Found

by Karen Kingsbury

  The man was Dayne Matthews.

  She wanted to freeze time, ask everyone in the sanctuary to leave so she could rush to him and ask him why. Why in the world was he here? But she couldn’t. She had to at least get the kids positioned onstage before she could consider going to him. She pursed her lips and blew. Adrenaline was shooting darts through her bloodstream, and she could feel a fine layer of perspiration on her brow.

  Al was winding up his explanation. “In fact,” he was saying, “it isn’t until Aslan comes back to life that the forces of evil know for certain they are defeated.” He looked at his wife and then back at the kids. “That’s what makes this one of the greatest battle scenes in all of theater.”

  Whatever he’d told them, the cast was absolutely gripped by the story. Good thing. Katy’s heart was only barely finding its normal rhythm. She waited until Al was finished before she took center stage. God . . . get me focused here. Please. She felt light-headed. And hold me up; don’t let me faint, God.

  Katy looked at the faces in front of her. “Okay, the battle scene involves everyone except Aslan, the White Witch, and her groupies. At least at first.” She forced out a breath. She refused to look anywhere near the back of the sanctuary. “Everyone except those few characters take the stage, please.”

  The commotion that followed gave Katy the confidence she needed to focus on the job at hand. She arranged the children on opposite sides of the stage—good forces on the right, evil forces on the left.

  “The song here is ‘Deep Magic.’” Katy put her hands on her hips and paced up the narrow aisle between the two groups. “In order to give the audience a sense that the battle could go either way, everyone onstage will gradually shift stage right for several counts. Then everyone will gradually shift stage left.” She looked at her friend. “Rhonda, can you come up and show them the dance steps?”

  Rhonda bounded up the stairs. “All right, let me have Bailey Flanigan and Tim Reed.”

  Katy took the stairs slowly, her focus on the kids. The last thing she needed was to do something that would cause Rhonda to notice Dayne. Her friend was still mad that Katy hadn’t introduced her the last time he was here. But this . . . this was no time for introductions. Katy’s head was spinning, her stomach turning somersaults. Why would he come? Kelly would be six months pregnant by now—even though the tabloids still hadn’t mentioned the fact.

  Only then did anger take the front seat in the emotional ride she was on. How dare he show up now, just when she was starting to survive an hour or two without thinking about him. When she was realizing something she hadn’t even had time to share with Rhonda. That being single wasn’t so bad and that there was no way she could look longingly at one wedding after another until God made it clear that He even wanted her to get married.

  She’d been talking to Jenny and Jim Flanigan and finding peace in the idea of being alone—maybe for now, maybe forever. And just when she felt herself letting him go, just when she’d reached the place of knowing she could live the rest of her life without ever speaking to Dayne Matthews again, he walks into her play rehearsal.

  Katy reached the table below the stage and shot a look at the last row. This time Dayne was watching her. He had his sunglasses off, and his eyes told her he was sorry, that he understood the things she must be feeling. He nodded toward the lobby, stood, and made a quick exit.

  Her heart raced within her.

  Onstage, Rhonda was intensely involved with the actors. Bailey and Tim were running through the first eight counts of the battle dance, and the rest of the cast was standing in rows behind them, trying to figure it out. Rhonda darted from one kid to the next. “Okay, let’s take it from the top and try to stay together.” She positioned herself in the middle of the cast and pointed to Al at the piano.

  Katy began walking slowly backward down the center aisle toward the door. If there was ever a time to make her move it was now. When she was halfway, when it was clear that everyone else in the room was too busy to notice her, she turned and walked forward the rest of the way.

  She saw Dayne the moment she was through the door. He was leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets, sunglasses on again, probably in case she wasn’t the first person he saw. He lowered them now, and their eyes held.

  The pain in his eyes was more than she’d ever seen before. More than merely missing her or not being sure of his direction in life. Something had happened. The hurt in his eyes was so strong she was afraid to ask. “Dayne . . . why . . . ?”

  Three feet separated them, and Katy forced herself to keep her distance. Even so, she drank in the sight of him. He belonged to another woman, whether he was married to her yet or not, but she couldn’t help herself. Just looking at him filled all the empty places in her heart. She anchored herself against the wall and waited.

  He moved sideways and dug his shoulder into the wood paneling. “I need to talk to you.”

  She knew better than to be surprised that he would fly halfway across the country to talk. She glanced at the lobby door. “Deep Magic” was still playing, the scene still being choreographed. She turned back to Dayne. “I only have a few minutes.”

  “I know.” His expression shouted his apology. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just . . .” He took off the baseball cap and ran his fingers through his hair. “You don’t answer my calls.” There was no denying the hurt that flashed in his eyes. “I didn’t know how else to find you.”

  Katy tried to will her heartbeat to slow. “How long are you here?”

  “Just today. I fly out tonight.”

  “Dayne . . .” He would have to stop doing this, stop showing up in Bloomington and expecting her to drop everything for a single conversation. Especially when even an afternoon with him took her months to get over.

  “Please, Katy.” He looked like he might take a step toward her, but he changed his mind, leaving the distance between them. “Meet me at the university football stadium. I’ll be there whenever you want.”

