Since I Found You

by Ashelyn Drake

  “Well, I have to get going,” Whitney says, giving Mrs. Hershel a hug.

  “I’ll get to work on your floral arrangement for the street fair,” Mrs. Hershel tells her.

  “I’ll walk you out,” I say, my interview long forgotten. “Mrs. Hershel, I’ll be back as soon as I have some information for you.” I wave and follow Whitney.

  “You didn’t tell me you were close to Mrs. Hershel,” I say once we’re at her car.

  “She’s easy to like. I’m sure you’ve noticed. Otherwise you wouldn’t be trying to help her find out who painted the mural.”

  “You don’t think it’s newsworthy on its own?”

  “Sure, but I’m not a reporter.”

  “No, you’re a teacher.” I’m afraid to say goodbye, not sure if I’ll see her again if I do. “I’ll have to keep that in mind in case any of my stories bring me to the school system.”

  “Well, if they do, look me up.”

  “I would, but I don’t know your full name. Or are you famous and don’t need to use a last name?”

  She laughs. “Maybe one day but not right now.” She opens the door but doesn’t get in the car. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Reporter. You do some research, and if you can find out my last name and phone number, which is listed by the way, give me a call.” She winks and gets in her car.

  I stand there dumbfounded that she just gave me permission to look her up.

  Chapter Four

  Whitney

  The hostess seats Elana and me at my favorite table next to the fish tank. I love this spot because I’ve been dying to paint the fish. I snap several pictures of the tank from all angles before finally putting my phone away. We usually eat at the corner café on Main Street because the food is great and the outdoor seating allows us to watch the stars come out, but it’s officially getting too cold for outdoor eating at night. So instead, we chose Bella Noche, a great family-owned Italian restaurant.

  “How did you meet someone in the grocery store parking lot?” Elana asks once we have our menus and the hostess walks away.

  Before I can answer, a waiter approaches us. “Good evening. Can I get you something to drink while you look over the menu?”

  “I’ll have a glass of the red sangria,” Elana says.

  “Same for me.”

  The waiter nods and walks away.

  “So?” Elana says. “The man you met. Spill.”

  “He’s not just any guy. He’s Alex Wilkes, the reporter from For the Record.”

  “The one who wrote about the mural?”

  “That’s him,” I say. “Crazy, right?”

  She shrugs. “I guess he has to eat, too.”

  “I wound up going to see the mural with him.”

  The waiter returns with our sangria, placing the glasses on the table. “Have you had time to look over the menu?”

  We scan the menus quickly, and I settle on the chicken Parmesan, while Elana opts for the chicken cacciatore. Once the waiter leaves, Elana picks up her glass and swirls the sangria around, waiting for me to continue with the story.

  “He was...sweet in a very awkward kind of way.” I laugh, remembering how embarrassed he seemed to be in the parking lot after he realized he was trying to open my car door instead of his.

  “You have the strangest taste in men,” she says. “What does he look like? How old is he? What color eyes will your babies have? I want details.”

  I laugh because Elana is determined to find a green-eyed man to make sure her child winds up with green eyes like hers. I’ve tried to explain genetics to her, but she isn’t listening one bit. “He’s about six feet tall, dark hair and eyes, and I’d say around my age. Oh, and we drive the same car, which is how we met since he thought my car was his and tried to open the door.”

  Her head bobs as she takes in the information. “What made you go see the mural with him? Is he that good-looking?”

  “Yes, but that’s not why. He’s...genuine.”

  Her brows lift. “Really? That’s what you’re going with? Genuine? Who describes a man that way?” She pretends to fan herself with her napkin. “He’s just so genuine,” she says in a southern belle accent.

  I roll my eyes. “Do you know how difficult it is to find an honest man in this city? I’m tired of phonies and superficial people. Alex is very real, and yes, that’s extremely attractive to me.”

  She holds up her hands. “Okay, so when are you going to see him again?”

  I take my sangria in both hands, staring at the orange and apple slices inside the glass. “I guess that’s up to him. He knows my first name and that I’m a teacher. I told him to use his reporter skills and look me up.”

  “You little flirt,” she says with a smile. “I like that. If he takes the time to put in the work, then you’ll know he’s worth your time in return.”

  “That’s the plan.” I still haven’t told Elana the truth about the mural or the other reason I’m interested in Alex. I hate keeping things from her, so I decide to come clean. “Listen...” Before I can say more, the waiter returns with our food. After checking to see if we need anything else, he leaves.

  “God, this smells heavenly,” Elana says. “The chef here is amazing. I’ve seen him before, too. He’s not bad on the eyes.”

  “A man who cooks is right up your alley,” I say. “You should ask the waiter to bring him out here so you can introduce yourself.”

  She pauses, fork halfway between her mouth and plate. “Maybe.”

  I’m surprised she’s considering it, but Elana hates to cook, so finding a man who does would be perfect for her. Done stalling, I say, “I have a confession.”

  She tilts her head and narrows her eyes at me. “What did you do? You have that guilty look on your face.”

  I cut my chicken and then put my utensils down. “I painted the mural.”

