* * * *
The singing from next door, beautiful as it was, didn’t help Tabby’s attempts to work. She continued half-heartedly trying to translate her first impressions of Mountain Meadow to the canvas in front of her, but it wasn’t easy. Too perfect. The whole town seemed too perfect. Bright, Rockwell-esque art wasn’t her forte, although she was trying to stretch herself. She slapped her brush and palette onto the small table next to her easel. Who was she trying to kid? She was attempting to create art that was a bit more marketable than her normal subject matter, but Normal Rockwell she wasn’t.
Turned against the opposite wall were the rest of her paintings, some so dark Tabby didn’t look at them again once they were done. She also couldn’t get rid of them. They were part of who she was, part of her personality. She had always painted darker images. Disturbing, some of her instructors had called them. Other teachers hadn’t been so kind. While she knew, logically, there was nothing wrong with her art, she also recognized, with the same logic, that it made some people uncomfortable.
People didn’t look at the work of Edvard Munch and smile. The drawings Kathe Kollwitz produced weren’t hanging behind people’s couches. Tabby knew her work was unlikely to head a list of popular artists. She had accepted that, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t create some commercially viable pieces. She hoped Mountain Meadow would be the inspiration for that. A new start that would give her a fresh perspective on life.
She paused and rolled her shoulders as Katie Scarlett glided into the room. The cat picked her way daintily through the canvases, hopped up into the window seat, and curled up.
“I know. I know. I should go to bed. What kind of artist am I that I paint at night rather than taking advantage of all that marvelous daylight?” Tabby set the brush down and sat next to the closed window, her hand absently stroking Katie’s sleek coat. She examined the house next door, like hers in a lot of ways. There were lights on there, down on the first floor in what would be the equivalent of her dining room. Was he still singing in that lilting tenor voice? Tabby closed her eyes, hearing it again in her head. It had been beautiful, mournful, and a bit lonely.
The beautiful voice from below had soothed and seduced her. Peace was a fantasy she had never found. The rich, male voice had rolled over her like a cool mountain breeze or a dip in a quiet pond. It had also given her a feeling of loneliness. However, unless she changed her approach to life, she would become as lonely here as she had always been. Had the singer below been sharing his talent with his family? His girlfriend?
That was why she’d slammed the window shut.
She wanted life to be different here, hoped she would have a new start. Dropping her head forward, Tabby sighed in resignation. Just once it would be nice not to have people look at her as if she were a freak. Just once it would be nice to feel normal. Did people look at Stephen King or Dean Koontz as weirdos because they wrote stories that often plumbed the worst of what man was capable of?
Tabby turned off the lights. It was time for bed. She was here to find her sister, to start a new life that she hoped would provide a chance to be like everyone else. Surely, the darker side of her art could be kept under wraps.
Tabby rose before dawn. It was her first workday of a week she knew would fly by. As the only art teacher in the town’s small school system, she had two rooms to set up—one at the elementary school and another for both middle and high school, since the two schools shared a campus. She was pleased to see plenty of supplies. The upper grades’ room boasted not only a kiln, but also a great supply of clay and two electric pottery wheels.
There were paints, mostly tempera and watercolors, but she did find a small supply of canvas and acrylics. No oils, which was what she preferred to work in, but this would be a great start for all the kids. Drawing boards were neatly stacked at the back of the room where there were also rolls and rolls of paper, from plain newsprint to bright colors. Tabby was beside herself with happiness.
She’d worried when she accepted the job with such a small system that it would also be impoverished, but it appeared to her the folks in Mountain Meadow did not take arts education for granted. She had already met the music teacher, who also served both younger and older students, and the band director, a bit of a stuffy, fussy man who looked at Tabby’s long flowing skirt and blouse and her Birkenstock sandals and simply raised his brows superciliously.
