Love Finds You in Bethlehem, New Hampshire

by Lauralee Bliss

  “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.” She shuffled away, leaving Tom to his mess of jumbled thoughts. It was plain to see Sara was no longer ordinary. She was a lady and entertaining gentlemen callers. And he needed to figure out if they had a future before one of those callers swept her away.

  Dear Sara,

  I’m not certain what to say. I know we did not part on good terms the other evening, and for that I’m truly sorry.

  He dipped the pen in the inkwell, thought for a moment, then continued.

  Claire misses you dreadfully, and I will say with my heart that I do, too. The house has been quiet without you. I pray to God for His will in this and in what the future holds. I ask you to reconsider coming back to us. I need to talk to you about what happened. If I’m too late, I understand. But I wanted you to know, and I pray you will reconsider.

  I am yours truly,

  Thomas Haskins

  He read it over and sighed. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. He had just placed the pen in the inkwell when the portly woman returned.

  “So you’re finished?”

  “I am. Thank you very much for allowing me to leave a note.”

  “Of course. I’ll leave it right here for when she comes in.”

  Tom looked at the note and then at the woman before placing his hat on his head. “Do you have any idea if she’s found a job at a hotel?”

  The woman stared and burst out laughing. “What? She doesn’t need a job. She has all the money in the world. At least I think she does. She gave me a nice fancy tip the other day.”

  Now it was Tom’s turn to stare. How had Sara come by money so soon? Perhaps Stuart had lent her some. “This is Sara McGee we’re speaking of.”

  “Sarah Manley, yes.”

  “No, I mean Sara McGee. She was carrying a carpetbag that was very old. She’s from New York City.”

  The woman shook her head. “I’m afraid you have the wrong lady. This Sarah has her own carriage and team here in Bethlehem, and she’s from Connecticut.”

  Tom issued a loud sigh and pocketed the letter. “I do have the wrong lady. I’m sorry.”

  “I am, too. I hope you find who you’re looking for.”

  Tom left the house, never feeling lower in his life. He paused to reread the letter. A feeling rose up within him, a longing for her to read this and see his true heart. “Sara…where are you? Please don’t tell me you went back to New York. I’ll never forgive myself if I let you go off without making certain you’re all right…allowing you to escape without knowing God’s will in this situation.” He folded the letter and put it into his coat pocket.

  Shivering from the cold, he could do nothing else but return home. Gray clouds had thickened and lowered. A few flakes of snow began dancing in the air. A storm was brewing and Sara could be out in the middle of it, huddled in a barn or worse. And it was his fault.

  He walked back to the house, his steps tentative. Claire would be waiting for any news, hoping beyond hope that he had found her, and he had nothing to offer. But with God there was hope. God knew where Sara was. He could make their paths cross, giving them another opportunity to understand, to forgive, and to accept the future, whatever that future may be.

  Claire stood in the foyer when he entered. She studied his reaction as he slowly took off his coat, which she kindly took from him. “You still haven’t found her.”

  “I thought I did, at the Highland Cottage. Until I learned it was another woman staying there with a similar name. I’d even written a letter before I discovered it was the wrong woman.”

  “May I read it?”

  Tom handed the note to her and left to fix some tea. He had already put the kettle on the cookstove when he heard the rustle of a dress entering the kitchen.

  “What a beautiful letter, Tom.” Tears glazed Claire’s eyes. “I’m so happy you want to know God’s will.”

  “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, Claire. But I didn’t let it be known like I should. And I kept things from Sara, especially about Annabelle. I guess I thought it would never work out between us. Sara was from a different life. I couldn’t see how the two of us could become one. But I should have been honest and not given her false hope.”

  Claire slowly sank into a chair. “I’ve been thinking while you were away this evening. Sometimes I felt I forced my way of life on Sara and didn’t allow her to be the woman God made her to be. I once told her that God had a special reason for her being here and that He would reveal it. But then I also wanted her to learn what I thought was right. To dress fashionably. To act ladylike. I suppose those are reasonable virtues—but there are more worthy virtues. Peace. Joy, loving-kindness, self-control. Good and godly fruits that are not man-made.”