  “What?” she says much to loudly. She looks around and then leans across the table and whispers, “What were you thinking? You’re a teacher. You could get arrested for this. It’s vandalism. You could lose your job.”

  “I know, but we both know that’s a real possibility anyway. The art program is most likely going to be cut. I had to do something.”

  “Why this? And why not ask Mrs. Hershel if you could paint the mural. I’m sure she would have loved the idea, and then you wouldn’t have been breaking any laws.”

  “Because if I asked first, this wouldn’t have made the news.” I fold my napkin in my lap before meeting her gaze. “I had to do something big to get the attention of this town. If I can rally the troops and start an uproar over the school board cutting the art programs, then maybe...” I shrug. “Is it stupid?”

  She sighs and reaches across the table, her hand palm up. I place mine on top of it, and she squeezes. “Did you tell Alex it’s you?”

  “No. If I do, he’ll stop writing about it. Mystery solved.”

  “So then, what do you plan to do next? It’s been two days, and nothing has come of the article in the paper.”

  I lower my gaze to my plate. My stomach flips. “I have to paint another one. In an area with a lot more foot traffic.”

  “Are you insane?” She lets go of my hand and widens her eyes at me. “And why are you telling me? Doesn’t this make me an accessory to a crime now?”

  “If I’m caught, I won’t tell people you knew. Don’t worry.” She knows I’d never jeopardize her career.

  “Maybe you should tell Alex. He might be willing to help. Write an article on the proposed cuts instead.”

  “Do you really think anyone will care?” The topic has been brought up at several school board meetings, and no one is doing anything about it. I can’t afford to be passive now. I have to move forward with my plan. But Elana is right. I can’t tell her what I’m going to do because it does put her in danger. Everyone at the school knows we’re close. She’d be questioned at some point. “Look, forget I mentioned it, okay? I didn’t paint it. I was only joking.”

  She knows
I’m lying, but she doesn’t push. “So what’s the plan with Alex? Are you going to see him again?”

  Hopefully. “Depends on his researching skills, I guess.” And how much he wants to see me again.

  After dinner, I don’t go back to my apartment. Instead, I head downtown. Elana was right. Buzz about my mural has already died down. I have to do something else. Something much bigger. And I have to do it now. If I lose my job, so be it. Keeping the arts in school is much more important than my paycheck. I know my mom would’ve thought so. She’d do everything she could to fight for what she believed in, and that’s exactly what I plan to do.

  The streetlights are all lit up when I reach the main stretch with the stores, restaurants, and my destination: Fitness World. I’ve decided to target businesses in the hopes that they won’t mind the free advertising and will waive the idea of pressing charges when I’m caught. And I know I will be caught. Especially if I stay in contact with Alex.

  The streetlight in front of the blank wall on the side of Fitness World is out, which is why I decided on this location next. Hopefully, the broken light will offer me a little cover. This is also the wall that the outside camera is attached to. It faces the opposite direction, which means if I stay underneath the camera, I should be out of view. Still, I pull the navy blue hoodie from my back seat and put it on, securing the hood so it shields my face as much as possible while still allowing me to see what I’m doing.

  I get out of the car and walk to my trunk, where my paints are. I’m careful to only take one color at a time so there’s nothing left behind if I have to flee in a hurry. My nerves are much more rattled than they were when I painted the mural on the boutique. The risk of being seen is much greater. I just hope my hand stops shaking so I can paint something the owner of Fitness World will actually like. I tiptoe to the building, sticking to the shadows as much as possible.

  Now to paint my scene.

  Chapter Five

  Alex

  Work was crazy after I returned to the office. I didn’t have a chance to look up Whitney and wound up having to eat cold Chinese food while in a meeting Mr. Monohan called to address an accusation Priority News was making against For the Record. Mr. Monohan assured all of us that Marjorie Strauss was in the stages of running her paper into the ground and this was her last ditch effort to bring us down with her. Apparently, her son and editor-in-chief, Oliver, ran a story about The Sentinel’s shady hiring practices. That resulted in a slew of letters—suspiciously anonymous—being submitted to For the Record about the nepotism that took place at Priority News a few months back and resulted in mass firing and exiting of employees. Monohan ensured us that he and Paul Weston, the owner of The Sentinel, will be publicizing the real story and bringing Marjorie and Oliver Strauss to their knees.

  I found the entire meeting amusing with the way Nate, Aria, David, and Emily were cackling over the inevitable downfall of Priority News. I have no doubt the anonymous letters we received were written by them and some of their former coworkers at Priority News. According to Mr. Monohan, Marjorie Strauss fired the rest of the previous crew because she suspected their involvement in the letters. A few of the other staff writers, myself included, are a little worried about our jobs now that so many of Mr. Monohan’s former employees are looking for employment. David assured me I have nothing to worry about, but I can’t help wondering if chasing this story isn’t the best move for my career right now after all.

  Still, I’m at my laptop at ten o’clock, looking up the schools in the area and searching the staff directories for Whitney. After checking both elementary schools and middle schools, I get to the high school directory. Since I can’t scan by last name, I have to scroll through each department list name by name. I’m about to give up, thinking she’s sent me on a wild goose chase, when I click on the art department, the only one I haven’t checked yet.