Tabby sighed when he walked away. Disapproval rolled off him so obviously, even a complete idiot would have felt it. Had he expected June Cleaver complete with sweater sets and pearls? Tabby was sure he wouldn’t be the last to treat her with censure. People often ridiculed or disapproved anything or anyone different. It would probably be best if she kept most of her best artwork to herself.
Images from her childhood flashed before her, but she pushed them away. She was gone. It was over, and other than finding her sister, Tabby wanted no reminders of her past. She had been careful to leave no forwarding address with her college. She had arranged for everything to go to a post office box and hoped that would be enough to prevent anyone tracking her down. Her art had made her a target since she first picked up crayons as a child. Over the years, she had learned to be careful.
Tabby deliberately busied her hands and her brain setting up class rolls and portfolios to take her mind off her childhood. The nightmare images were sometimes too easy to allow back in. The pictures stayed, though, and by the time she stumbled through her kitchen door that afternoon, she flew straight up the stairs to her studio. Painting had always been her outlet, and as long as she kept it to herself, surely she would be safe here.
She set aside her Norman Rockwell-like vision of Mountain Meadow. This time when she painted, the images flowed dark and disturbing. She worked without stopping through the afternoon and evening and on into the night. She didn’t eat, didn’t drink, intent only on getting the pictures out of her head and onto the canvas where she could control them.
* * * *
Joe’s gaze narrowed on the light high up in his neighbor’s house when he arrived home. He had yet to see the new teacher, just her cat, which dozed during the mornings on the wide veranda as Joe went out for his morning run. The cat was a sleek, black-coated animal with the most amazing golden eyes that followed him wherever he went. Joe knew from Tyler that rather than fitting his image of the matronly teacher, Miss MacVie was young and she looked like her cat, whatever that meant. Tyler wasn’t quite at the age yet where he paid attention to females. Either way, he had one advantage over Joe—Tyler had actually seen the mysterious Miss MacVie.
Joe fixed dinner, listening to some classic rock while he hummed along. As he sat down at the kitchen table, he glanced out and saw once again that the only light came from the third floor window. After dinner, he worked in his study, polishing his sermon. When he stopped for a snack around eleven, the same light still burned in the house next door. In the middle of the night, he went downstairs to get a drink of water, pausing as he looked out and saw the light was still on. Was she all right? His brow furrowed as he stared at that window. Weren’t artists always going on about needing natural light? That must mean they painted during the day. So what was she doing?
He stepped out onto his back porch. The sash was open, and for a moment, he thought he heard soft sobs. Joe frowned and started to cross the drive to her house, but then the light went off. He watched the window for several minutes, but no other light came on. He was torn between wanting to find out if she was okay, and not wanting to intrude on someone he had never met at one o’clock in the morning.
* * * *
Tabby felt drained and glad it was Friday. The school year started Tuesday, right after Labor Day. Although she looked forward to it, today she simply wanted to get her work done and go home. She’d finished last night’s painting, and if she could help it, she wouldn’t look at it again. Maybe someday she would find a market for her work, but not now. It was too personal.
Tabby decided she would use the weekend to get things in order in the house and finally go to Tarpley’s to stock the kitchen. When she arrived home a little after noon, she spotted a tall, lean figure with broad shoulders and a tight butt headed through the backyard next to hers over to the Baptist church. His caramel-colored hair glinted with golden highlights in the sun. No way was that the minister. She had pictured an older man with slicked back hair and a bit of a paunch when the real estate agent mentioned she would be living next to the parsonage. Tabby was surprised to find out he was not married, having assumed he was an older, widowed man. Maybe this guy was a parishioner.
Well, no matter. Minister or not, she had no intention of making his acquaintance. Tabby made a point of staying as far as possible from organized religion. Some of the biggest hypocrites hid behind the pages of Bibles they made a habit of thumping. In her experience, the more of a hypocrite they were, the louder they thumped.
