At that, he met her gaze and offered a slight smile. “I’m fine, Sara. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
His tender tone caressed her heart, causing a flutter that woke the flame of her cheeks.
“You were right to keep me from looking at this first. But now...." He motioned to the space beside him. “Now I think it’s best you see it as well.”
Sara adjusted her position, her heart racing when their arms brushed. Then he presented the canvas to her—Sara gasped at the stark image from her history, a girl standing alone, forlorn, by the maw of a shadowed grave.
“That’s you, isn’t it?” Christopher’s arm enveloped her shoulders. “After your mother’s funeral?”
“I-I do no’...." She stared up at him, tears blocking any view of his face. “H-how did…?”
“Paul and I were there,” he confessed, his voice a hushed whisper. “Remember I said I had a display in London for three years? We explored the lesser-known areas and decided to visit the historical cemeteries that day. I saw the funeral from a distance, and so we made our way over.”
Christopher lowered his focus to the canvas. “I prayed for that quiet girl all morning. Even after that day. I could tell a loved one had died, and I didn’t want her to feel alone. So, I asked God to comfort her. To protect her. Provide for her. Love her.” He turned his head to meet her gaze, his expression so tender the confession burned within her. “I was wrong before, Sara. God answers prayers, for mine have been answered for that young lady.”
A sob broke free, and Christopher gathered her into his arms. The strength and warmth of his embrace hastened the tears, and she found herself caught up in a storm of grief. Each morsel of agony, all her lost loves and dreams, she released everything to soak the front of Christopher’s paint-stained shirt.
Therein grew the ache. Even as he comforted her the way no one attempted before, she suffered the more for the knowledge she must love him in silence. Though she wanted to offer him passion and intimacy within the trust, she knew she must encourage only in friendship.
He yet grieved his first wife while venturing into the dangerous territory of a second.
That knowledge deepened the sobs, erasing the prayer she felt. It didn’t seem fair she would love him so much when he wasn’t ready. But God crafted a broader plan than what she could imagine. He always would. All He asked of her was trust and obedience. She followed before. She could again. It would simply be a harder journey, and therefore more of a blessing at the end.
“Blessings and miracles are odd things,” Christopher admitted. “It seems they’re harder to swallow. More of a challenge to accept. For me, it was easier to believe God took Carla and our son. Why?” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I thought tragedies wouldn’t happen because I had accepted Christ. I forgot that our belief is an additional strength. Peace against the hardship. A relationship of support. Instead, I expected... I expected a life without hardships.
“Life isn’t fair. There are heartaches, miseries, and a multitude of other things. God is our strength to work through them. Unfortunately, I expected a guarantee against obstacles. I didn’t see that I relied less on God for my strength. That was why Carla’s death hit me so hard. I tried to control my life rather than trusting God with it, and death was the one thing I couldn’t stop or control.
“So, instead of giving over the grief and confusion, I cut God out of my life. Whether it was to punish Him for letting a bad thing happen, or to protect me from having to confess my pride, I don’t know. But He never gave up on me. Though I ignored Him, He made certain I had laughter, support, compassion.... All of my friends and family worked together to ready me for the next step: Letting Carla go to memories. Allowing myself to... live life rather than exist in it.”
Christopher tugged Sara’s arms from around him with a tender pull. When he looked down at her, his entire being smiled. Her throat closed around the words I love you.
“When I saw you as the Lady of Charcoal? Believe me, I let Him have it. I fumed and raged until there was nothing left to say. And when I saw this image?” He retrieved the canvas. “When I created this scene on that day so many years ago, there was no doubt in my mind this young lady would be blessed with happiness after the grief. That memory reminded me how much I loved God. It reminded me of the peace and inspiration I once accepted. That... that I had trusted Him with everything at one time. As Carla did. As you still do.
“That made me see what kind of man I had been, what kind of man I wanted to be, and what kind of man I became. Staring down at a maw of blackness that robbed me of my hope and future because of dwelling in a horrible past.” He shook his head, and Sara watched his throat convulse with his hard swallow of grief. “And still He remained, doing His best to reach me.”
Sara choked back a sob as she reached out to softly stroke his arm. “Because He loves you.” As I do. As I always will.
Christopher nodded and drew in a ragged breath. “I know. I don’t understand how you broke through the wall I built, Sara. I don’t think I ever will. But thank you. For listening and praying and saying what God put on your heart to say. For pushing, even when I know you were terrified of what it could mean for you.”
He cupped her cheek, tenderly brushing away a tear and then leaning in to kiss her there so softly.... Sara closed her eyes, biting back the whimper. When Christopher leaned back, Sara forced her eyes open.
He offered her another slight smile. “Thank you.”
Summoning a return, she swallowed back the soft words pleading to be spoken.
Thirty
Shifts of Waiting
27 March 1894
Christopher stared at the leather-bound portfolio, the tap of his fingers on the desk the only sound to break the silence. The entire morning images of Sara bombarded him, specifically the one of her waiting at the train station that first day. Remembering the vague change within the numbness. The shift that happened when she looked up to meet his gaze.
