When the Wind Chimes - Mary Ting Page 0,16

two weeks. Call Mona.

I fished out my cell from my purse and took a picture of the ad. Maybe. I was good with kids. Just as long as they weren’t infants.

Since the interviews hadn’t panned out, I’d started considering my other options. Rather than looking for the perfect job, I’d started wondering about any job, even if I had to hop around for a while. I also could help my sister at the gallery.

The idea had come to me that morning, but I didn’t know if I wanted to carry it through. It might derail my career, or it could lead to something I hadn’t even imagined yet.

I peeked at Tyler and smiled through the glass door. He was chatting away with two friends on the carpet with books open. They must be Jace and Bridget. I imagined him telling them how he’d beaten his own high score in Unicorns versus Skeletons. With a quick wave, I left.

I strolled down the sidewalk with the warm sun on my face, admiring the quaint bakeries and shops selling hand-made jewelry. A few minutes later, I’d arrived at Abby’s gallery.

I stood in front of a huge, bold blue sign that read Carousel Art Gallery and inhaled a deep breath. Baby steps, Kate, baby steps. Just because I’d have access to brushes and canvases doesn’t mean I had to paint.

I pushed through the double glass door and entered.

Beautiful paintings adorned stark white walls—a mixture of landscapes, portraits, and abstracts in both oil and acrylic. Two paintings stood out: Tree Tunnel, a dreamy portrayal of the eucalyptus tree tunnel on Maluhia road, the one Brandon the cab driver had pointed out to me. And Wailua Falls, a rainbow arched over a lush mountain and sparkling waterfall.

Sculptures of angels, fairies, and fantasy characters were displayed on shelves by the front window.

A wooden tea table sat between two white leather sofas in the center of the gallery. And against the side wall, a coffeemaker, water bottles, assorted box of teas, and other amenities were on a rectangular table under a black-and-white woodcut print of a sea turtle.

“Hi, Stella.” I waved to the cute young woman at the small reception desk with a pale complexion and shoulder-length dark hair.

I glanced at her desk when she didn’t respond. Besides a laptop and a land line phone, she had a napkin perched like a tent over the open book to the far left.

Stella had been working for Abby for two months. I gave her kudos for being here the longest, as every other person before her had left after a month. I didn’t blame them. I’d leave too if all I did was answer the phone—which hardly rang—and greet the rare customer.

Stella flinched and straightened her spine. “Oh, hi ...”

Engrossed in a novel, she must not have heard me walk in.

“Kaitlyn,” I finished for her. “I’m Abby’s sister. She called to let you know I was coming, right?”

“Oh, yes she did. Would you like any coffee or water?” She tugged her dark hair behind her ears and patted the napkin down.

She was trying to be sly about the book, but she didn’t know I had hawk eyes and a knack for observation. An artist never misses the smallest details.

“No, thank you. I’ll be in the back.” I headed to the back room as I hollered, “Ring if you need me, and you can go back to reading your book.”

I could have sworn I heard Stella grumble a foul word.

Big, clear plastic bins filled with art supplies were set in the right back corner with untouched canvases of various sizes, next to the restroom. Exactly where Abby said they would be.

I put my purse on the desk at the left back corner and browsed through a stack of unfinished paintings, trying to get some inspiration, but nothing came. I even flipped through some art magazines Abby had collected. After tossing the last one back on the stack, I leaned against the cabinet and stared at the huge, untouched canvas mounted on the back wall—the thing probably measured eighty by eighty inches at least.

A small spark inside me nudged, enough for me to run my fingers over the primed surface—tight as a bowstring and smooth as paper. I would have to stand and paint. No big deal.

My heart palpitated. A good sign. But the canvas wasn’t mine.

I texted Abby and asked her if I could put the canvas to good use. When she gave me the green light, I opened the bin