The Art of Love (The Windswept Saga) Page 10

  Her second chance had come around, even though she hadn’t asked.

  Chapter 10

  They made it through the first month with no further moments of awkwardness. Chandler kept his distance physically, greeting her amiably, inviting her to lunch when the schedule permitted, and otherwise maintaining professionalism. There were times—more than a few—when he wondered about the taste and texture of her mouth, imagining the feel of her in his hands. So much of it was kept close to the vest—if he shared too much with CJ and Alison or Mark and Christa, they would simply continue their gentle prodding—which was about as subtle as bolt of lightning and about as painless as a cattle brand. He certainly didn’t need anyone to tell him how he already felt. Taylor’s continued presence brought a fresh reminder every day that he wanted a woman who’d already been hurt enough. What could he possibly offer her? Nothing could ever compare to what she’d had, what she’d loved and lost. Still, she looked like she’d fit good against his body.

  He cursed himself and shoved some supplies in a canvas bag. When the truck was fully loaded, he locked up and drove toward the elementary school. Christa had warned him, plenty, that taking care of her two was a cakewalk compared to an entire classroom of them, but Chandler had always had an easy way about him, one that seemed to calm anyone in proximity, and children were no different.

  Taylor met him in the parking lot. He’d insisted she not bother coming into work today, because the gallery was closed. She’d be compensated for her assistantship in the classroom, over her own loud protests. Sometimes a man just had to put his foot down.

  “Chandler, do you need any help?” She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, noting that he carried a bag of canvases over one shoulder, and two smaller, but no less heavy, satchels in his left hand.

  He nodded, and she thought it was done with some reluctance. “If you could take this bag,” he said, handing it to her carefully. “It’s got varnish, brushes, pastels, pencils—for the kids to look at but not touch—tools of the trade. The other bag is water-soluble finger-paint.”

  She hauled the bag over her shoulder and moved to hold the door open for him. “Sounds like you’ve thought of everything.”

  “Hope so.” He smiled uneasily. “You sure you’re up to this?”

  “They’re schoolchildren, Chandler, not radioactive mutants,” she replied in a defensive tone.

  “That’s what you think,” he murmured from the corner of his mouth. She laughed in spite of herself.

  “You teach, I’ll assist. No need to worry, cowboy.”

  “Hmm. If you say so, ma’am.” He motioned for her to enter the classroom first, and they shared a terse smile as he followed her.

  Inside the tidy classroom sat no less than twenty-five enraptured kindergarteners, greeting their visitors with the same sort of admiration a child usually reserves for sparklers, polar bears, and bright red fire engines. Christa brightened, stood, and cleared off the remaining items on her desk, placing them in drawers for the time being. Chandler and Taylor placed their wares on the smooth surface, and she stood, watching, as he removed two folding desktop easels from his large bag and displayed two of his unsold works for the children to see. Next he removed the items he’d brought and laid them in an orderly line at the front of the desk. Small voices whispered in curiosity at the purpose for each tool. Finally he took the heaviest bag and removed the jars of finger-paint, hiding them behind the canvases and out of sight of the children.

  Christa met Chandler’s eyes in that instinctual way that came from being not just siblings but also close friends. “You ready, bro?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.” He directed his gaze to Taylor. “You ready?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. Something flickered in his eyes, but she chose to ignore it and listen as Christa introduced them to the captivated audience.

  “Students, today I have a very special treat for you. This is Chandler Adams, a painter who hails from our hometown. He is also my brother, if you couldn’t tell from the strong resemblance.” He smiled back at her gratefully. “And this is his assistant, Miss Taylor Holt. I want you to show them the same amount of attention and respect that you would for me. Think you can do that?” Small heads nodded in unison. “Good. And without further ado…” She stepped aside, found a place alongside Taylor, and motioned with her head. Chandler stepped forward at her cue, hands at the ready.