  “Claire, none of this is your fault. It’s mine.”

  “No, it’s both our faults. God is trying to teach us things through having Sara here. We only thought we were helping her; really she came to help us. She came from a place of hardship to teach us that there’s more to life than a fancy dress or good manners or a nice lifestyle.”

  Tom couldn’t help but give Claire a hug of reassurance. She wept softly on his shoulder. “I miss her so much. She was like a sister to me.”

  “Claire, I’m sure she misses you, too.”

  “I wish that were true. I so much want to believe it.”

  “It is true. And I have faith that somehow this will work out. That we will see her again. God will make it clear to us what He wants us to do. And if that means we allow Sara to go home, then we do that. Or if it means that she is to become my wife, then I will do that, too.” And he meant it with all his heart.

  If only he knew where to find her…

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tom thought long and hard about the conversation with Claire and everything that had happened. When a week went by with no sign of Sara, he decided she must have returned to the city. He had no choice but to let her go and continue on, somehow, someway. Though he tried to make peace with his heart, his spirit remained troubled. His ability to paint anything fresh on a snow white canvas was also stymied. The flowing waters of creativity had been dammed up. Today he sat frozen, as he had the past few days, staring at the empty canvas before him and thinking how it mirrored his heart—absent of color or anything else. But despite how he felt, he had commissions to fulfill. Only two weeks remained before Mr. Astor would return for the Christmas holiday and expect the paintings to be ready.

  Tom sighed, forcing himself to mix the paints for his palette. December ought to be a time of good cheer and plenty of creativity. The town was already preparing for the array of visitors to arrive. Cottages and hotels were decorated with cheerful wreaths, garlands, and huge red bows. Even with Sara’s departure, Claire talked of decorating the house for Christmas and what she would prepare for Christmas dinner. She had even suggested inviting relatives they had not seen in years.

  Tom only grunted and wondered privately how they could celebrate.

  “There’s nothing more we can do for Sara,” Claire had said. “We must think about the future. And I think it would be nice to have Mama’s sister and her husband from Maine for Christmas.”

  “I’m not in the mood for entertaining.”

  “Nor should we stare at each other and mourn the past. Sara has made her decision. We may have made mistakes, but there’s nothing we can do.” She then drew in a quick breath. “Would you like to invite Annabelle Loving over?”

  Tom had looked up, nearly dropping his cup of hot tea. Even now as he reflected on the conversation, he shuddered. “I can’t believe you’re suggesting such a thing,” he’d said.

  “I saw her the other day at the mercantile. She talked about you and said she missed you. And she hoped perhaps we might get together for Christmas Eve.”

  “So you’ve given up on Sara completely? I’m surprised, Claire.”

  “I’ve surrendered it to God, Tom, as you should. And I’m thinking of your welfare. I do love y
ou, you know, and I want what’s best for you.”

  Is Annabelle Loving what’s best for me? he wondered pensively. He stared at the empty canvas, trying to picture Annabelle sharing Christmas with them and what it would mean. It seemed more akin to rubbing salt into an open wound. After all, the conversation Sara overheard between Annabelle and him at the Maplewood Hotel had first spawned the disagreement. And it also led to the question, Was Annabelle even right for him?

  Tom imagined then a dip in the refreshing waters to escape the fire of trial and indecision. He took up the brush and began painting a river scene. He painted a log floating downstream, as if it were ready to rescue someone unable to swim. He added a few small birds listening to the play of music as the water rushed by. Then some bushes flanking the river’s edge with swift strokes of the brush dipped in green.

