Searching for Sara (Extended Edition)

by Nona Mae King

  “But if we use the main hall, we can have her sketches displayed to the left and a display of her watercolors over on the opposite wall. A type of tribute. A featured artist, anyway. Don’t you agree?”

  “There won’t be any watercolors,” he said, and he saw again her sad expression at the realization she didn’t progress as she thought she should. “She’s having problems seeing the image. I’m sure it’s nothing, but she’s understandably disheartened. Try not to mention it.”

  “Of course.”

  Christopher motioned to the main display. “That’s a good idea, though. Maybe if we displayed another artist?"

  “Oh? Like who?”

  “She continues to suggest I bring out my watercolors and oils again.”

  Teddy reeled to face him, his eyes wide and blinking. “You—you’re considering it?”

  “I am.”

  Teddy grinned. “It’s about time someone pushed you the right direction.” He rubbed his hands together. “We should arrange it so that both oils and watercolors can be displayed at once. No, we should have them in separate rooms. Watercolors with the others, only with a focus on yours because of the re-introduction.... Am I boring you?”

  Christopher focused on Teddy, frown disappearing. “Hm?”

  Teddy pointed to the entrance. “Go home, Top.”

  “I’m not going home. We have too much to do.”

  His friend took up Christopher’s overcoat, hat, and scarf. “You’re distracted, and you’re no good to me that way. Go start choosing which you want displayed. Have Sara help you if you have problems choosing. Maybe she’ll keep you on task.” Teddy shoved Christopher’s things at him and then directed him toward the exit. “I’ll try and remember the old layouts and do something with it. Thank God we sold all of Sean’s art. We have more room for the new ones coming in.”

  Christopher shrugged into his overcoat. “I don’t know why I even bothered to come in this morning. You don’t listen to anything I say. I could stay at home and play with Gwyn.”

  Teddy laughed. “So do it, then. Maybe I’ll get some work done on my own projects.” He pointed to the exit. “Now go, and I don’t want to see you until you have at least five pieces of each media chosen.”

  Christopher exited the gallery, breathing in deep of the chilled air before striking out toward home. When he arrived, the house was silent. Gwyn hadn’t yet woken, the time being only a little past eight in the morning, and the lack of her laughter made the hairs on his neck rise. Though silence had been the norm for more than a year, Christopher still didn’t care for the sound of it, nor the lack of feeling inside. It reminded him too much of the silence the day Carla lost the baby. The silence following her death. The silence broken only by Gwyn’s tears and calls for her mother.

  His step hesitated down the front hall—Harold stepped from his office. “Good morning, Harold. I’ve been ‘shooed’ home earlier than I thought.”

  “Mr. Theodore practicing his role as partner with more gusto?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “Would you care for coffee in the studio before Miss Sara arrives?”

  He glanced toward the open studio door as he handed over his overcoat, scarf, and gloves. “That would be... good, Harold. Thank you.” Harold went to see to it, leaving Christopher in the hall staring at his studio doorway. He could still hear the whispers of Sara’s happy voice, excitement brimming at the prospect of artistic learning. Her eyes. They sparkled so bright, Carla. He hadn’t seen an expression like that for... for ages.

  Eagerness to paint.

  To stretch out beyond something she knew.

  Christopher cleared his throat and forced himself forward into the studio, unable to do anything but stare at the blank canvas set up for Sara’s lesson. Nothing came. No image. No tickle of inspiration. He dragged his gaze away and fisted his hands. He hadn’t seen an image in—A sharp pang made him close his eyes, running his hands down his face to rub inspiration alive within. When he focused again on the canvas, the starkness remained.

  He lowered himself into the wingback chair and hid his face in his hands. Again he tried to force aside the burning need to create an image of loveliness and family. The desire to have again the thirst to paint. The feel of the pencil on paper. The brush. The paint on canvas.... Why, God? Why did You take everything?

