A Summer To Cherish

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.

- Picasso

A famous artist didn't just disappear.

Ashley Madden steered her beat-up Chevy convertible around the final treacherous curve connecting her hometown of Greenwood, South Carolina, to Cherish, South Carolina. Earlier, a storm had kicked up, leaving a debris of tree branches and leaves. Fortunately, the trip was under eighty miles and took less than two hours to drive by car.

The route led her through the center of the town, which boasted peaceful, immaculate streets, brick-paved sidewalks, and a decided lack of skyscrapers.

She lowered her car window, drew in a breath of a rain-soaked breeze, and snagged the last peanut butter cup from her stash. She took a bite and exhaled a contented sigh.

Unhealthy food was definitely the tastiest.

Her gaze fixed on the road ahead, and she eased up on the gas pedal as she neared her destination. She kept her chin high, her eyes alert. This artist needed to be found, and she intended to find him. She was determined to preserve her free-art program for handicapped children and their families low on funds.

Art made people think, made people feel. Art inspired her students to dance and jump up and down with joy.

And art lasted a long time—certainly longer than her relationship with her ex, who'd dumped her with a quick text:

Sorry it didn't work out between us.

And just like that, the relationship was over.

She eased her convertible into the first available parking space near Thumbs Up, a plant retail store and greenhouse. Squinting in the rearview mirror, she patted down her cowlick. Why couldn't it grow in the same direction as the rest of her hair?

It never occurred to her to fuss with her appearance. She didn't consider herself pretty—she was of average height, though her feet were too big. People often remarked on her ready smile.

Today, she'd dressed in her typical uniform of a plain white T-shirt and chambray shorts. She couldn't imagine styling her honey-blond, shoulder-length hair other than tying it in a haphazard ponytail. Her makeup ritual consisted of sunscreen and a rosy lip gloss.

She shut off the ignition, unbuckled her seatbelt, then walked across the damp grass to the entrance of the greenhouse. Thick summer air hung heavy, the sun appearing through a gauze of humidity.

She shaded her eyes and peered at the sky. God's golden assurance, sunlight forever faithful. Regardless of the rain, He repeatedly guaranteed something better was around the corner.

Ashley entered the greenhouse, instantly recognizing the dark-haired woman engrossed in watering a pot of mauve African violets.

"Sarah?" Ashley came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.

Sarah whirled. "Ashley! Twinkle!"

Ashley smiled. Her nickname from a precious student. The name had stuck.

Sarah set the can to the side and tugged the apron from her slim waist. "How was the drive?"

"The roads are a mess from the windstorm." Ashley spoke slowly to help Sarah read her lips. Sarah had been diagnosed recently with a hearing loss and wore hearing aids.

"Were the roads littered with trees?"

"It could've been worse." Ashley embraced her friend in a hug. "I'm here and I'm fine."

"I'm due for my lunch break. Will you help me haul these bags to the storeroom first?" Sarah pointed to several bags of soil and sheepishly smiled.

Ashley returned the smile. "Of course."

Afterward, they headed toward the rear patio. Sarah grabbed a couple of bottles of water, a turkey sandwich on rye bread, chips, and a chocolate bar.

"Want to share?" She handed Ashley a bottle of water.

"Sure." Ashley slid onto a picnic table beneath a pink-flowered crepe myrtle tree. "I'll take the candy."

Sarah sat across from Ashley and whispered a prayer of grace before unwrapping the sandwich.

Ashley opened her candy bar. Chocolate, her favorite. "Any luck locating David Fodero?" she asked.

Sarah unwrapped her sandwich. "Your reclusive painter?"

"He's not my painter. He's Nancy Trainor's painter," Ashley corrected between bites.

Sarah frowned. "Why would an artist like David have his work carried in a small gallery in a tiny southern town?"

"He and Nancy studied together in New York City. She decided her talent lay more in finding and promoting artists than in being an artist." Thoughtfully, Ashley chewed. "David is happy to help out her gallery by having her represent him."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't his artwork sell for tens of thousands of dollars?"

"He allows his works to be sold for lower prices in her gallery. The smaller pieces, not his large canvases." Ashley took another bite of her candy bar. "Without his paintings to sell, her gallery may close. The income his works provide allows her showroom to remain open. Luckily, he's prolific."

"Which implies your art studio will also be shuttered if he disappeared for a long haul," Sarah said.

"No one else will rent me space as inexpensively as Nancy does. Plus, her showroom is a source of inspiration for my kids."

"So David Fodero isn't your painter, but the kids in your program are yours?"

Ashley grinned. "Every child is unique, and I love them all for their special talents and gifts."

She'd worked hard to make ends meet to provide for her students—whether it was brushes, soap, or an artist's table—and it was all worth it. Truly, she was blessed. She adored teaching kids and had shaped a satisfying career for herself.

"Maybe you can persuade David to donate funds for your art supplies." Sarah grabbed a chip. "He's certainly wealthy enough."

"If I can ever find him, I just might."

"Poor unsuspecting fellow." Sarah threw Ashley a smirk. "He doesn't realize what he's in for. You don't put the brakes on until you achieve your goals."

"Poor unsuspecting, mysterious fellow," Ashley amended.

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