  He murmured a prayer, thanking God for the grace at least to accomplish one small work. But Mr. Astor still requested one work in particular, a painting of Franconia Notch in the winter with the famous Old Man of the Mountain. He must venture there soon to refresh his memory of the scene. And with snow already gracing the land, he would need to borrow Lawrence’s sleigh for the trip. He rested the brush on the palette. No doubt Annabelle would insist on joining him in the venture. Maybe there was another way for him to venture to Franconia Notch without having to ask Lawrence for his sleigh and risk further encounters.

  Claire raced into the room then, panting. Her wide eyes and flushed face met his startled gaze. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “He’s here!” she said breathlessly.

  “Who?”

  “That man from the city…the one who buys your paintings…Mr. Astor. Did you know he was coming?”

  Tom flew to his feet, and when he did, he upset the green paint. The color of a deep summer forest now decorated the cloth protecting the floor. Green droplets had splattered across his shoes. What is he doing here? The man was not due to arrive for another two weeks. What if Mr. Astor demanded his paintings now? Or wished to see the works in progress? “What am I going to do?”

  “You’d better come right away. He’s in the parlor. I need to make some tea. Thank goodness I baked some blueberry biscuits this morning.” She scurried away to fulfill her duties as hostess while Tom took a rag and tried to wipe the green paint off his shoes.

  He then looked in a mirror, smoothing back a small tuft of dark hair that had fallen across his forehead. Worry lines creased his brow and surrounded his eyes. He was the perfect portrait of a man about to enter into battle for his livelihood. He tried to smile at the reflection to drum up his courage, but anxiety persisted, confirmed by the pounding of his heart in his ears.

  He picked up the still-wet painting of the river and entered the parlor, where Claire had just begun to serve tea. “Mr. Astor, what a pleasant surprise.” He offered his free hand.

  “Thomas.” The man rose and shook his hand. He appeared as dignified as always, in a stiff, starched white shirt, black tailored trousers, and a short coat. “I see you’re hard at work. Excellent.”

  “I thought you would like to see my newest creation. I call it The Wandering Soul.” He did not elaborate that he had just painted it an hour ago and that it mirrored his own soul.

  “Yes, of course. Please excuse my early arrival, but my business did not allow me to venture here during the time I wanted. I sincerely hope you have the other paintings ready or at least in their final stages of completion.”

  Tom felt his face turning hot like a burn sometimes suffered in the summer heat. He walked over and took a seat, conscious of the man’s gaze on him. “Well, sir…,” he began. He looked at the painting of the river lying against the wall, feeling more and more like that log being swept away by the rushing water.

  Mr. Astor stirred a sugar lump into his tea. “Is there a problem, Thomas?”

  How he wanted to tell Mr. Astor everything…especially that his suggestion of marriage had caused more trouble than he ever imagined. And that with all the distraction followed an inability to create anything worthy of the man’s attention.

  The spoon clinked inside the cup. “I can see from your face there is.”

  “Yes, there are several problems, sir. I’m not exactly sure how to explain them….”

  “I see. Perhaps we can meet over dinner tonight at the Maplewood and discuss them.”

  “Uh…that’s kind of you, sir, but…”

  He took a sip. “Six o’clock. And this is the Maplewood, you understand. Have you a decent suit to wear?”

  “Fair enough, I think.”

  “Plan to arrive at five o’clock. My assistant, Alfred, will be there at my room with a suit of clothes for you. Room 211.”

  Tom shifted in his seat. “Well, thank you sir, but…”

  “We’ll talk business and find out why you’re lacking in artistic skill. It’s a terrible thing to abandon one’s talent for frivolous matters.” He drained his cup before rising to his feet. Claire, who had been eavesdropping, quickly scurried forward to give the man his hat and cane. “Thank you, miss. I have great plans for you, Thomas, but we can’t have your work interrupted by other matters. I’ve invested too much time in you. I’ve told fellow businessmen of your work and showed them your paintings. Especially the one you painted for me last summer, the Old Man of the Mountain. They are very interested in having the painting duplicated.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “I won’t have them disappointed. You must embrace your destiny as a master artist, Thomas. There’s too much at stake.” He again thanked Claire for her hospitality, nodded to Tom, then walked out the door that Claire held open for him.

