Christopher blinked back the burning and stepped forward again. “Why?”
“He... has something waiting. The happy ending you want.”
Hope pushed him up to the crest of the stairs, standing within the shadows of the grays of fear while being pulled by the promise of soft shades of color and laughter. Then his gaze was drawn to the form on the far side of the room, sitting upon a box while sifting through one of his portfolios... Carla.
Swallowing the grief and loss, Christopher stepped forward. He remembered the scene as if it were yesterday, finding Carla here and wondering why.... He released a deep breath as he came to stand behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder and closing his eyes at the remembered warmth.
Carla looked up, her green eyes and delicate features brightening with her “Oh, Chris. Did I worry you? I’m sorry.”
Throat tightening, Christopher leaned down to place a kiss on her lips... Oh God. He forced himself to straighten and motioned to the sketches and watercolors within the portfolio balanced so carefully on her lap, eyes hungrily taking in the loveliness of her face. “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing,” she said, her gaze once again drawn by the images. “I was only looking. I love looking at your art. It’s so lovely. So alive.”
Christopher moved his hand from her shoulder to her hair, the softness of the curls heightening the loss and the– He lowered his hand to his side, hiding the warmth in a fist. “These are only old dabbles, Carla.”
“I....” Carla bit a fingernail as she retrieved a sketch with her other hand, balancing the portfolio more securely on her lap. “I was looking for... her.”
Eyes darkening, Christopher focused on the pencils, charcoals and watercolors, memory focused on the sketch of a simple room and a single lady facing out a solitary window. Nothing seen of her but the back of her silhouette and the grace of her carriage.
Carla lifted her focus from the sketch to Christopher’s blank expression. “Chris, who is she? Where did you meet her? Why don’t you ever talk about her?”
Christopher slightly shook his head. “She doesn’t exist, Carla. Only a figment.” But there came a whisper of familiarity when he allowed his gaze to stray. She can’t be real. He shook free of the thought. I’ve been alone too long. Forcing his gaze from the images, he met her serious expression. “Come down for lunch, Carla. You’ve been up here since breakfast.”
But when he attempted to take the image and the portfolio away, Carla kept it from his grasp.
“A figment couldn’t possibly feel this real,” she protested, looking again to the woman’s profile. “I can almost hear her breathing, Chris. Everything about her is so... vivid.”
Again drawing Christopher’s pained focus, the brightness and compelling image caused a twisting within. Especially when the Lady seemed more apt to step from the gray to the color of life. But he knew it impossible, she being a romantic imagining. A dream for paper alone.
Christopher cleared his throat. “Carla,” he assured as he took the sketch carefully from her grasp. She looked up. “Carla, it’s a sketch, nothing more. You’re my reality.” Now that too had gone.
“But what if she’s looking for you?” Carla pressed. “You can’t just leave her alone.”
Christopher’s expression softened, even amidst the grief and loss to never again have her intense concern and compassion beside him... “I’ll sketch her a beau. Fine?”
Carla stood from the box to embrace him, causing Christopher to close his eyes as he held her.
“I knew you would understand.” She pulled back, emerald gaze aglow. “I will bring your charcoals.”
She turned and made her way downstairs. Christopher lowered his gaze to the sketches and colors... and the Lady. It pained him to change the simplicity of the silhouette and her content. Her calm waiting. Her patient understanding....
Twenty
Inspiration’s Subtle Whisper
8 February 1894
“Chris.”
Teddy crested the second story as Christopher closed the third-floor doorway. “Ted.”
“Top, I was out of line yesterday. What is it to me what you do with a newspaper intern?”
“You weren’t completely in the wrong, Teddy. A warning now and again keeps me deliberate.” How else could he be brought face-to-face with changes needed? Christopher motioned down the hall. “Would you like some coffee? I’m expecting Sara for our lesson. We could plan the display instead.”
“Only if that means planning a joint one.”
“Teddy."
“I know. You don’t want to do that until the mess is sorted out with the Chronicle.” Teddy followed Christopher downstairs. “But I don’t see any retractions being printed, and I don’t see you stomping down there with threats of suits. So, that said, I think it should be a joint display, thereby being a spit in the eye to what they reported.”
