Searching for Sara, page 26
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Teddy protested. “It didn’t cost him a nickel. So, if anything, it’s a poor gift. A cheap one, anyway.”
“Oh no, Teddy. It is of himself, better than any one thing he could have purchased.”
“Good point, Sara,” Christopher said. He gave Teddy a firm nudge. “You could have reasoned that out for yourself. Thought is what counts in a gift given. Not the cost.”
His friend smirked. “He says that now. Just wait until it comes time for you to give him his gift. That is something else entirely.”
“Here now, Parker! Speak for yourself.” Christopher shot Teddy a glare while setting the painting aside. “Which one is next?”
“How about this one?” Teddy pointed toward a mid-sized canvas on the right.
“I believe that—Well, I won’t tell you. It’s a bit of a kick to see Sara’s reaction.”
But Sara felt an aversion when her eyes fell upon the covered canvas, an impulse away that faded her smile. “Could we no’ . . . could we open the portfolio?” She indicated a small leather folder leaning against one of the other covered canvases.
“Why? Those are just unfinished or unframed. Here.” Christopher stepped toward the previously mentioned canvas. “Let’s unveil this one.”
“Christopher, no.” She caught at his arm. “Please.”
He gaped at her. “Why, Sara, what is the matter?”
“Sara, Top never did an image of the war, if that has you worried.”
“I . . . ." She stared down at the cover shielding the canvas from their view. “I do no’ want to unveil that one.”
Christopher regarded her a moment before giving her hand a gentle clasp. “Fair enough. We’ll rummage through the folder. It might make a good start for this time-line, don’t you think, Teddy? Although it would be a good idea to open with the image of Richmond College. What do you think?”
He guided her toward the portfolio. Sara released a deep sigh and nodded as she followed beside, some part of her attention drawn to the canvas in the right corner.
Christopher was right. The portfolio held unfinished charcoals or watercolors, activities to perfect flowing lines and facial expressions, and a few sketches and watercolors of different types of flowers. Several of the sketches could be used for the beginning of the time-line, but the remaining would be filed away should Christopher wish to reminisce.
Then the unveiling began again, this time Christopher and Teddy doing more of the unveiling with Gwyn hovering over each revealed canvas. Sara watched the trio with a soft smile, sighing now and again as she saw his stress fade almost completely from his features.
The morning he admitted the importance of the Lady of Charcoal she noticed the difference to his expressions. That relieved her heart enough to feel right in keeping her confession of love to herself. There was still so much to learn of this man of calm, intense passion. She felt certain fear did not keep the words ‘I love you’ from being spoken. Instead, there was a press in her heart which made her believe he wasn’t yet ready.
Or perhaps it was she who still needed to wait? Whatever the reason, the waiting seemed right, and Sara was willing to be patient for him. He had already suffered more than any man should, and if a pre-mature confession caused more pain….
Christopher suddenly laughed, and Sara’s heart swelled. Yes. She would wait, for love was always worth the bittersweet pain of patience.
~§~
22 March 1894
“How are you doing, Sara love?”
Sara pulled her focus from the scenery so slowly changing from winter to spring. Concern and encouragement shadowed the older woman’s expression. “I am fine, mum, thanks for the asking.”
“His recent change of attitude had a hand in that, I’m certain.”
Sara flushed. At times she believed him about to confess something she felt terrified to hope for. But then he would simply smile, give her hand a squeeze, and begin talking of something completely different. Each time it left Sara nearly breathless with her unspoken confession. In fact, the words began to ache within the depths of her soul.
“But why limit your lessons, Sara? They mean so much. To both of you.”
“I . . . ." Sara allowed a sigh. “I needed to do something, mum. It is so hard for him, being alone when he remembers naught but being with her. How could I continue to come when I knew how it goaded him?” She shook her head, the lush greens and peeking colors drawing her focus outside. “His heart is not ready for the tenderness of another woman, mum. Not yet.”
Dix leaned forward to cover Sara’s hands. She peeked to meet the older woman’s brown gaze. “The time will come for the soothing, love. If I know my brother, it will come sooner than you think. You’ve but to remember one thing. Because you think of him before anything else, he’ll come to love you the more for it.”
Tears brimmed as Sara nodded, doing her best to wipe and blink away the wetness as the carriage pulled to a stop outside Lake Manor.
“One day at a time, Sara love. One day, and one day, and one day."
Sara choked back a sob as the driver opened the carriage door and offered her a hand down. Then Dix steadied Sara’s ascent of the stairs with an arm around hers, offering occasional and continuous squeezes as Harold greeted their entry. As they stripped from their coat and scarves, however, Sara didn’t hear Christopher’s baritone voice, nor the tinkering of paint brushes against palette or water cup.
“Something is no’ right,” she whispered. The sounds of Lake Manor seemed heavy.
“Harold, where’s Chris?”
“I’m not certain, madam. His bed hasn’t been slept in, and he has not set foot in either studio or office. Miss Gwyn hasn’t seen him, nor Em, and Thomas said he wasn’t in the conservatory. He seemed a trifle bothered by a packet in the post, and a single canvas on the upper floor kept him up late with Master Theodore, but . . . ."
Nausea made Sara’s skin go cold.
“Sara love, see if he has hid himself away on the third floor. Perhaps he went in search of something?”
Sara nodded and turned away, doing her best to rush while not appearing as if she did so. Oh Lord, please. Sara ascended the stairs with care, the front of her skirt held within white-knuckled hands. “Christopher?”
“I’m here, Sara.”
He sat at the far side of the room, his back against the wall as he stared down at a canvas held in a loose grip. The expected haggard expression wasn’t there. He only seemed tired and thoughtful.
She tried to calm her approach, smoothing the front of her dress to hide the trembling of her hands. She knelt across from him. “Mister Harold said you had no’ been to sleep last night.”
Christopher head lifted in an absent nod, his gaze still arrested by the image in his hold. “I napped up here.”
Sara peeked around her, giving a brief shiver at the chill in the room. “Are you well, sir?”
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 introduction, 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?”