  “Thank you for that introduction, Mrs. Jasper.” Taylor noted the nervous lilt in his voice—he was confident, but also anxious about stepping out of his comfort zone. “I become interested in painting when I wasn’t much older than you are now. At first it was just a hobby, a way to prove to myself I could do something. Over time it became my favorite thing, and now it’s my life’s work. I get to do something every day that I love, and not everyone can say that.” A small hand rose in the front of the room. “I see we have a question in row one. What’s your name, young man?”

  “Chandler,” he said cautiously.

  He smiled warmly at the boy. “That makes two of us, cowboy. What’s your question?”

  “Can you make a lot of money as a painter?”

  He studied the boy for a moment, carefully considering his question. “It’s like anything else, young man. You need to work hard at it. Try to practice every day if you can. Find other people who share your interests. Look for people who appreciate your talent and seek out opportunities. I got lucky because I had great parents, great siblings, and wonderful friends who encouraged me. I studied art in college and jumped at the chance to learn as much as I could. Don’t be afraid to keep learning. Just because you’re not in school doesn’t mean you can’t be a student. So, yeah, you can make a lot of money as an artist, but be prepared to work hard. That’s the key to life—hard work.” He clasped both hands together and held them below his waist. “Did I answer your question, Chandler?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Thank you.” And he finished his reply with a broad, gap-toothed smile.

  “Anything else?” No hands were forthcoming.

  “Why don’t you talk about these fascinating supplies you’ve brought along today?” Christa suggested.

  He took her proposal gladly and discussed, at a reasonable level of detail for such small minds, the primer and varnish artists utilized before and after a project; the pencils of varying hardness or softness, drawing many a blank stare from the peanut gallery; pastels, which resembled closely enough chalk and crayons to render some inquisitiveness; the wide variety of paper and canvases artists chose to work with for varying pieces; and finally, a small selection of paintbrushes from the many he owned. They were generally fascinated with the finer-tipped ones and especially the fanned bristles.

  “How long did it take you to paint those pieces?” one student asked quietly.

  “Sometimes I will make a series of sketches before I commit a piece to canvas. You can also spend too much time looking for the right hues of paint. But from start to finish, each of these took two weeks.” A hand shot up in the back of the classroom. “Yes?”

  “Did you bring any paint for us?” He looked toward his sister and Taylor, a small grin touching his lips, before addressing the classroom.

  “I did.” This was met with whispers of excitement. “And the paint will wash out of your clothes but please be careful with it. It’ll go further and you’ll have more fun if you keep it clean.” His words would likely fall on deaf ears, but at least the kids would have a good time. “Miss Taylor? Would you like to help distribute paper and paint?” One corner of his mouth quirked up as he awaited her answer.

  “Of course.” Christa handed her a stack of thick, durable paper and she proceeded to gift a few pieces to each child. She studied their faces, all bright, beautiful, with a zest for life. Riley would be about their age, she realized. He could be one of these children, learning about art. But it would have been done in another place, far away from this quiet corner of Wyoming and Chandler’s skillful tutelage. Thoughts o
f Riley felt dangerous at a moment like this, and she struggled to push them to the back of her mind. She resumed her post beside Christa and the two women watched as Chandler got hands-on with his eager audience.

  “I hope he doesn’t mind green paint splattered on that shirt,” Christa whispered. “My kids are smart and inquisitive, but they’re not tidy.” Chandler’s laugh echoed across the room.

  “He seems to be enjoying himself,” Taylor observed.

  “He loves kids,” Christa replied. “I honestly think he should finish up his college coursework and become an art teacher. Don’t get me wrong,” she continued. “I’m thrilled that he’s following his passion. I just wouldn’t mind him as a coworker.”

  Taylor nodded. “It sounds like he’s being pulled in five different directions,” she perceived.

  “He does that to himself,” Christa revealed. “That’s not a knock against his character. He just has a lot going on in that brain of his.”

  “I can certainly understand that,” Taylor said sympathetically. Their eyes locked onto him, totally relaxed, slapping a paint-covered hand onto a sheet of paper.