  There she is. Whitney Stillwater. And not only does she teach art. She teaches advanced oil painting. I can’t tear my eyes from the screen. She’s an artist. She teaches other artists. No wonder she was so amazed by the mural. She knows good art when she sees it. But could she have recognized the painter’s techniques? Could it be one of her students? Is that why she looked at me that way when I questioned her being a teacher? Was she trying to keep me from asking more questions? And if so, why would she invite me to look her up? I’d think she’d try to protect the person if it was really one of her students.

  Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe Whitney isn’t involved at all. Her interest in the mural might be nothing more than that of an art lover. The question is, what is her interest in me?

  As soon as I arrive at work Thursday morning, David announces there will be a meeting in the conference room immediately. I look to Cheryl, whose desk is next to mine. “Any idea what’s going on?” I ask.

  “None,” she says. “I got here about two minutes before you. David hasn’t said anything specifically. None of the other departments seem fazed by it, so it must be a news story.” She grabs her tablet off her desk and starts for the conference room. Even though Cheryl is in her early thirties, she loves being a reporter. She told me she doesn’t want to move up the ranks to editor one day because she’d miss chasing stories. I have a feeling stories are most of her life. She’s a plain-looking woman, and I’ve never seen her wear any makeup. Her wardrobe looks almost identical from one day to the next. Charcoal slacks and a black sweater when it’s cold. Charcoal skirt and a black short-sleeved button down blouse when it’s hot. Office rumor is she got a discount for buying them in bulk.

  I follow her into the conference room, noting most of the other staff writers are already seated around the long rectangular table. I take an empty seat by the window and look out, noticing the streets are as busy as usual today.

  David walks into the room with a stack of papers and stands at the head of the table. “Another mural popped up overnight,” he says, cutting right to it.

  “Where?” I ask, leaning forward and giving him my full attention.

  “Downtown outside of Fitness World. This time it’s of runners and weightlifters,” he says. He hands the stack of papers to Mitchell and says, “Take one and pass the rest around.”

  As soon as I get my copy, I see it’s a printout of a grainy photo. The wall next to Fitness World has a mural of people trying to get in shape. Right away I love it because these people aren’t the type you’d see in fitness ads. They aren’t in tip-top shape. The guy on the weight bench has a gut. The woman running has thick legs and some extra around the middle. Sure there are others in better physical shape, too. But I think the use of people who would benefit most from a gym membership is pure genius. I always thought images of perfectly fit people turn off the rest of the world who actually needs to get in shape. Showing people of all shapes, sizes, and fitness levels is reality.

  “Any idea who painted it?” Cheryl asks, pulling my concentration from the photo.

  “None,” David says.

  “Two murals in one week,” I say. I knew there was a story here. My gut instinct was spot-on.

  “I’d be happy to look into it,” Mitchell volunteers, raising his hand like we’re in a classroom.

  David’s gaze meets mine. “Actually, this is Alex’s story.”

  Mitchell’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t look my way. “Alex has never covered a story that’s potentially this big. Everyone’s going to be talking about these murals. My stories have made the front page of the print edition more than anyone else’s.”

  David leans forward, his palms flush on the table. “First, that attitude is very reminiscent of Oliver Strauss. You know how I feel about him. So if you’re planning to keep score, you might as well go apply at Priority News, though I’d do it quickly since that paper is a sinking ship.”

  The room gets eerily quiet. David’s never talked to any of us this way, and we can all tell he’s serious.

  “Sorry, Alex,” Mitchell says, shocking the hell out of
me. “I didn’t mean for it to come off that way.”

  I’m not entirely convinced his words aren’t just meant to appease David, but I nod in acknowledgement.

  “Alex saw this story days before any of us did,” David continues. “I say we give him a shot at it.”

  Mitchell taps his pen against his notepad, clearly not happy to be off the story, but he doesn’t protest.

  “If he needs help, Mitchell, you can pitch in and share the byline,” David adds before turning to the doorway. I follow his gaze to see Aria leaning against the doorframe. How long has she been standing there? “Is that okay with you?” David asks her.

  She steps into the conference room and joins him at the head of the table. “I trust your judgment, and if Alex got the first lead on this, then he should take it.” She addresses me. “I’m confident you can pull this off. And I have a feeling there’s more than a simple news story here anyway. I want a profile on the artist and the message the murals are meant to send.”

  “You got it,” I say.

  She nods to me before leaving the conference room.

  “Okay,” David says. “Alex has work to do. As for the rest of you, if you get wind of anything relating to this story, I want you to go to Alex immediately. Alex, give everyone your number so they can get in touch with you if anything comes up. I’m assuming you’ll be in the field instead of hanging out around here.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  David stares at me for a moment, and I can’t help wondering if he’s questioning my ability to do this. He did tell Mitchell he could share the byline with me if I need help. Is that what he’s anticipating happening? David finally taps his hand against the table twice, his indicator that the meeting is over, and walks out of the room.

  “Nice work,” Cheryl says. “I’m a little jealous.” She slides her printed photo to me. “Number?”

  I scribble my number down for her, and the others have me do the same to their photos. Everyone files out except for Mitchell.