When the Wind Chimes - Mary Ting Page 0,54

difficult to come back to reality when sparkling chestnut-colored eyes stared back into mine with something unreadable. That piercing gaze seemed longing or predatory, but I didn’t know if I was imagining what I wanted to see. Heat blazed through me as if his eyes were hands caressing me. Touching me in places that happened only in my dreams.

The cab driver had said only people close to him could call him Lee, so what was he trying to tell me?

A sweet, hesitant voice broke our spell. “Can I get some water? I’m thirsty.”

I flinched out of my daze.

Lee spun like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to do. “Sure, sweetheart. Here.” He grabbed a cup and handed it to her.

As Bridget got water from the refrigerator dispenser, Lee turned to me and whispered, “Can you teach Bridget how to paint? I would pay you for her lessons. She’s been asking, but I haven’t had time to find a teacher. And since you’re a painter ...” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t have to give me an answer today. But—”

“I would love to.” I smiled.

“You will? Are you sure? I hope I haven’t said anything to pressure you. I mean, I’m good at talking business and I get what I want and get things done, but—”

I put a finger on his lips to hush him, and another wave of dangerous heat exploded inside me. “I said yes.”

His lips parted into a broad grin, and then something else crept into his expression. I felt that sparkle of something brewing and growing between us. My finger on his mouth felt way too intimate, and I liked it a bit too much.

Bridget came between us, breaking the trance, and peered up at us with innocent eyes. “Kate is going to teach me?”

“Yes,” Lee said, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Yah!” She jumped up and down.

I laced my fingers through my hair and slipped out of the kitchen. “We’ll start when I get some supplies.”

“Oh, wait.” He grabbed my arm gently, then let go. “I have to show you something.”

Bridget went running first as if she already knew where we were headed. I kept up with Lee at first but fell behind. We went past the stairs, past the Christmas tree, past the garage door, and down the hallway to another room I hadn’t even known existed.

Bridget stood in front of an easel, holding a paintbrush in either hand.

“Look.” She hopped in place, waving the brushes.

Canvases of all sizes rested against the wall on the left. A table lined with paintbrushes and paint tubes was on the right. Two empty easels, stained with different colors, stood in the middle of the room. Several finished paintings hung on the walls.

I went closer to the nearest one by the door—a painting of Bridget when she was about two years old, sitting at a park, looking at ducks. She wore a simple pink dress with a matching bow tied in her hair. On the bottom right was a signature that read R. Banks.

The walls began to close in and I couldn’t breathe as I zeroed in on her name. Lee must have noticed.

“R for Roselyn,” he said. “Roselyn was Bridget’s mother.”

It became clear why he had initially used Roselyn as Bridget’s fake name. And Banks must be her maiden name. I was going to apologize for his loss, but then I realized I had no idea what their story was.

I wanted him to tell me more, so I thought of a task for Bridget.

“Bridget. The best way for a teacher to know where to start is by knowing what the student already knows. Can you paint something for me?”

“Okay.” She sat on the stool and wiggled with excitement.

I grabbed a medium-sized canvas leaning against the left wall and placed it on the tripod. I handed her a paint palette after dabbing on some acrylic paints.

“Go ahead and paint anything you want,” I said.

Lee watched his daughter with tenderness and turned back to the painting by the door. I stood next to him.

“This was Roselyn’s last painting.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “She wanted to memorize her daughter and give her a gift to remember her mother by.”

“This is precious.” I paused to admire the pink hues on Bridget’s dress, and then asked hesitantly, “What happened to your wife?”

“My wife?” He jerked his head back, his eyes rounded with surprise.

Did he forget who we were talking about?

He furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry. I