Searching for Sara (Extended Edition)

by Nona Mae King

Christopher released a deep breath and looked up– He dropped the sketches and staggered back. Gwyn’s gasp of despair attracted Sara’s attention from the window. Her smile vanished when her eyes met his.

  “Mr. Christopher? What’s the matter?”

  He continued to step back, mutely shaking his head as life and fantasy burned an image into his mind—He turned and fled, Sara’s voice ringing in his ears.

  Twenty-Six

  The Pain of Perfect Timing

  27 February 1894

  Sara tapped her artistry pencil on the sketch paper as she stared out onto the whitened garden with unseeing eyes. Amy sat in the chair across from her within the observatory, stitching the hem of a gown of burgundy velvet while sparing an occasional glance to regard Sara’s pale complexion. Gwyn hummed a child’s melody as she played with a collection of blocks to make towers, bridges, and buildings.

  “Gwyn.” The girl paused mid-placement of a tower block to meet Amy’s gaze. “Is your papa gonna let you sleep over tonight, too? Or is he gonna come and getcha?” A quick glance toward Sara revealed no change in complexion or posture. It was as if she didn’t hear.

  Gwyn shrugged and looked to her blocks. “I don’t know. Sara said Papa had to go for a little while.”

  Amy lowered her stitching. “Go? Where? New York?”

  Sara blinked and lowered her head. Still silent.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say ‘good-bye’.” Gwyn’s lower lip quivered.

  “That must’ve been some emergency for your papa to forget that!”

  Amy heard the front door open and close, noticed Sara’s quick look toward the front hall, and gave a blink of surprise when she excused herself from the room. Then hushed voices could be heard outside in the hall, one sounding more and more distraught.

  “What in the world?” Amy asked in a hushed voice. She looked to Gwyn as she set aside her stitching. “I’ll be right back, sweets.” In the front hall, Teddy and Harold exited out the front door. Dix and Paul continued to speak to Sara in soothing tones.

  Amy stepped forward. “What’s happened?” She wrapped a comforting arm around Sara’s quivering shoulders.

  Dix sent Amy a reassuring smile. “Don’t you worry your head, dear. Take your charge upstairs and get her some tea.”

  Amy curtsied and gently guided Sara to the stairs, doing her best to soothe her new friend.

  Dix watched the two’s progress with a vanishing smile. She lowered her head, pinching the bridge of her nose as she whispered, “Chris...."

  “I’m sure he’s fine, Sweet. He’s come far since meeting her.”

  “Is it enough?”

  “Enough to push him to the next step.”

  Dix took a firm hold of Paul’s hand. “But... but it was Sara in those images, Paul. How will he move past that? You know how he is. Seeing this mysterious vision of a young woman before he even meets Carla? Before you and I even met Sara in England? How will he put logic to a miracle when it’s his heart he needs to see it with?”

  Paul placed a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll let you know when I find him, Sweet.”

  Dix sighed. “Be careful, darling.”

  Paul sent her a wink and stepped out into the chill February air.

  ~ ~ ~

  Christopher heard a deep sigh and lifted his focus to the window– color bled from his features. The Lady of Charcoal stood there, surrounded by muted tones of grays and black. The mists of colors drifted around her like whispers. Words wouldn’t come as he stood there, and he was unable to approach for fear the dream would dissipate before he could see her face. He swallowed hard, but remained mute, lost within the conflict of color and muted white.

  “I thought... I thought it would be a comfort for you,” the Lady whispered. Though she faced away from him, the language of her body declared her desire to stay.

  “You are a comfort, Lady,” His voice rang tight, gruff.

  She lowered her head, and shadows robbed the profile of her face from his sight. “I want to help, but...."

  “You have.” He approached with cautious, deliberate footfalls. “You have served as my inspiration for beauty and innocence. A desire God gave me. If you were to go...." It would be another agony of loss, one he couldn’t bear.

  She sighed. “Your Carla will always be with you.”

  “Of course, but God wouldn’t let me forget your inspiration even amidst my grief.” He stepped forward, close enough now to hear the whisper of her breath, yet unable to see but the curve of her neck and the gentle waves of her hair. “I cannot let you go, Lady. The passion we shared together... I don’t want to lose that again.”

  The Lady of Charcoal lowered her chin, it trembled. “May I... may I help?”

  He reached out to enfold the supple warmth of her hand. “Yes. Be my Lady again. Be my inspiration.”

  The Lady of Charcoal sounded a soft sob. She tilted her face toward him, sapphire eyes glimmering with the tears that danced down rose-kissed cheeks.

  His face paled as he stared down into the lovely face of—

  “Sara!” Christopher choked out the strangled shout, fighting against the twisted covers to sit up. “No,” he hissed. He kicked his feet over the side of the bed and gripped the sheet, squeezing his eyes tight as he shook his head. “It’s impossible!”