Tabby retreated inside her house to assess what she’d need from the store. When that was done, she changed her skirt and long-sleeved shirt for a pair of biking pants and shoes. As hot as it was, she still slipped a long-sleeved shirt over her head so her arms and torso were covered from her wrists to her neck. She scraped her hair back into a ponytail, put on her helmet, and went for a ride.
Heading out of town quickly, she enjoyed the wind and the sun on her face as she rode along a narrow, twisting back road. She had a specific destination in mind, at least an address she wanted to check out, and was vaguely disappointed when she pushed her bike up the long, drive to find not the house her mother had described, but a newer, log home, and it appeared deserted.
Tabby studied the small grove of trees at the top of the hill behind the house and left her bike near the drive as she climbed to the top. Mama had told her she used to sit there, and Tabby wanted to see it close up. She was surprised when she reached the summit to find a tiny headstone there inscribed with the name Hope Richardson and a date thirteen years earlier. There was also a quote, “Like our love, born too soon. You will always be our best and brightest Hope.”
The stone didn’t look weathered enough to be thirteen years old, but it also wasn’t brand new. Why would a stone with the name Richardson be here on this land? Tabby’s fingers tingled as she touched the cool stone. The edges around the engraving were rough. Tabby frowned. She looked at the quote again, overcome with the feeling that she didn’t know nearly enough about the woman she had come to find.
All at once, she felt as though she were intruding, which in fact, she was. A nervousness she couldn’t explain overwhelmed her, and she leaped to her feet before running down the hill back toward her bike.
“Whoa!” A voice like a whip cracked, and strong hands grabbed her arms. Tabby froze. She fought back the urge to struggle away from the firm grasp as mental images of another man in another time flooded her brain. She had to fight the panic nearly blinding her, but it was a losing battle.
Chapter 2
“Let me go!”
The tall man’s scowl deepened. “Who are you? And what are you doing here? You do realize you’re on private property, don’t you?”
As soon as he released her, Tabby took a deep breath and brushed her hair off her face. Back under control, she looked up, not that she had to tilt her head far. He paused for a moment, his thick brows still drawn together over dark gray eyes.
“Who are you?” he asked again, now with an underlying curiosity that bordered on intense. He wore authority like a well-worn coat, an obviously complex man who, right now, was frowning ferociously.
“Tabitha MacVie,” she whispered, desperately trying to think of an excuse for why she was there. She cleared her throat. “The new art teacher in Mountain Meadow. I—I’m sorry. I was riding and thought this was a road, and then—then I got up here and saw the trees, and…”
“…And you’re a very bad liar,” the man said. While she no longer sensed any real hostility from him, persistence burned in his gaze. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Evan Richardson, the commonwealth’s attorney. Now, maybe you could tell me who you really are?”
Tabby’s chin jutted. “Tabitha MacVie, and I am the new art teacher.”
“But you didn’t just stumble on this place, did you? Are you from here?”
“No.” She tilted her head at him. “You said your name is Richardson.” She glanced over her shoulder, deciding to take a stab in the dark. “Like the baby?”
He nodded, still watching her with narrowed gray eyes. “Why are you here, Miss MacVie?”
“I came here because my mother used to live here, and I came because I was hoping to find my sister. Maybe you know her.”
“Why don’t you tell me who you believe this sister is?” Caution shadowed his words as if he somehow already knew what she would say, but wasn’t sure he wanted to hear her actually voice it.
“Her name’s Jenny. Jenny Owens. Mama said I would find her here. This was where she grew up, but it looks deserted. Has she moved, Mr. Richardson? I would like to find her, to tell her about Mama. I have a letter for her.”
“Jenny’s my wife.” His eyes narrowed. “She’s expecting our child in less than a month. I don’t want her upset at this point, so what’s in this letter?” His gaze shifted to the tiny gravestone on the hill. “We’ve already had our share of troubles—then and now.”