  Art had always been his passion, a release to create beautiful things. To inspire those trapped in an ugly world. To give hope to those who didn’t have it....

  A year.

  The passion had laid stagnant since the death of his wife, and even his love and devotion for Gwyn hadn’t brought it to life. Now.... Christopher fisted his hands before standing to his feet in exhausted slowness, his eyes and mind riveted on the canvas. He smoothed a hand across it, remembering. Reliving….

  His focus shifted to the paints and pencils, those brushes forgotten for so long. His throat tightened at the memories as he reached for the palette—He flinched away and turned, striding from the studio even as the memory of Sara’s voice and laughter whispered.

  ~ ~ ~

  Christopher tapped on the lip of his coffee cup while waiting for Sara in his office. His focus continued to drift to the closed door between his office and studio. That blank bit of paper waited for her inspired hand, it wouldn’t give up its image to his touch. A frown furrowed his brows as he forced his gaze to his cold coffee.

  Then he heard the quick sound of Sara’s steps up the front stairs. The whisper of the front door opening followed by Harold’s greeting. Sara’s reply rang with excitement and eagerness, the same as every morning. As usual, Harold would barely have hold of her heavy wool coat before she would hurry toward the studio—

  “Oh...."

  Christopher heard the confusion in that single, breathy word when she stepped into the doorway of the empty studio. He released a slow breath but didn’t stand. He didn’t call out. Something about the expectation and dread of seeing the eagerness in her expression wouldn’t allow him. It was too much of a reminder to so many visions of the same.

  Then he heard the rustle of her skirts as she stepped down the hall.

  “M-Mr. Lake?”

  Christopher continued to stare down at his coffee as she came to stand in the doorway, his finger still tapping the lip of the cup.

  “Oh.” The word was tainted with concern. “G-Good morning, Mr. Lake.”

  He forced himself to smile and look up as she entered, hesitant. She wore royal blue with a softening of cream at the collar and cuffs. “Good morning. Where’s Dix?”

  Sara motioned behind. “She’s talking with Harold. Did you want me to fetch her?”

  And have her prod and badger? “No.”

  Again, a simple, “Oh,” after which she began worrying her lower lip. Debating. Arguing. Praying. Then she took another hesitant step forward. “Are you well, sir?” Her tone so unobtrusive, respectful, and steeped in concern that he wondered how any of her employers’ wives or mothers could have believed her to be anything but a charming and caring woman.

  Christopher set aside his coffee cup, forgoing the forced smile. “I’m not much in the mood for lessons, Sara. I apologize.”

  The expected disappointment didn’t appear. “That’s fine, sir. It was selfish of me to suppose we would do them daily. I did no’ mean to cause hardship.”

  “You didn’t.” Not intentionally. Christopher lowered his gaze. She never hurt anyone intentionally. With her it was always an offer, a suggestion that would make something about their life easier. Carla would have respected that of her.

  “Oh.” Thoughtful silence. “Then, I suppose I’ll have your sister take me home again. Would you and Gwyn care to come for tea this afternoon? I’ve thought of making scones.”

  Christopher met her gaze, and he again noticed the reluctance. It mirrored his own to be left alone with the blank piece of white which remained so silent. It reflected his dread of being left to the duty of unpacking the images up
stairs that would only remind him of a past passion.

  “Actually, since I have you here, we may as well make our way upstairs and choose the first pictures for my...." Christopher forced a smile. “My re-introduction into artistic society.”

  “I would love to help,” she said, her voice breathless with excitement. “Are you choosing oils or watercolors?”

  To his surprise, that enthusiasm lessened the dread. “I hadn’t decided yet. Teddy believes I should choose five of each media, but I’m not so sure I should. Wouldn’t it be better to keep it simple?”

  “But you’ve been painting for so long! Everyone will be so eager to see how you’ve grown over the years. You should have a bit of a time-line almost. Don’t you think? That way it would give encouragement to the different depths of artists that come.”

  “That isn’t a bad idea.” Christopher chuckled. “Who’s sponsoring whom?”

