Lost & Found Love. Laura Browning

always been an important outlet for him. Sure, being able to sing was a tremendous bonus for the guy who had to stand up in front of a congregation, but Joe loved classical and pop music too. So that’s what he launched into from the privacy of his own living room. With the evening breeze fluttering the curtains at the windows, it was the perfect way to spend the bit of free time he allowed himself.

      He heard a window slam next door. The light in the neighbor’s third floor window was still burning, but the window had been firmly shut. Had he disturbed her with his singing? They would have an uneasy relationship if that were the case because Joe not only loved to sing, he loved to listen to music. Still he tried to be thoughtful. That was part of who he was. The angry, defiant teen had disappeared long ago.

      He closed his own windows on that side of the house before turning up his stereo while he made a snack. With plate and glass in hand, he went to his study to work on his schedule for the week. Even with the addition of vacation bible school, he still needed to fit in the visits he made to the nursing homes and members of his congregation who were unable to get out and about much. And there was a sermon still to write.

      He started on the sermon first. Joe found that once he had an idea the words flowed. He thought about Hannah and Charlie. The two children had wanted to share, but had simply been unable to move past their differences until they were shown how. He smiled and began to write.

      When he stretched and stood up a couple hours later, he noticed the house next door was dark. He wondered again about his new neighbor. Of course he knew she was the new art teacher for the Mountain Meadow Public Schools. How could he not? It was a small town where everyone seemed to know everything. His parishioners also enjoyed sharing whatever news they had.

      What bothered Joe was the comments weren’t always well-intentioned, or didn’t seem to be.

      The town’s Facebook page had several comments about the fact that the new teacher had put a sizable down payment on the house next door, and they were already wondering how a new teacher could afford that. Joe shook his head. Facebook, phones, or face-to-face—Mountain Meadow loved to gossip.

      If this teacher was like the last few new teachers to move here, she was nearing retirement and simply seeking a place where she could work for a few years until she could draw a second pension after working to retirement age in a neighboring state. Joe contented himself with his picture of a kindly, matronly woman who would have kids working on papier-mâché and macramé, maybe some clay projects for the older kids. He had modified his vision somewhat to make her lean and athletic after getting a glimpse of the bike, but in his imagination she still had Birkenstocks. He smiled as he turned the lights off and went to bed.

      * * * *

      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,