  She should say no. If she had a backbone at all she would tell him that she cared for him and they could talk a few minutes more here, but she wouldn’t meet him. But the idea was ridiculous. If Dayne had come this far to talk to her, then maybe he needed something more than her friendship and advice. Maybe he wanted to talk about the Bible she’d given him last time he was here.

  The hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “You’re not easy; you know that?”

  “I know.” He grinned, but his eyes were still sad. “Meet me, Katy. It’s important.”

  She sighed, and at the same time the music inside the sanctuary stopped. In a matter of minutes the kids or Rhonda or anyone else could come barreling out the door into the lobby. She had to hurry. “Okay. Give me two hours.” She took a step back. “The football field parking lot. Near the front gate.”

  He let his gaze linger on her a moment longer. Then he gave her the slightest nod and hurried out the double doors and into the parking lot. She watched him go, saw him climb into a silver Camry, a car no one would’ve expected Dayne Matthews to drive around town in.

  The rest of practice dragged on. It took Rhonda and Katy most of an hour to get that many kids marching in unison first one direction, then the other—all while looking menacing.

  Only after Katy had dismissed them did Bailey Flanigan pull her aside. “I saw him.”

  “Who?” Katy didn’t see any of the cast look back more than once when Dayne first arrived. She worked to keep her expression blank.

  Bailey raised her brow, as if to say that Katy wasn’t fooling her. “Dayne Matthews. He came in and sat in the back for a few minutes.”

  Katy held her finger to her lips. “Shhh.” She gave Bailey a hug and whispered in her ear, “Don’t tell anyone, please. We’ll talk about it tonight with your mom.”

  “Okay.” Bailey pulled away, her eyes dancing. This was probably the best secret she’d kept in a long time.

  By the time Katy met with the creative team and made
her way out of the parking lot it was a quarter to two. None of the adults had the slightest idea that Dayne had been there. Rhonda was too caught up in her dance notes, and Al and Nancy had been hovering over the piano.

  Katy thanked God all the way to Indiana University, ten minutes across town. Rhonda, for one, already knew about Dayne’s coming baby. How was she supposed to explain his showing up without warning?

  Especially when even she had no idea why he’d come.

  Dayne felt as if he were walking on clouds—storm clouds maybe but clouds all the same. Who was he kidding? Sure, he’d come here to talk to Katy, to tell her what had happened with the baby, and to have someone he could grieve with. But there was more to his intentions than that.

  The moment he saw her he knew more than ever before. Kelly was right. He had fallen for Katy Hart at a small-town performance of Charlie Brown, and she’d owned a piece of his heart ever since. When he walked into the church earlier and saw her onstage, he was grateful for the closest bench. Otherwise his knees might’ve buckled—that’s how she made him feel.

  She was guarded, but he didn’t blame her. She thought he was working things out with Kelly, that the two of them were busy planning for a baby. Under those circumstances there would’ve been no logical reason for him to come. And that’s what she had to be thinking, because she kept her distance more than ever before. No hug, no touch on the arm or hand. Nothing.

  Which was fine. Regardless of his feelings for her, he wasn’t here to make a move on her. He merely wanted her to know what had happened, wanted her to ache with him over his loss and give him some idea what to do next. He had some ideas, but he wanted to run them by her.

  Now it was only a matter of savoring the day and somehow finding the strength to leave her again—the way he always had to leave her. He had two hours to kill, so he parked near the clock tower a block from the university and walked down one of the side streets. With his baseball cap pulled low and his sweatshirt hood bunched up around the back of his neck, he could’ve been any college kid.

  He wore the sunglasses just in case.

  The clouds overhead were growing darker every few minutes, but the sunglasses worked. They told people he wanted to be left alone. He took his time, peering into the store windows, careful to look the other way if he passed someone.

  He had walked by three stores when he came upon a gallery near the university. A sign hung over a group of paintings. When he read the words, he felt his breath catch in his throat. We Sell Work by Local Artist Ashley Baxter Blake. Dayne put one hand on the glass and steadied himself.

  All the way to Indianapolis he’d thought about the Baxters, how hard it was to live with his decision not to contact them, and how tempted he would be this time—like every time—to drive by John Baxter’s house or by the hospital where he’d seen his birth mother the first and only time. Somehow his feelings for the Baxters were closely woven with his feelings for Katy.

  Any time he made the trip to Bloomington he had more in mind than seeing the small-town drama instructor. Always there was a chance something like this would happen. He’d take a walk or a drive and stumble upon the medical office where his sister Brooke worked or the high school where Kari’s husband coached.

  He often looked at the information from his private investigator, information that made him feel as if he knew the Baxters, even if he wasn’t a part of them. But he never dreamed of this, of wandering down a street by the university and seeing his sister’s paintings.

  The PI’s information stated that her work was sold in New York City. In fact, Dayne had made a mental note to look up her work next time he was in Manhattan. But Ashley’s paintings were right here in the store window. He moved closer to the glass so a couple walking in his direction could pass by.