  Sara’s smile blossomed to laughter. “I suppose I have a few more opinions than I should.”

  “Nonsense.” Christopher ushered her toward the hall with a light touch at her elbow. “Teddy specifically instructed me to have you keep me on task. He doesn’t believe I’m seriously considering it.”

  “But why would you no’?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s hoping to have them on display with yours. Although that’s not only ambitious but cruel. I wouldn’t want to rob you of attention.”

  “I would no’ mind, sir. You deserve as much.”

  Christopher steadied her step up the stairs to the second story. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve already a fan-following. Yours is the reputation that needs a lift. Explaining that to Teddy will be the challenge.”

  Sara smiled. “You need no’ tell him.”

  Christopher halted his final step to the second story and faced her with an expression of shock. “What?”

  A flush colored her cheeks, but her blue eyes still twinkled with a surprising bit of mischief. “Do no’ tell him you’d rather wait. He canno’ do much about it if he finds out the evening of the party.”

  The expression of shock melted to a smile. “Teddy, she’s plotting against you. I don’t have the heart to warn him. His view of you will be crushed.”

  Sara laughed.

  Christopher motioned her toward the doorway of the third-story stairway, a return of the reluctance slogging his step. “I won’t tell him you put me up to it. He has a tendency of being a prankster.”

  The two arrived at the door to the third-story stairwell. He cleared his throat and opened the entry to click on the light. “Forgive the dust and clutter. I, uh—" He scrubbed at the back of his neck. “I haven’t been here in... a while.”

  Her smile overflowed with assurance, but Christopher’s reluctance and dread didn’t retreat. He ascended the stairs before her. Each step caused a shift within.

  “The fourth step from the top creaks.” He partially turned, offering a hand to steady her up the narrow staircase.

  Sara gathered the front of her skirts and accepted his hand to follow his careful ascent. Once the two crested the stairs, he released the warmth of her clasp and motioned toward the far wall. He tried to ignore the knot in the pit of his stomach.

  “The crates are here, although I believe I unpacked one looking for a frame for Gwyn.”

  They crossed the room toward the dozen or so crates stacked neatly parallel one to the other. Sara’s steps matched his for hesitation. Christopher fought back the rising dread as he gathered the sketches and images loosed from the abused portfolio. Then he set the portfolio onto the floor by the far wall with a soft thump.

  The packed crates drew his focus. He noticed Sara’s occasional glances to his profile. He couldn’t remember how many images and silhouettes of a previous passion lay hidden within the crates. Just as he wasn’t sure that viewing them wouldn’t give him a shock. What would that do to Sara? She would blame herself for the suggestion.

  “I do no’. You only just...."

  “I’m fine.” Christopher met her gaze. “I only don’t know what to expect as a reaction.”

  “Mr. Christopher.... Sir, we do no’ need to do this today. Just the thought of bringing them out again is likely enough. It’s never wise to force one’s heart when it’s not ready.”

  The crates whispered at him, and the reluctance twisted into a firmer emotion of dread—He shook his head and allowed himself to take a step back. “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “And that’s fine,” she said, her voice gentle and... warm with understanding.

  He lowered his gaze. “Maybe tomorrow?” Already hidden for what seemed a lifetime, what was another day?

  ~ ~ ~

  7 February 1894

  “Chris.”

  “Hm?” Christopher looked up from his letter from Joseph Conklin. Teddy approached. “Don’t tell me. You have another idea for Sara’s display.”

  Teddy smirked. “You don’t have to sound as if I don’t have one worth a moment’s thought, Top.”

  Chuckling, Christopher folded the letter and tucked it into his jacket coat’s inner pocket. “Sorry, Ted. Habit.”

  “Mr. Christopher Lake?”

  Christopher recognized the same young man seen outside Paul and Dix’s two days before. His hackles rose, and he gathered his temper. “Mr. Whitaker, was it?”

