Searching for Sara (Extended Edition)

by Nona Mae King

  Christopher shook his head and tried to pull his arm from her hold. “I... I can’t.”

  Her hold didn’t loosen, which drew Christopher’s gaze. Tear trails glistened on her face as her blue eyes shone with her own memories.

  “You must,” she whispered. “For Gwyn. For yourself. For everything waiting to give to everyone else. You canno’ stay in this black place, sir. Yours is a good heart. One that hungers after God’s whisper. You canno’ ignore that. You die each day you do. Your Carla—” Sara’s voice broke, but she swallowed the tears and began again. “Your Carla dies each day you let the grief keep you from the blessings waiting.”

  Christopher wrenched his arm from her hold. “What blessing can come from a death?”

  Sara shook her head, more tears flowing as she stretched her arms toward him. “I do no’ know. That’s what you must pray for God to make come to light. Even I forget the blessings. My mum dying. My childhood gone. My George gone. No friends. No family. No father.”

  She grabbed his hand, not releasing it even when he tried to jerk it free. The intensity of her expression held Christopher’s attention.

  “I canno’ say whether or not my life would be better if she had no’ passed. But I would no’ have reason to come and find myself a new me if it were another way. Finding the true Sara-Ann Little. A different kind of family than what I had before. Friends who give more than a passing thought to what I might want or need. Would I give it all up to have my mum and pop? I do no’ know, and I do no’ ask myself that question because it hurts too much. I just keep looking ahead to the blessings waiting ‘round the corner. Canno’ you do that, sir?” Sara gave his hand another squeeze. “Please?”

  Christopher lowered his gaze to the cling of their hands, his insides void as desperation for hope and betrayal fought against each other. Finally, he reached over with his free hand and pulled each of hers from his, silence settling within and without while a very slight and hushed whisper tickled a portion of his soul that hadn’t heard anything for what seemed longer than an age.

  “Try to listen,” Sara whispered, hands immediately clasped together, white-knuckled. “Try to hear it.”

  He slowly looked to the studio door, reluctance tightening his throat. Though he wanted to hear the inspiration, what if he didn’t? He didn’t want to find a lie in what she said. The desire to trust someone again rose like a wave, and it was easier than trusting a cold truth: That his wife was dead and he had nothing else.

  A hand blindly reached behind to grab hold of Sara’s as he stepped toward the door. Clenching his jaw, he opened the door and entered the studio, attention accosted by the stark whiteness of the paper. He halted, and his hand tightened its grip on Sara’s the same moment she did the same on his.

  “It be fine if there is nothing,” she whispered. “You but need to try.”

  “But why would He whisper when I’ve come to hate Him.” Christopher moved his focus to her pale and tear-stained face. “Why would He?”

  “Because He does no’ hate you, Christopher. He knows your heart. He knows your rage. He knows you hurt. And He knows how to get through it. You have but to take the first step.” She motioned to the white. “If it is there, do it. Scratch out the image or the blot of red or black that shows how angry you are. If it is stomping through the gardens fuming to raise the dead, do it. He can take it because He sees past to the deeper heart.” Sara pressed a single finger to his chest. “He sees what we hide here, and that is where He works.”

  Again Christopher felt the fight. He clenched his jaw and focused on the white, his hold on Sara’s hand tightening and loosening and tightening again—She stepped toward the paper and pulled him along after, purposefully positioning him by the easel and pushing a charcoal into his hand. The action blackened his fingers the same as her own.

  “Show it,” she pressed, pushing his hand toward the stark whiteness as he had done for her the week before.

  Sara then dragged his hand roughly over the white, causing a vicious and rage-filled black streak to mar the page.

  Christopher blinked and stepped back, but Sara tugged at his arm to draw him back again.

  “No,” she said, firm. “You must no’ keep it inside. Not any longer. Your heart is good, and the black canno’ have it. You put it here. You put it on this bit of white.” She forced his hand against the paper for a second time, holding it there as she focused on his blank expression. “Here.” She pressed his hand harder into the paper, causing the charcoal to snap and a piece to clatter to the floor.

  Christopher twitched.