“I don’t think they would see it as that, Ted. Something tells me that it won’t be the first time they’ve used these tactics to get a story to increase circulation.”
“Because they did it so well?”
Christopher chuckled. “Something like that.”
“Yes, well, if it were up to me—which it isn’t, blast it—I would stomp down there and mess up some office papers and shirtfronts until they agreed to my demands. You and Sara deserve better than what they’ve alluded to. Blast it! The gallery deserves better.”
“I know, Teddy, but let’s offer them another chance. Who’s to say they won’t be on their best behavior for the next unveiling?”
Teddy scoffed, but further comment was interrupted by the sound of quick steps. Then the door opened and Sara rushed inside before Harold could approach. Teddy and Christopher both watched in amusement as she chatted to Harold about the morning and that past Sunday’s service while he helped her from scarf and coat. Then she cast him a bright smile and turned toward the studio.
When she saw Teddy and Christopher, her eyes sparkled like stars. “Good morning, Mr. Lake. Mr. Parker. How are you? Is it no' a lovely morning? The sun fairly sparkles off the snow.”
Teddy laughed, but Christopher swallowed his own amusement to offer a calm, “Good morning, Sara. I’m fine, thank you. And, yes, it is a lovely morning. Makes me miss spring.” He motioned toward her. “How are you?”
“Oh I am lovely, Mr. Lake. Thank you.”
Teddy sniggered, and Christopher elbowed him while never shifting from Sara’s gemlike gaze. “Where’s Dix?”
“Mr. Paul brought me today as your sister has company coming for a late breakfast.” She motioned behind her. “He will be right in. He wanted to have a word with Patrick.”
Paul entered a few moments thereafter, looking toward the trio to offer a smile and a “Morning, all,” as he passed his hat, gloves, and coat to Harold. “Good morning, Harold.”
“Good morning, sir. I will have coffee in but a few moments.”
“Outstanding. Thank you.” Paul stood beside Sara. “Teddy. Topper. I hope you don’t mind the change. Sweet has company coming.”
“So I heard. Unfortunately, we have a bit of a change ourselves. Sara, I hope you weren’t set on having a lesson this morning. I volunteered the two of us for a meeting with Teddy to plan your second display. At least on paper. Perhaps we can shift your lesson to afterward?”
“What a grand idea!” Sara focused on Teddy with that same bright expression. “But I am afraid you canno’ stay for the lesson after, Mr. Parker. I am no’ good at the watercolors yet, and do no’ want an audience.” She giggled. “A silly goose.”
Teddy cleared his throat, forcing away the smirk while sending Christopher a sidelong glance. Then, with as much decorum as was possible for Teddy Parker, he said, “Nah. When I started out with the stone-works, I broke all my not-so-wonderfuls. I didn’t want anyone to see how bad I was.” Teddy motioned to Christopher. “Top’s the only one with a sadistic streak. He keeps everything. Doodles. Mess-ups. Roughs. Finals. Things t
hat would be better off burnt. He says he wants to keep himself humble. I think he only wants to dig for compliments.”
Paul chuckled.
“Mr. Parker.” Sara put hands on hips and actually sent Teddy a playful frown. “You are to poke fun when he is no’ in the room.”
Christopher and Paul laughed. Teddy, ever the character, snapped his fingers and cast Sara a wink. “Right. I forgot that.”
Sara wrinkled her nose at both of them. Christopher tore his gaze away, clearing of his throat at a sudden flare of heat and a rising ache. Teddy accepted the look with a full grin, of course.
“Come along then.” Christopher gestured for his office, drawing Sara’s smile. “Why don’t we see what everyone thinks, firstly? Then we can see which artwork we believe will receive the highest praise, although I’m of the mind all should be shown. I don’t remember seeing a mediocre one in the lot.”
Sara fell into step beside Christopher as he moved toward his office, Teddy and Paul following behind. “Could you find another story-cycle?” She paused at the doorway. “It was such a wonderful surprise when you did before, and I rather think everyone would love to see another.”