That first image always led to another. Of Sara and Gwyn together in the kitchen at the gallery. Then a third of them laughing together over art and colors. To a fourth of Sara delicately exploring the sophisticated scent of lilac. Then her face the evening of her first unveiling. Of her expression at their first painting lesson. Of so many others he feared he would never have enough time to sketch them.
Christopher fisted his hands, seeing again the visions of Sara with his daughter. Playing with her. Loving her. Teaching her.... He smoothed his hand over the soft leather of the portfolio. The images pushed at him, a poignant reminder of the listlessness after Carla’s death. Of the stark contrast after Sara came to them. He felt as if he had once more learned to breathe.
In college he completed page after page without realizing who graced the images with her presence. All dedicated to her silhouette. Her grace. Her elegance and innocence. His hold tightened on the portfolio. Each one acting as a prayer to find the one woman to share his life with.
Then he met Carla.
Christopher didn’t want to believe he hadn’t been guided to meet and love her. After all, Carla taught him to trust others with his opinion. She tendered the encouragement he had needed to venture into the risk of displaying his art to inspire others. She also taught him a deeper intensity of love, to trust someone with all of their being. Together they learned intimacy, and passion, and the joy that came with the struggle of loving another unique individual.
Christopher opened the portfolio to the first blank page. This is what I felt when she died, Lord. Everything... gone. Empty. He retrieved the pencil secured snugly within and gave his hand the freedom to move through memory, following a remembered line of a feminine silhouette. Recalling an elegant stance and inviting posture. But this time the Lady graced him with her smile. This image beckoned to him with startling clarity to her delicate features.
I know now why I gave a little twitch at your profile hidden from my view. You were the subtle reminder of a dream. The in
troduction, even, to a desire for the fulfillment of that wistfulness. His gaze held hers, and he did his best to interpret the expression he saw. An expression he felt a slight reluctance to translate.
The pencil lowered, and Christopher released a quick breath. Then he smoothed the shadows of her face and neck with the caress of his finger. Would I have been the man for your charcoal if Carla and I never met? The question caused a hesitation before he softened the shading of her smiling lips.
“Mr. Lake, I might not be your sweet Carla, but I can listen if you need to talk about something…” her voice as gentle as he ever heard a woman’s tone.
“Something. Everything. Nothing,” he said softly, again caressing the line of her jaw and cheek.
“I just keep looking ahead to the blessing that might be waiting around the corner.” Her voice choked with tears while her hand tightened in his. Soothing. Warm. Drawing him from the emptiness of his grief. “Try to listen,” she had whispered, as if her very heart and soul attempted to return his inspiration. “Try to hear it.” As if her hushed voice, so soft, would help him into the light.
Christopher smoothed the hair near her forehead, remembering the softness and the scent. Remembering how it curled at her temples and behind her ear, tickling her and inviting a graceful movement of her hand.
The front door opened and closed, the entrant’s steps approaching his studio. But Christopher couldn’t tear his gaze from the smiling face of hope and welcome. The gem-like eyes twinkling with happiness and support.
The steps halted outside his studio. “Sara is delayed with Dix at home.” Paul stepped farther inside, draping his overcoat over the arm of the nearest chair. “How are you doing?”
A long breath was Christopher’s only ventured response at first. Then he closed the sketchbook and ran his charcoal-stained hand through his hair. “The inspiration would still be silent if not for her. She has always urged me beyond the fear.” Such stark memories of shared laughter and tears. Eagerness and terror. Disappointment... and then the determination to try again. Christopher focused on Paul. “Do you recall the day you brought her for her lesson and we spoke mostly about her second display?”
Paul nodded and sat in the chair across from Christopher’s desk. “She blossomed that day more than others, I believe.”
“I agree. In fact, that may be the first day I truly saw Sara Ann Little. When she pressed me to leave my rage and grief on the paper, she was so gently forceful. Insightful into an artist’s soul. Extremely open to God’s healing whisper...." He lowered his attention to the front of the sketchbook. “I see her in an image, did I tell you? Her, Gwyn, Carla... myself so faint in the far corner. It isn’t finished, I know, but I can’t. Not until I know…” Christopher’s chest tightened with the remembered vibrancy—and what it could mean for his future. “Not yet.”
“Chris, take one day at a time.”
“A day more to do what, Paul?” Christopher pressed, his tone resigned to the truth he could finally admit. “Acknowledge I have needs?”
“No. A day more to hear a question you haven’t yet the courage to ask. A day more to be ready for the answer. Let it be.”
“I can’t, Paul. Her face has been burned into my mind, paired with an image seen since I was a lad barely able to sketch a leaf than a woman. Then there is the attraction I had begun to fight, the morning thoughts of her with Gwyn. The dreams—How can I let it be?” But why couldn’t he be certain he loved her?
Christopher lowered his gaze to his paint-stained hands, turning them over, palms upward. But what he saw and felt were a different set of hands. Softness, warmth, comfort in a simple touch. “The care for her is unlike anything.... I talk to her of things I haven’t since Carla’s passing. Different aspects of my art, various styles, techniques, and assorted ideas for showings at the gallery. Yes, there’s attraction, a constant, but...."
“Yet somehow different.”