  “Here,” she insisted, voice cracking.

  But where to begin showing and expressing more than a year of rage and loss and confusion? Christopher tugged at her hold, the action causing another streak and another twitch at the sound.

  “You canno’ run from it,” Sara told him, shaking her head. “I know. I tried. But it chases you. Follows you to your dreams and taints your memories into nightmares and horrible faces...." She pushed and dragged his hand across the paper. “Put it here. Let God have it! He knows more what to do with the rage and the ache than we do. It kills us. Bit by bit stealing what God has given.”

  And she continued the firm strokes of his hand until the white was mostly shadow and blackness. Then Sara released her hold on his hand and tore the paper free with a full motion of her body. Christopher cringed, backing away from her when she presented it to him.

  “Here.” She pressed it against his chest. Christopher stared blankly down, insides convulsing. “Tear it. Rip it. Burn it. Anything!”

  Christopher reached up to hold the paper, hesitant. When Sara’s hands grabbed hold of his and guided the tearing action, he retreated away from the sound and the feel of it, causing the papers to fall to the floor.

  Again Sara took him by the arm and pulled him to the easel, pressing his hand against the new white as she choked on tears and pleadings to “put it here” and “leave it.” To give God those things he had kept far too long. To put it all onto a bit of paper they then ripped into pieces and let tumble to the floor, a little bit of hardness escaping each time they fell.

  “Leave them there. Do no’ take them back. You do no’ want it, so do no’ keep it—” Her voice choked on the sobs, gathering Christopher’s dazed eyes to hers, glimmering as rich as the midnight after a storm. “Please, Christopher.” She stepped closer, resting her hands on his chest. “Do no’ keep it."

  Christopher gave a slight shake of his head as he drew her close, staring at the whiteness which didn’t seem so terrifying. It didn’t seem so stark and empty. It looked more like it waited, whispering while waiting for him to hear its voice.

  Twenty-One

  Displays of Fancy

  23 February 1894

  Christopher adjusted his tie and suit-coat, his insides in turmoil at a surprising sense of nervousness. This particular display and reception was more... ambitious than any previous.

  In side rooms throughout were preliminary displays pertaining to the gallery’s past history working with children. Near each introductory exhibit hung a sign-up sheet for those families interested in participating future activities. But amidst the excitement was a fear that, somehow, the Chronicle would find a way to taint the project. Making some portion of it questionable, focused on the non-existent ‘what if’ rather than on the children.

  Yet another threat to Sara’s reputation.

  Christopher’s nervous tremble of fingers succeeded only in knotting his tie. “Blast it!” He struggled with the untying as the front doors opened, drawing his attention. He smiled as Paul, Dix, and Sara entered the gallery, Gwyn scampering forward ahead of them.

  Gwyn vaulted herself into his waiting arms. He kissed her cheek. “You look pretty in emerald and white today. I wasn’t expecting you until later.” Christopher focused toward the entry where Dix and Paul held back.

  Sara continued up to him and Gwyn. “I made them come early. I could no’ wait longer. It
is such a treat to watch everyone arrive, with their smiles and laughter. But so much better to see from the first, instead of when everything is so busy.” The excited words tumbled from her rose lips with hardly a pause.

  “I’m glad the first unveiling didn’t spoil you to the future ones.” Christopher set Gwyn down and then stepped forward to help Sara from her usual wool coat. Lilacs and vanilla drifted from her hair. “Most timid individuals, in my experience, don’t care for the noise and commotion.”

  “Oh no, sir.” Sara cast him a glance over her shoulder. “I have witnessed parties grander than this since Gwyn’s age.”

  Gwyn giggled, drawing a wink from Christopher as he pulled Sara’s coat free. “Well, I’m glad of that. It... has...."

  Christopher’s smile died away as he drew the coat away to reveal the velvet gown of rich indigo beneath. He swallowed hard. White ribbon roses trailed from right shoulder to left hip, ending in a delicate bouquet of orchid and lilac. Interwoven throughout were smatterings of faux pearls and green ribbon leaves. The effect was elegance personified, the flow of the gown augmenting her statuesque figure.