  “Why don’t you come to our house for dinner this Friday?” The question startled Taylor, and she turned to meet Christa’s eyes.

  “Do I need to bring anything?” she asked, accepting the invitation before she’d even taken a moment to consider it.

  She smiled. “Just bring yourself.”

  A moment of realization washed over her. “How should I dress?”

  Christa laughed. “Dress like yourself.” She winked at Taylor. “I mean, I let Mark wear his boots at the table. You’ll be among friends.”

  “Okay,” she answered hesitantly. “I’ll come.”

  “Six o’clock,” Christa added. “And don’t be nervous. I’ll draw you a map if that’ll help. We live halfway between the main ranch house and the bunkhouses.” The women continued their dialogue as Chandler seemingly helped each and every child in the class discover the joy of painting. Christa drew her finely-detailed map, which Taylor appreciated. Later, as she helped repack the art supplies and canvases, she noted Chandler and Christa whispering about something, his face casual while her tone was insistent. She brushed it off and felt guilty for even attempting to eavesdrop.

  ***

  “Mom?” Taylor came into the house, a huge smile on her face, and looked until she found her mother at the kitchen table, studying a knitting pattern.

  Alice glanced up and returned her smile. “You look well, dear. How was your day?”

  “It was great,” she replied, taking the chair closest to Alice. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, dear. Remember what happened with Blade and Tricia?”

  “The plane crash?”

  “That’s the one. Blade washed up on the desert island but Tricia’s body was lost at sea.”

  “And as soon Raven found out, she left Mitch again and went on a never-ending quest to find her true love.”

  “Which she did,” Alice confirmed. “It’s amazing how these soap heroines are the only people able to find an uncharted island. She’s been nursing Blade back to health and today he was finally well enough.”

  “Oh, no,” Taylor surmised. “They made love.”

  “Uh-huh. And then in the next scene Mitch tracked Tricia down.”

  Taylor gave her mother a bemused grin. “So she’s alive?”

  “And living in a convent—with amnesia. She has no clue who she is.”

  “But Mitch knows.”

  “Exactly.” Alice laid her magazine down and smoothed her hands across its cover. “How was it? Were you okay, being around the children?”

  She nodded. “I was scared at first but Chandler put my mind at ease. And I also realized that no amount of tears is ever going to bring Riley back. I just have to move on, slowly. Never forgetting him, how much I loved him, but feeling like my life isn’t over.”

  “You could get married again,” Alice offered gently. “You could still have a family.”

  She placed her hand atop her mother’s. “I have you. That’s all I need.”

  Alice wanted to tell her daughter, once again, that she wouldn’t be around forever—but now wasn’t the time. “I’m going to start dinner,” she said, lifting from the table.

  “That reminds me, Mom. I won’t be here for dinner Friday.”

  “Oh? That sounds promising.”

  “Christa invited me to come have dinner with her, Mark, and their kids.”

  “They make a beautiful couple,” Alice said absently, chopping vegetables atop an antique wooden board. “I imagine they’ll have more kids before they stop.”

  “They seem really happy, Mom, just from what I’ve been able to gather.” She looked down at the table and stared at her fingers. “I don’t know if I was ever that happy with Liam,” she admitted.

  “Love comes in many different forms,” Alice reminded her. “Be careful not to compare yourself to anyone else.”

  “I’ll try to remember that. So you’re okay with me not being here?”

  Alice turned toward her and smiled. “Of course. You’re young and should be out there living. Don’t spend all of your spare time with an old woman.”

  Taylor knew about mortality, and forgot sometimes that her mother wasn’t young anymore. Still, she seemed in good health. Was Alice, in some subtle way, trying to prepare her daughter for a life without her? She didn’t like to consider that possibility, but maybe it was time she did. Life rarely ever went according to plans.

  “Taylor?” She looked up, surprised to see her mother standing so close to her. “Would you help me open this jar?”