“Am I only attracted to her because she’s a lovely woman with the same line as my fantasy Lady? Because—” His face flamed. “Because I need the touch of a woman?”
“Chris.”
“Of course it is more than her appearance which appeals to me,” Christopher admitted, looking away. “As I said, I’m fond of her because of how much time and care she’s taken with me and my daughter. How much passion she shows for the gallery. Her innocence. Her intensity. Her tenacious faith which helped me through my grief and rage. Her inspiration that woke my own. But how do I know if I love her or if she’s but a close friend? Carla was a close friend and I didn’t realize I loved her until—”
“Chris, the only question you need ask yourself is ‘Do I want to spend the rest of my life with her?’ ”
A life with a wife for his home and a mother for his child? A life with a woman who shared his same passions, who inspired and moved him? A life with a woman... like Sara? “Yes,” Christopher admitted roughly.
“Fine then. Nothing else matters.”
Christopher spluttered. “How can you say ‘nothing else matters’? I should love her passionately if she’s my wife!”
“Who says you don’t?”
The question nearly sent him and his chair head over heels. “What?”
Paul’s lips twitched upward. “Topper, all these things you’ve listed are proof of how much you care. Her opinion matters to you. Her reputation. Her safety. You treasure her trust and her insight. You seek her... perception when you don’t trust your own good judgment.” He motioned to Christopher. “You say you are attracted. Have you acted on that?”
Christopher frowned. “Of course not. Her reputati—”
“Exactly. Always have you been sensitive to what would hurt or encourage. Always have you been tenacious about supporting her and what was best for furthering the possibilities for her life. Yes, most of that was done out of responsibility as her sponsor at first. But when you confess these feelings? Chris...." Paul chuckled “Chris, you are so much in love with her that you’re afraid to admit it. Afraid it may change your feelings for Carla and her memory. That is nonsense! I’ve never seen a man as much in love with his wife as you still are. I’ve also never before seen a man as completely comfortable and at ease as you are with Sara. You feel safe with her, as you did with Carla. This tells me one truth."
“I—” Christopher gulped down the confession, his gaze drawn to the potency of her likeness. His eyes met hers and his heart swelled with care and devotion. “I love her!”
Paul smiled. “You love her.”
The sketchbook clattered to the floor, his head falling into his hands as the full intensity of that confession roared in his ears.
Thirty-One
Pleasant Ventures
31 March 1894
Christopher placed the ‘Trio of Life’ onto the easel within his studio, eyes averted from the vague impression of the man at the corner of the canvas. ‘He has something waiting for you.’ He must only journey through the shadows into the shifting colors of a completed picture. One full of heartache, happiness, anger, laughter, pain, joy….
Sighing deep, he finally looked to the man outside the Trio. The man who watched and smiled, knowing he was part of their joy. Welcoming their laughter. Accepting happiness.
The delicate aroma of lilacs and vanilla preceded Sara’s soft sigh. “Oh Christopher"
Sara stood in the doorway draped in dusty rose and ivory, her mahogany hair aglow in the light of the sun. Christopher’s chest tightened with the intensity of his adoration.
“It is....“ Sara lifted those sapphire eyes to meet his gaze. “It is so wonderfully lovely.”
“I—” I love you, Sara. He forced his eyes from her rose-kissed cheeks to the near mirror image of her on canvas. “I never thought to see anything again. The desire to create was a void.”
Sara had recognized that loss in his expression when viewing a blank canvas. The restlessness as they looked to the scenery around him. How did such a timid woman find the courage to press hi
m to change that blankness? To destroy the wall separating him from his inspiration. Urging him beyond the numbness to her friendship. Then beyond the friendship to the fondness. And finally....
She tucked her hand into his to give it a tight squeeze. An offering of encouragement. Of friendship and understanding. His insides burned with desire, a welcome intensity. An intensity God would help him control in order to encourage her trust.
Christopher gave her hand a gentle press and released it to take a step away. “I thought we might share a nature study walk of the conservatory today rather than a formal lesson.”
Sara’s eyes brightened, her lips parted in an eager smile. “Could we?”
“Maybe the colors will help you along with your inspirations? You seem to paint impressions rather than stark images, reminiscent of Monet, and intensely lovely.” He guided her from his studio to the conservatory.
“I do love Monet. You... you believe I may learn to paint that way?”
“Certainly. If your oils reflect a combination of your sketches and watercolor styles, I don’t see why not.” Christopher cleared his throat while casting her a sidelong glance. Her blue eyes sparkled with curiosity. “I could show you an example of entwining styles, if you like?”
“You... you will paint something for me?”
“In all honesty, I already did. " He cleared his throat again. “I interpreted one of your sketches.”
“Did you?” Sara’s face brightened, her blue eyes alight with pleasure. “Might I see it?”
Christopher motioned to a seldom used storage cubby beneath the second-story stairs. “I keep surprises and whatnot under here—Christmas presents or birthday paraphernalia—due to the fact Gwyn never seems to remember where the cubby is.”
Sara giggled.
Concern overshadowed Christopher’s eagerness to show her the image. “You don’t mind?”
“Mind, sir? Mind what?”
Searching for Sara (Extended Edition) Page 28