  “Oh Sara,” Gwyn breathed. “You look like a princess.”

  “Thank you, Gwyn.” Sara looked to Christopher with an eager and bright expression. She reached for his tie. “Mr. Christopher, you knotted yourself in.”

  A laugh cleared the boulder of fire and stone from his throat. “Yes, I suppose I have. Distraction is to blame, proving I can’t do too many things at once.”

  Gwyn gathered his right hand, her laughter echoing through the halls. “Mamma used to do your ties, Papa. You always knotted them.”

  “Yes, well, that’s the way of life sometimes.” Christopher watched Sara while she unknot the mess and deftly performed the duty he attempted himself. She peeked at him and smiled. His ears burned, and he shifted his attention to Dix and Paul. Paul helped Dix from her coat while sending Christopher a sidelong glance of amusement. Dix seemed to ignore them altogether.

  “There.” She gave the tie one last straightening movement with a graceful hand before once more smiling up at him.

  “Now, Gwyn.” Nonplussed at a sudden churning within, he dropped to one knee and gathered his daughter’s hands. “You stay with Auntie Dix and Uncle Paul this afternoon. Just like you used to. Understood?” Gwyn nodded. “Good girl.” He kissed her cheek and watched as she dutifully moved toward her Aunt and Uncle. Christopher offered his arm to Sara. “Miss Kreyssler.”

  “This is so exciting,” she said, voice hushed.

  “Does that mean you might be open to the possibility of introducing yourself?”

  “Your sister seemed to think you may not want to do so tonight, but she would no’ tell me why.”

  “Oh.” Christopher cleared his throat. “I had forgotten about that...." He sent her a glance, and noticed her curious expression.

  “Well, hello. Look who’s early.” Teddy approached, smiling.

  “Hello, Mr. Parker.” Sara actually offered him a hand, which he accepted to give a slight and quick grip. “I could no’ stay away nearly so long this time.”

  Teddy laughed and then motioned toward her. “You look lovely.”

  Sara flushed. “Thank you.”

  Christopher scolded himself for not saying it first.

  “Seems to me something about her is beginning to itch at the back of my mind. You notice that at all, Top?”

  “Teddy,” Christopher complained, “don’t start the age-old lines now. She knows you too well to fall for them.”

  Sara restrained a giggle.

  Teddy frowned. “I was being serious. Give me some credit.” He focused on Sara again, his frown disappearing. “You want some punch and sandwiches? We have cookies this time, too. Em outdid herself.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You certain?”

  “I am too excited to eat or drink a thing.”

  “You’ll get tired of these things eventually.” Teddy passed to greet Dix and Paul. “Let me know if you change your mind about the punch,” he called over his shoulder.

  Smiling after him, Sara shook her head.

  “Sara.”

  Sara turned. “Yes, Mr. Christopher?”

  “I have a confession.”

  Her smile dropped away as she blinked up at him. “A c-confession, sir?”

  “I won’t be able to spend as much time with you tonight as I did before.” He forced a smile. “Teddy and Paul have sworn to make certain you’re not preyed upon by the more desperate single artists.”

  “Oh.” Sara lowered her gaze to her clasped hands.

  The dejection in the single utterance tore at his conscience, but how could he tell her the distance was to protect her reputation against a false report to the Chronicle? “I should have told you earlier—”

  The front doors opened as the first of their guests arrived. A cluster of regulars, they were distracted to a further entrance by Dix and Paul’s greeting. Christopher took up Sara’s cold hands to give a collection of squeezes. He cursed himself. “Sara, don’t convince yourself you’ve done something wrong. Your enthusiasm is gratifying, and my distance isn’t a punishment. I’m simply taking my role as sponsor one step further.”

  Sara passed a quick look to him from beneath her lashes.

  He willed himself to offer a more convincing smile and gave her hands another gentle pressure. “I want you to enjoy yourself this evening. Mingle. Laugh. Listen to their inspirations brought about by the viewing of your sketches. Relish the freedom to be yourself.” Christopher brought each of her hands to his lips—He blinked at the soft warmth of lip and hand, and both their faces burned crimson. “I...." He met her wide-eyed gaze and forced a release of her hands. “Slap my face if I do that again.”

