs, but chose to ignore them. I tried to make it work. What is the old saying about fools rushing in?”

“Roman has more gifts than he knows what to do with, but he hasn’t found himself yet.

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.

She never stood around idle,

Mrs. Spenser, her Sunday school teacher, always said to pray when things got bad. Wiping her face, Grace poured her heart out. Is she ever going to forgive me for what happened to my mother? The answer came like an arm around her shoulders and a gentle whisper.

“Girls play at sex to get love, and guys play at love to get sex.

They hadn’t had more than five minutes at a time all day, but she’d spent most of the day observing Brian Henley, and learned a lot about how he viewed and treated people. Even strangers like the boy sitting alone in a booth at the pizza parlor.

he thought about Masterson Ranch and the bachelor arts Susan had taught him. Oddly enough, he’d liked the routine, the order, set meals at set times, the rules for how to treat one another. When and why had he turned into a slob?

Jasper shook his head, his expression filled with compassion. “Do me a favor. Try not to stamp Grace into the ground so you can put out the fire.”

worse. She’d allowed anger and hurt to excuse a night of following the crowd of irresponsible young adults who thought casual sex was perfectly all right between consenting adults. She’d been lonely and miserable, desperate to feel something, anything.

The thought of being taken away from his mother had scared Bobby Ray more than the man who’d hurt him and Mama.

Catching Bobby Ray looking at him, he blushed deep red. “Sorry, kid.” The apology made Bobby Ray feel the hard punch of wrongness in everything about Mama’s life.

Bobby Ray hated it when his mother left high and happy.

Bobby Ray’s stomach growled so loud the students around him laughed.

When they got to the police station, Mr. Talbot sat with him until a lady with sad eyes came. Mr. Talbot ran his hand over Bobby Ray’s head. “Take care of yourself.” Bobby Ray knew then he’d never see his teacher again. “I want my mother.” The lady nodded. “We’re going to try to find her. In the meantime, we have a safe place for you to stay.”

“You were a ward of the court and a royal pain when you arrived at the ranch, but we knew you were something special. Your art was a cry for help.”