  She stood and placed a hand lovingly on her mother’s arm. “Of course. I should really help you cook more often, Mom.”

  Alice smiled and handed her daughter the offending jar. “It’s a very good skill to have,” she replied.

  ***

  Mark emerged from the shower, hair combed into place but still damp, wearing a fresh set of clothes. He found Christa in the kitchen, hard at work, glazing a spiral-sliced ham.

  “It’s not even Easter,” he murmured, leaving a soft kiss on her temple. Even harried, with blonde tendrils escaping a carefully-crafted ponytail, she looked gorgeous.

  Christa laughed. “Well, I wanted to make something special, but not extravagant.”

  “Looks good either way.” He moved past her toward the upper cabinets as she slid the pan back into the oven. “I’ll set the table,” he offered.

  “Thank you, honey. I’ve been running around like a madwoman trying to get everything done.”

  “You’re cute when you’re frustrated,” Mark teased from the corner of his mouth. “Should we pull out a bottle of wine?”

  “Please,” she responded. She removed a covered dish from the other oven, checked her potatoes and vegetables for tenderness.

  He chose a bottle of wine and left it atop the counter, alongside a corkscrew. “So,” he began.

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “So?” she echoed.

  He gave her a devilish grin, eyes alight with humor. “Does your brother know you’ve invited his ex-girlfriend to dinner?”

  “I figured I would surprise him.”

  “Uh-huh. And does Taylor know you invited Chandler?”

  “It may have slipped my mind,” she said, tearing her gaze from him and focusing on a tossed salad. “I mean, who I invite to my house is my business,” she measured out.

  Mark laughed. “True enough.” He walked around the island and sidled up to her, placing one hand alongside her hip. “I’m just worried that they may not feel so benevolent about your motives.”

  “And what do you think?” She rested her head against him before he pulled her into a tender kiss.

  “I think your heart is always in the right place, my love.” He smiled thoughtfully at her. “But we probably oughta prepare for a side of fireworks with our potatoes.” She half-frowned at him, knowing he was right. They were interrupte
d of any further discussion by a knock at the door. “Saved by the bell,” Mark joked. “Come on in, bud,” he said once he’d pulled the door open.

  Chandler slapped him on the shoulder. “You didn’t get cleaned up on my account, did you?”

  “Hell no,” Mark retorted. “I was just necking with my wife, and she prefers I don’t smell like a horse.”

  Christa let out an expression of mock exasperation. “Mark Jasper, I can hear every word you’re saying!” Both men turned at the clattering of oven doors. “We weren’t necking.”

  “Bullshit,” Mark shot back good-naturedly. “And we only stopped because your brother showed up.”

  Chandler laughed and moved toward the kitchen. “Hey, sis,” he said, stooping down to kiss her on the cheek. “Where’re the kids?”

  She hugged him briskly before shifting her focus back to the food. “With Mom and Dad,” she replied. “They’re a lot better with a teething baby than we are—even our own teething baby. Go figure.”

  His gaze swept across the room and to the dining table. “I notice you’ve set four places,” he said. “Care to explain yourselves?”

  Mark raised his hands in defense. “There was no manipulation on our parts. Dinner is dinner.”

  Chandler looked from one to the other, his left eyebrow raised skeptically. “And does Taylor know that you invited me as well?”

  Christa hemmed and hawed before answering. “Who said I invited Taylor?”

  He formed his index and middle fingers in a V shape, pointed them toward his face, and then hers. “Same eyes, remember? I know when you’re stretching the truth.”

  “A neat trick,” Mark joked. “Even I can’t read her that well.”

  “You read me in other ways, cowboy,” Christa added quietly. Their eyes met in something unspoken but in no way silent.

  “TMI,” Chandler retorted. “You keeping CJ in line?” he asked, shifting gears.

  Mark folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “Don’t tell Alison I said this, but sometimes I think your brother was crazy to retire. He can still wrangle with the best of them.”