  Sara laughed.

  “That’s better.” Christopher gathered Paul’s attention from the entry. “I won’t be absent all evening. I promise. What kind of host would I be if I didn’t mingle with everyone, boring and charming?”

  Christopher stared after her and Paul for only a moment before more guests arrived. Then he had no chance to gauge or examine anything.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Ah. You’ve come again.”

  Sara beamed. “Mr. Conklin. Good evening.”

  “I’ve seen you in here quite a few times this afternoon, Miss Kreyssler.” Mr. Conklin motioned toward the watercolors. “I don’t suppose one will find its way home with you?”

  “Oh no, Mr. Conklin. I am studying.”

  “You’ve begun attempting to lift a brush yourself?”

  “Mr. Lake has been kind enough to teach me,” Sara admitted. “Though I canno’ seem to see the picture in my head as I do when I sketch.” Her lips drooped. “I am afraid I am no' as good a pupil as I wish to be.”

  “Now, now, my dear. That you’re willing to try something new is a testament to how good a pupil you are. I’m certain Mr. Lake doesn’t hold the difficulties against you.”

  “Oh no! He’s more patient than anyone I ever knew before.” Sara focused a wistful smile on the watercolor. “Except for my mum, I suppose. There never was a more patient teacher. Though she could no’ help me with my sketching, she tried something fierce to do what she could.”

  “She sounds charming.” Mr. Conklin followed Sara’s scrutiny of the watercolor. “Did she accompany you this evening? It would be an honor to meet her.”

  “No. My mum . . . she passed on.” Silence followed, and Sara looked up to catch a dark expression of regret on his face. “It is fine, Mr. Conklin. She watches all the excitement from Heaven while giving a cheer. She always encouraged me to go for what was on my heart.”

  A reluctant smile softened his expression. “And what, my dear, is on your heart?”

  “Truthfully, sir, I do no’ know. Since coming to America everything’s changed, and Mister Christopher and Mister Paul and Dix . . . they press me forward to try new things. Would you like to meet them? I feel certain they would love to meet you
.” Sara searched the main hall. “There they are.” She took gentle hold of his arm. “Come along then. I will introduce you.”

  “They won’t mind the interruption?”

  “Oh no. They adore meeting new people.” Sara caught Christopher’s glance. One of his eyebrows twitched before he returned his attention to the conversation and alerted Dix and Paul to Mr. Conklin’s approach. The two arrived just as their current subject finished.

  “Mr. Lake? This is Mr. Joseph Conklin, the nice gentleman I met at the last unveiling who said all those kind things in Harper’s Weekly. Remember?” Sara smiled at Mr. Conklin. “Mr. Conklin? This is Mr. Christopher Lake, director of The Richmond Gallery of Art.”

  Christopher produced a hand, a smile enhancing his good-looks and compassionate hazel gaze. “Mr. Conklin. It’s nice to put a face to the name. This is Mr. Paul Donovan, and his wife Dixon.”

  Mr. Conklin greeted each before smiling at Gwyn’s cherub face peeking from around Dix’s skirts of navy and black. “And who do we have here?”

  Sara knelt and motioned for Gwyn to come out. “This sweet little miss is Miss Gwyneth Marie. Mr. Lake’s daughter.” She gathered the girl into her arms and lifted her up, settling her onto her right hip. “Miss Gwyneth, meet Mr. Joseph Conklin. He’s the nice man who said those wonderful things of your father. Remember?”

  Mr. Conklin bowed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss.”

  Gwyn giggled into her hands. “I like him,” she whispered.

  Sara kissed Gwyn’s flushing cheek.

  “I see you’ve been keeping Miss Kreyssler occupied in my stead,” Christopher observed, motioning to Sara. “Thank you.”

  “It has been my pleasure.” Mr. Conklin made a sweeping gesture of the newest display. “Quite impressive, Mr. Lake. You have us all waiting with bated breath in hopes that the mysterious S. A. L. hides somewhere within this ocean of faces. I, for one of many, would like to extend my congratulations. Quite a refreshing array of intensity and innocence.”