  The young man nodded and slowed his approach, noticing the guarded hostility on Teddy’s expression. “Yes,” the young man said. “That’s right.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  Mr. Whitaker swiped the hat from his head and worried it between his fingers. The action revealed straight blond hair combed back from a young face and an attempt to grow the style of beard currently popular. “I think you might have made a wrong assumption the other day,” he began hesitantly, his blue eyes cautious.

  Christopher sent Teddy a warning quick glance. Teddy clenched his jaw. “If I did, I apologize.”

  Mr. Whitaker cleared his throat. “I guess I can understand why you would. You likely thought I was the one who wrote the article. But I’m just an intern. I actually came to find out the truth. I don’t like the fact the Chronicle published an article that is mostly hearsay and gossip.”

  “Try getting an internship with a different paper,” Teddy quipped.

  Mr. Whitaker nodded, fingers still worrying his hat. “I’m trying to do just that, but there’s a waiting list for Harper’s, and none of the others will grant an interview. Not until I’ve more experience.”

  Christopher felt an itch in the back of his mind and thoughtfully crossed his arms.

  “It’s a type of paradox, actually,” Mr. Whitaker continued. “I need a little more experience in order to get accepted as an intern. But I need to become an intern in order to get experience.”

  Christopher motioned to the young man, directing his attention away from Teddy. “Why did you come here today, Mr. Whitaker?”

  “I—" The young man shot Teddy a quick look. “I wanted to try and explain why I asked that personal question.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Mr. Whitaker cleared his throat. “I hoped to prove blatant slander published by the Chronicle. Then, I could manipulate the new manager out of the position, or prove to another newspaper I have what it takes to be an intern.”

  Teddy smirked. “Revealing all that would definitely get you a higher position.”

  “I’m not in it for fame or glory,” Mr. Whitaker countered. “For me it’s about the news. The excitement of uncovering a mystery and reporting on it. Traveling to other places and opening people’s eyes to what goes on there, whether it be politics or customs.”

  Christopher nodded, gauging Mr. Whitaker’s young face and his expressions as he spoke.

  “When I read the pre-post article, I did my best to keep them from publishing it. I knew we didn’t have the facts to support it. But the manager said the public had a right to know due to the fact that both you and the gallery are high-profile.”

  “
I see.”

  “When I proposed an alternate article...."

  “He didn’t take well to the suggestion.” Mr. Whitaker shook his head. Christopher nodded, regarding the young man a moment before asking, “Would you like a position as our media liaison?”

  “Chris,” Teddy spluttered, “we don’t know anything about him or his politics! We can’t simply offer him a job in hopes that he won’t blast our reputation a bit later down the road!”

  Christopher ignored Teddy’s protest. “I need representation by a trustworthy individual, Mr. Whitaker. While we haven’t yet arrived to the ‘trust’ aspect, I’m willing to take a risk in order to prove myself right.”

  Teddy threw up his hands and stalked away.

  Mr. Whitaker stared at Christopher in shock and disbelief. Finally, he swallowed hard and presented a hand. “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will. In fact, I have just the traveling adventure into a mystery that I would like you to investigate.”

  Nineteen

  Forever Moments of Sweetness

  “I will cover the cost of the journey.” Christopher escorted young Roger Whitaker to the gallery entrance. “If you need a place to stay while you’re there, check the names and addresses of my acquaintances.”

  “I will be fine. Like I said, I have friends there.”

  “Fair enough. Your ticket will be waiting at the station for you. Captain Cowell will have further instructions once you board.” Christopher produced his hand. “Good luck, Roger.”

  “Thank you, for everything.” Then he exited the gallery.

  Christopher stared at the door a moment after, his brows drawing together before he turned away.

  “And?”

  Teddy emerged from a side display of sculptures. His friend looked less than pleased, by the twist of his frown. “Pardon?”

  “Don’t give me that,” Teddy grumbled. “I am talking about your sudden insane impulse to give the man some undeserved attention.”