“Not a bad idea,” Paul said. “You should have heard some of the verbal renditions of the story-cycle I heard at the party. Inventive, every single one.”
Christopher smiled down at her. “Of course I can try, but are you so certain another display like that is what you want? Don’t you want to try something new?”
“But it would be new.”
“Yes, I guess it would,” he admitted, chuckling. He motioned inside. “After you.” Christopher caught Teddy’s amused smirk. “Shut up, Parker.”
Laughing, Teddy moved to sit in the chair beside Sara as Christopher retrieved the collection of sketches from their locked location of his desk.
“Could we keep the first story-cycle up?” Sara offered. “You put so much thought and care into it. I would hate to have it missed by those who were no’ able to come to the first unveiling.”
“That isn’t a bad idea,” Paul agreed. “And there’s no reason we should move it, either. The lighting in that room is perfect for its simplicity.”
“Should we have more drama in the second?” Christopher pulled out the sketches. “I seem to remember several with a bit more flair for that.”
Teddy nodded. “Drama in the main room would be great. The openness of the hall would invite louder discussion. The smaller room is more confined, and people have a tendency of whispering there.”
Sara looked from each person with wide eyes, listening with awe and wonder as they discussed options. Christopher’s attention continued to stray to the rapt expression in her dark blue eyes. Her lips would tilt upward in a smile, and then slightly part as either Teddy or Paul made an observation on one of her sketches which caught her by surprise.
The flush remained on her cheeks as well, making him certain she never before held the center of positive attention. Yet, of her own confession, she always chose to remember the good in each one of her experiences. The sunshine in a rainy afternoon. The laughter from children after a snow. The possibilities of a new life after leaving a familiar, old one.
Christopher lowered his attention to the sketch in his hands; A woman sitting at a vanity regarding herself in the mirror while a child peeked around the woman’s shoulders.
“A great many of these have a certain feeling of... family and safety,” Paul noted, lifting his held sketch. He attracted Sara’s attention. “Why don’t we have that the focus of this display?”
“Not bad.” Teddy pointed to Christopher. “It seems to me we haven’t had the same amount of families come. Maybe we could use this display to get into that again? Remember the fun we used to have with the kiddies coming over to do clay-works with me, or drawing with you and reading with Carla?”
Christopher’s insides twitched, but he forced a smile as he lifted his gaze. “Yes. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Say. Why don’t we have this unveiling earlier in the day? Then families could come and see that we’re getting back to the same-old, same-old. We could even have children’s activities in some of the side-rooms,” Teddy continued.
Excitement shone in Sara’s eyes, her hands clasped tight in her lap. It would be fun to have children in the gallery again, reminding him of a past of laughter and play that seemed to now only vaguely echo in the halls. Christopher lowered his focus to the sketch. The woman and the child. Family. A completion previously broken.
“Teddy, we shouldn’t get too carried away,” Paul was saying. “Maybe an art contest, but nothing much more than that. Not until we remember how to keep them occupied and satisfied and not screaming for their parents.”
Teddy laughed. “I guess you’re right. It would be just my luck to have a clay fight break out five minutes after starting the class.”
Christopher caught Sara’s glance of concern and offered her a small smile. She flushed and lowered her gaze. “Fair enough,” he said. He cleared his throat and dragged his focus back from regrets and too-soon endings. “So it’s agreed then. Family will be the focus. Which pieces should we have out?” He set the one with the woman and the child aside. “This one, most definitely. Maybe even as the finale. Paul? What do you have?”
The remainder of the morning was invested in choosing ten pieces of art for the second display, agreeing upon a time-line for the story-cycle, and then laughing at possible children activities over coffee and cookies. The lesson was forgotten, especially when Gwyn ambled down sometime before lunch to say “Hello” and “Look what I drew.” She then robbed all attention, especially Sara’s, who drew the girl up onto her lap and shared awed commentary for each image.
Teddy retreated soon after, deciding to make his way to the gallery to begin the set-up of the display. He wrangled a promise from Christopher to come by after the lesson.