  Closing it, Claire whirled to face him, concern etched in the lines running across her face. “He didn’t seem happy at all, Tom.”

  “Well, he’s not supposed to be here. He told me he would arrive on December eighteenth. I had two weeks to finish the paintings. Now he expects me to have the Old Man ready by tomorrow night?” Tom waved his hand in the air. “I haven’t even traveled to Franconia Notch to sketch it.”

  “Of course he doesn’t mean you must have all the paintings completed at this moment. He only wants assurance that you’re keeping your obligations. And I must agree. You need to keep your commitments, Tom, in everything.”

  “In everything? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you need to examine yourself and see what is happening. What the future holds. You must admit you’ve been distracted, as Mr. Astor fears.”

  “This situation with Sara hasn’t helped matters. I’m no closer to Mr. Astor’s wish that I find a wife. It was folly to try this ad-for-a-bride notion, even if it did work for that other couple. And I have no idea what will happen with Annabelle. If he asks what I’ve done in the area of marriage, what will I say?”

  “Just go to supper tonight and see where things stand. Let the matter of marriage lie. And with your work, tell him you will do your best to finish the paintings in a timely manner.”

  He nodded and walked off to think about the upcoming meeting. He stopped short when he saw the mess he had left, the puddle of green paint still on the floor covering. He remembered the spill and glanced down at the green smears decorating his shoes. What would Mr. Astor think of him wearing these shoes to a fine dinner at the Maplewood? That and hearing his woes concerning his work of late? Mr. Astor would think him a disorganized mess like the room before him. The man might cancel the paintings altogether and find himself another artist.

  Tom had no choice but to be honest with Mr. Astor—to tell him what he had done in the matter of relationships, that he had heeded the man’s advice but things had gone astray. And to tell him about the struggle in his heart. Ask for advice. He was his mentor, after all. He had told Tom about the importance and stability inherent in marriage. Some stability. Tom groaned. He’d encountered nothing but rocks and ruts since walking this path.

  Tom sat down at the easel once more. How he wished he
could paint what Mr. Astor desired. But the only image he saw was Sara McGee’s wide eyes staring at him from across the table. Large, soft blue eyes conveying her vulnerability but yet a ray of hope. He could do nothing but pray for guidance in the meeting to come. Then he set to work removing the green from his shoes.

  Mr. Astor smiled in approval when Tom arrived in the stately dining room. “You look fine, indeed. Alfred does wonders.”

  Tom tugged at the snug collar of his shirt and hoped the tight fit of the coat wouldn’t bother him. But seeing the men and women arriving for dinner, dressed in fine array, he was glad Mr. Astor had suggested the change of clothes. Everyone looked as if they had stepped off a fashion plate in their fancy dresses and black suits. He and Mr. Astor waited until they were directed to a table in the corner of the vast dining room. The last time Tom had been here, sipping tea with Mr. Astor, they had discussed great plans for his work. The mere thought made the shirt collar tighten like a noose. He ran his finger underneath the neckline before smiling sheepishly at Mr. Astor.

  A young waiter poured them water and asked for their drink orders. Mr. Astor ordered a scotch. Tom declined.

  “So tell me what’s happening in your life, Thomas. I’m interested in seeing you succeed in your work.”

  “Thank you, sir, for giving me so many opportunities. I would be a floundering artist at best if not for your support.”

  Mr. Astor laughed as the young waiter arrived with his drink and the menus. “Ah, do you see this fine menu? That’s why I prefer dining at the Maplewood. They offer more choices than one could possibly eat. For a hotel in the far reaches of the North, I have yet to find such exquisite cuisine.”

  Tom joined him in a survey of the delectable entrées offered. Maryland chicken. Breast of duck. Leg of lamb with mint sauce. All accompanied by endless vegetables, breads, and desserts. It did look excellent.