“I’m on call,” he said. “I mean, I might have to fly out Sunday evening.”
“Okay. Don’t worry, I’ll be available, but I’m still not sure about the helicopter.” I tapped my mug nervously and glanced over to the shelf in the family room. No Cupid there.
It wasn’t only the helicopter ride, but getting close to Leonardo and Bridget on personal time might not be a good idea. For so many reasons.
“Of course. I understand. You can let me know later.” His mug landed with a light thud on the table.
“You moved Cupid.” I changed the subject to take the focus away from me.
Bridget jumped off her stool, raced to the sofa, and picked up the statue on the end table.
“I moved it,” she said. “I put it on the table because it’s so cute. I wish it was real. Mrs. Fong said Cupid shoots magical arrows at two people when he wants them to fall in love. Is that true?” She hugged the Cupid in front of her.
“Shoosh. Shoosh.” Bridget pretended to shoot imaginary arrows at Leonardo and me, and I didn’t know what to think of that.
Leonardo got out of his seat and walked toward her. “Cupid is the son of Venus, the goddess of love and beauty. It’s Roman mythology. Something you’ll learn more about when you get older.”
While he went on and on about mythology, I picked up the plates and took them to the sink. I turned on the faucet to let the water run for a bit. When I turned, I jerked. I nearly ran into Leonardo, who held our mugs like an experienced waiter.
“You need to make some noise, Mr. Medici.” I let out a breath, resting my hand on my chest.
“Call me Lee, Kate.” He placed the mugs on the counter. “Mr. Medici makes me sound old. I wanted to help. Like I said, you’re not here to take care of me. You shouldn’t have to clean up my mess.”
Jayden had never lifted a finger to help me. We’d mostly eaten out, but the times I’d cooked for him, he’d sat in front of the TV while I did all the work. The two men were so different.
“That’s sweet of you, but I don’t mind.”
It was 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 guess I forgot to tell you.” He glanced over his shoulder at his daughter. “Roselyn was my younger sister.”
“Ohhh.” I leaned my back to the wall beside the painting. “I’m sorry. I thought ... So Bridget isn’t your ...” My perspective shifted and several things made sense.
He shook his head, shifting to stand in front of me. “Bridget is my niece, but most people assume she’s my daughter. I don’t bother correcting them. They’d only ask more questions.” His face stiffened. “It’s none of their business. The only people who know the truth are those I trust.”
He trusted me?
“Thank you. I won’t tell anyone.”
“I appreciate that.” He smiled at Bridget when she turned to him. When she went back to her painting, he murmured, “Roselyn passed away a little over two years ago.”