“Mama’s dead,” Tabby said. “She died last year of cancer, but she wanted Jenny to know why she left. I—I came to tell her.” Her voice died as she, too, looked up the hill and her brow furrowed. “Never mind, Mr. Richardson. It’s been my secret for the last year. I can keep it a while longer.”
Worry darkened his expression, making it obvious how much he cared for his wife. Tabby wondered if Jenny knew how lucky she was. This was the kind of man who would always look after her first, even before himself. Tabby smiled. “My sister’s lucky to have you. I’ll go. I’m sorry I trespassed.”
“Wait.” He reached out to touch her arm, but Tabby avoided the contact without making it obvious. She didn’t liked to be touched, a holdover from her childhood that she couldn’t seem to shake. “I could give you a ride.”
She shook her head. “No. I need the exercise to clear my head.”
Evan nodded as if he understood. “We live on Maple Street. If you’d like to come by this weekend, we’ll be around.”
Hope stirred, but Tabby had learned long ago to be cautious. With a shift and a tug at the long sleeves of her shirt, she asked uncertainly, “Are you sure?”
Evan smiled. “Jenny would have my hide if I kept you away. In fact, why don’t we make it for dinner tomorrow night? Nothing fancy. We’ll throw something on the grill and invite our neighbors, Holly and Jake. Holly’s brother, Tyler, might even be one of your students.”
“Tyler Morgan?” At Evan’s nod, she smiled. “I’ve met him. I’d like to meet some other people, if you’re sure.”
“Four-twenty-four Maple Street. Around six tomorrow.”
He slipped behind the wheel of the big SUV he was driving, reversed, and headed down the drive. Tabby twisted her hair into its ponytail, put her helmet on, and mounted her bike to head home. She would meet her sister. She could give her the letter Mama had dictated to her. Then she would be done. Tabby had purposely kept herself from forming any expectations beyond that.
* * * *
Joe couldn’t stop smiling. Vacation bible school finished Friday night with a big, noisy cookout in the back of the church. Joe watched all the younger kids running around playing on the swing sets and the jungle gym while the older kids engaged in a spirited game of volleyball. He moved from group to group, spending time not only with the kids but also with the parents who were invited to this final night.
As he locked up the church and walked home, he reflected on where he was. A full year in Mountain Meadow and his ministry was paying off, particularly with the kids, which was exactly where he wanted to have an impact. Membership
was up among younger families, but even the older members were content with some of the changes he’d introduced.
Things had turned a little sticky last year when Jake and Holly first showed up, but since the entire town soon fell in love with Holly and her baby, Noelle, that awkwardness was long forgotten. The only unsettling moments from his point of view were the constant invitations to dinners where someone’s unmarried sister, cousin, or best friend from high school suddenly showed up. He wouldn’t mind a date now and then, but he’d prefer to do the choosing on his own. He’d also prefer to eat something other than spaghetti or meatloaf.
Joe’s glance slid to the house next to his. He glimpsed a tall, slim woman lifting a bike and setting it on the veranda before she disappeared indoors. Ah. That must be the elusive Tabitha MacVie, not at all old it seemed. In fact, what he’d so briefly glimpsed had made his breath catch. Though her hair had been back in a braid, Joseph could tell that Tyler hadn’t exaggerated, it was long and nearly as black as her cat.
He wondered if Miss MacVie ate spaghetti or meatloaf. He hoped not.
As the evening wound down, his eyes strayed to the house more and more. When darkness fell and he saw the only light was once again in the third floor room, he was disappointed. What was she doing up there? He was tempted to grill Tyler, but that would be a bit too obvious. Not to mention pathetic.
With effort, Joe put her from his mind and returned to his house. He had a lot to get done Saturday, plus rehearsing his sermon one more time, and he didn’t need to be thinking about the mystery woman. But despite his promise to himself, when he got up the following morning to run, his eyes settled on her back door. The first thing he noticed was the bike was gone. Was she out riding again?
Lost & Found Love Page 2