  Each painting represented a slice of Americana—big expansive fields, old farmhouses, grand old maple trees, a countryside with streams meandering through, and a million colors that Los Angeles had forgotten about. Her work felt good on his eyes, and he studied them one at a time.

  The first was a country scene with a white farmhouse in the background. A comfortable-looking porch wrapped around the house, and warm light streamed from the windows. In the foreground was a little blond boy, dancing through the tall grass with a butterfly net in his hand. The title was Catching Summer.

  Next was a painting of an old lady, frail and genteel looking with a teacup in her hand. She sat at a table surrounded by two women and a man, all of whom looked to be in their late eighties. The eyes of each told an unmistakable story. The bigger woman was suspicious, the woman on the far left was timid, and the man was distant—lost in a place decades down the road. Only the woman with the teacup looked perfectly lucid. The look in her eyes could’ve been only one thing: pure unchanging love. The sort of love people in Dayne’s generation knew very little about. The painting was titled Love Never Fails.

  The third painting was of a firefighter in a soot-covered uniform, his face smudged with grime. He was sitting on a bench overlooking a country cemetery, bathed in late-afternoon light. His helmet sat on the bench beside him. In the man’s eyes were a thousand stories, and on his uniform sleeve was a patch that said 9-11, We Will Not Forget. The closest tombstone was anchored by a small wooden American flag and a firefighter helmet. The title of the painting was Still Out There Fighting for You.

  Dayne was touched beyond words.

  Knowing Ashley was a painter and seeing her work at close range were two entirely different things. If she could paint like this, then inside her heart stirred the same deep feelings that made up his own. He brought characters to life on the screen by reaching into a pool of empathy, a deep understanding of people and beauty and emotions.

  Clearly Ashley painted by doing the same thing.

  Goose bumps covered his arms, and he rubbed them. Then before he could worry about being recognized, he went into the store and straight for the counter. Inside the gallery were groupings of artwork broken up by display cases of eclectic odds and ends. The place smelled of strong spices and incense.

  An older woman worked the counter. She seemed distracted, placing price tags on a stack of candleholders. “Hello,” she said and smiled at him for a moment before returning to her work.

  Dayne relaxed some. This was going to be easier than he thought. He tugged the bill of his baseball cap down lower on his forehead. “The paintings out front, the ones by Ashley Blake . . .”

  “Yes.” The woman made a dreamy-sounding sigh. “The girl is absolutely brilliant. I sell more of her work than anyone else’s in the gallery.”

  He had thought about getting only one of her pieces, but it was impossible to decide which one. Each of them held a piece of his sister—a sister he would probably never know. If he couldn’t have a relationship with her, then he could have her paintings at least. He placed a credit card on the counter. “I’d like all three, please.”

  “All thr—” Her tone changed. “Sir, have you looked at the price? Those paintings are eleven hundred dollars each. The frames are an extra two hundred and fifty each.”

  “That’s fine.” Dayne casually turned from the register and began looking at a display a few feet away. He kept his face from the lady. He couldn’t afford to be recognized now, not when he was buying Ashley’s paintings. If the woman knew who he was she’d tell Ashley for sure. Dayne Matthews was here, and he bought three of your pieces!

  The woman was punching in numbers on the register. “Okay, get ready for this.” She punched a few more times. “Four thousand, three hundred and thirty dollars. Including tax.”

  He barely glanced over his shoulder. “You can use the card.” The Visa was perfect for helping him keep his cover. Like his driver’s license, it was issued under his middle and last names. Allen Matthews. A name common enough not to stir up attention.

  Dayne pretended to be studying an iron sculpture. “Oh, I need them shipped to LA. Is that okay?”

  “Definitely.” She bega
n pulling packing supplies from beneath the counter. “I’ll need you to fill out a shipping label.”

  He did as she asked—using the mailbox he had in the San Fernando Valley. The postal service company knew him and were unaffected by his star status. They allowed him to have anything shipped there—no matter the size of the package.

  Just before he took his card and receipt, the woman hesitated. “You look familiar.”

  Dayne’s answer was quick. “My brother’s in here all the time. College kid at IU.” He raised his hand. “Gotta run. Got a plane to catch.”

  “But aren’t you . . . ?”

  He was out the door before she could finish the sentence. She wasn’t one to chase him down the street. Still, she was close to figuring it out, and that bothered him. If she told Ashley, she’d have to wonder. Or maybe she’d think it was because he’d given her a ride home one night. He could’ve stumbled onto her art and bought it for that reason, right?

  Only why was he even in Bloomington at all? Wouldn’t Ashley wonder that? Then he remembered that Ashley and Katy were friends. He allowed himself to relax. Ashley would figure he was here to see Katy—nothing more.

  He tucked his Visa and the receipt into his wallet and changed his mind about more sidewalk shopping. He headed for his car, drove to the Starbucks a few blocks away, and ordered at the drive-thru window. People wouldn’t expect him in Bloomington, but he couldn’t take a chance. He had only a few hours with Katy. He didn’t want anything to get in the way of that.

  Whether he was crazy for being here or not.