“That’s right,” Paul said suddenly. He laughed and came around to take Gwyn up into his arms. “Come along, Angel. Your papa needs to give Miss Sara a lesson, and he won’t be able to do that with the two of us causing distraction.”
“But can’t I watch?” Gwyn asked as Paul carried her from the room.
Paul’s answer and the reason for it was lost as the two proceeded down the hall to one of the other rooms.
Christopher straightened from the desk, looking this way and that for something to focus on to hide the dread. The initial lessons the previous week hadn’t been any type of challenge, simply an introduction to the media. But now, as he knew she needed to begin actually painting objects and specifics, he didn’t know how to... inspire her when he couldn’t see or feel the images himself.
“Well then.” He cleared his throat. “Lesson.” His eyes were drawn to the closed studio door. The blank paper waited just beyond. Pencils, colors, palette. All waiting for her touch of inspiration.
A soft contact on his arm caused an internal jolt as he glanced to his right. Sara stood beside him, hesitancy darkening her blue eyes as she worried her lower lip. Dread dried his throat. She only ever looked like that when about to speak directly to a need. Pushed by Someone Christopher tried desperately to ignore. Someone who wouldn’t be ignored. Sara displayed courage in that; speaking in a way that didn’t accuse or belittle. She simply offered.
“Mr. Christopher, I...." Sara sent a fleeting look to the studio door before again meeting his gaze.
He noticed something different in her expression, and the hesitancy didn’t seem to be for him. “What’s the matter?”
She flushed but didn’t look away. “I know you have no’ painted since—” Sara’s cheeks paled. Christopher cleared his throat and looked away. “But could you... could you help me? I try so hard,” she confessed, her blue eyes wide as the recognizable glimmer of frustration appeared. “Even using my charcoals before the paints I still do no’ see an image. I thought...." She finally lowered her gaze, clasping her hands in front of her. “I thought, perhaps, if you
could help me as before, something might come of it. You are such a natural hand with the brush.”
His chest tightened with the overwhelming desire to do what she asked. To paint. To create. But when he again focused on the studio door and remembered how large the white—“The blind leading the blind,” he mumbled.
“Mr. Christopher, you are no’ blind.” Sara’s tender tone drew his gaze. Her eyes glowed. “You have but closed your eyes to what’s there, perhaps a bit frightened of what you might see.”
“Or what I won’t.”
“But that is no’ what you want.” She rested her hand on his arm, and the warmth of it burned. “Do you no’ want to see the images again?”
Christopher clenched his jaw and slightly nodded.
“Then believe you will and move to the doing of it. God’s whispers never stop. We only stop listening.”
Christopher frowned and pulled his arm from her touch. “He stopped listening a long time—”
“No, Mr. Christopher. No, He did no’ stop.”
He moved his glare to the studio door.
“You are hurt and angry, and wanting to know a ‘why’ that your heart and mind likely canno’ accept. He chooses no’ to answer, and you hate it. I did, too. But He’s still there. Listening. Watching. Doing what needs to be done to keep you moving forward. That little bit of strength coming when you had no’ left. That little bit of silence when a laugh would have been too much.”
Christopher swallowed hard at the words and what they meant, even as he fought against them. “If He cared, why did she die? Why am I blind? Empty—”
“Do no’ ask for the answer to the ‘why’,” Sara pleaded. “There’s no answer to be had until we face God at the hereafter. Ask the ‘what’ and the ‘how’ and the ‘when’. ‘What can I do to go on?’, ‘How can God make it better?’, ‘When will God bring the blessing from this?’” Sara wrapped a hand around Christopher’s arm and gently but firmly squeezed. “Look for it, sir. It be there. It is always there.”
“I—” And the cacophony of desires, to see the blessing, to have the release, to have that security back; they bombarded him. Pushing. Pulling. Tearing at something deep that hid a terrible agony. A mountain of loss, his wife, his faith, his passion. Desperation to have it back clawed at him, but the betrayal fought it back.
Searching for Sara (Extended Edition) Page 18