  The charcoals. The watercolors. The vivid impressions of the Lady who made him doubt she was simply ‘fantasy’. And now, within his dream.... The overwhelming feeling of her presence. Her voice fit with her silhouette, tremulous and hesitant. Soft and gentle, as he had always sketched her—

  Christopher shook his head again, fisting his hands into the fabric of the down mattress as tears burned his closed eyes. The laughter with Gwyn. The commonality of a passion for art. The comfort and the care taken with his grief for Carla– He fisted his hands in his hair. “Blast!”

  She never wanted anything. She always gave. She always offered and listened. She never sought attention. She never sought recognition. It was always others. Him. Gwyn. Dix. Paul. Teddy. Harold. Emily. Amy. Never herself. Never her future. Never. It was give; never get. It was offer; never receive. It was—

  Christopher punched the softness of the bed, his head hanging. “It was supposed to be Carla,” he choked out. Yet Carla had gone, to heaven with their son. But not before God made use of her to free a young woman with a broken heart.

  He pushed away from the bed. A friend. A surprising friend. Someone I trust. Someone I talk to. Someone who... He hid his face in his hands. The silhouette. The profile. The line. The curve. The grace... It was supposed to be Carla, and yet....

  ~ ~ ~

  Paul shut the door of the carriage house at Lake Manor. Patrick, one of the older drivers, worked on the rear axle of a closed carriage. “Hello, Patrick.”

  Patrick looked up and doffed his hat from his silver hair. “Mr. Paul. You need a carriage, sir?”

  Paul noted the fresh travel stains on the carriage’s chassis as he stepped further inside. “I think so. Are any of the larger available?”

  Patrick cleared his throat, worrying the hat between his fingers. “I’m sorry, Mr. Paul, but I’ve got to hold onto it. Master Chris’ll be needing it again.”

  Paul smirked. Patrick was the only one, other than the occasional slip from Harold and Emily, whom called Chris ‘Master’. A remnant and very pleasant memory from earlier years. “It’s fine. I can wait until he returns. I will only need to adjust some reservations. When will he be returning?”

  The man rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’m not really sure, Mr. Paul. I just thought I should be ready in case he calls. It’s a jaunt from Master Damon’s in this weather.”

  “It certainly is that.” Paul clapped the man on the back. “Thank you, Patrick. I’ll see about getting a reservation at a closer location.” Paul exited the carriage house with a slight smile. He enjoyed being right.

  ~ ~ ~

  28 February 1894

  The sun had long since risen from a sea
of purple and orange. The haggard man slouched in the tattered chair didn’t notice the new day. There in the attic of a college-friend’s home, hiding within the cast-offs of previous years, he stared across from him at the old easel. Hazel eyes bloodshot. Face pale and shadowed with exhaustion and a day’s growth of beard. Paint spattered clothing and body, the brush still between his fingers, spent.

  The man raised a trembling hand to cover his eyes, choking out, “Oh my God” before his voice drifted to nothing. He ran a hand harshly down his face, doing his best to wipe the memory and inspiration away, even though he knew it was too late. The image had already escaped, from heart to mind to canvas.

  A trio.

  Carla. Gwyn... and Sara

  Carla’s image shadowed and ethereal, standing behind Sara with a supportive hand on the woman’s shoulder—Christopher’s throat tightened, but he couldn’t look away. The wife. The surprising friend. The loving daughter. All such important strengths... And that trio of gentleness and laughter beckoned to him. Each glow of laughter experienced as if he himself had been present. Each rustling of fabric nearly heard, flirtatious yet timid.

  Christopher sat forward, the brush dropping to the attic’s dusty floor. He covered his face and choked another prayer, throat constricted on the tears of remorse. After all the rage he voiced, God continued to prepare the way to heal his heart. Through the screaming and the blame and hate, God worked to bring... Sara.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sara dried another wave of tears from her cheeks. Why did he run? Why did he look so... so.... Thoughts vanished with the rise of a sob as she covered her face with trembling and cold hands.

  At a soft knock, Sara swiped the tears from her face. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Dix, love. May I come in?”

  “Y-yes.”

  Dix entered, closing the door softly behind her. She drew Sara into a tender embrace. “All will be well, Sara love.”

  “N-no,” Sara denied in a choked voice. “I... I did something.”

  “I hardly believe it could have been you. You wouldn’t offend a soul, on pain of death.”

  “Then why d-did he go?”

  “Dear Sara." Dix leaned back. “Please don’t blame yourself. Chris doesn’t. I promise you that.”

  “B-but...."

  “I know, dearest.” Dix drew Sara into another embrace. “You think you must have done something horribly wrong, because weren’t you just standing there when he gawked at you like he did and then bolted? But it was something that’s been a long time coming. Since he began his second-year classes at Richmond College when he was fifteen—Come along with me. Let me show you.”

  Dix took Sara by the hand and drew her down the hall to the master bedroom. She opened a dresser drawer and retrieved a leather-bound portfolio. Inside, a collection of finished and unfinished sketches. Curiosity drew Sara closer as Dix cycled through them, apparently seeking a particular—

  “Here they are. Lovely, aren’t they? A silhouette here. A back profile of a head there. A front profile here, but done in such a way to keep the face hidden by hair or shadow or flower.... This is a lady that Chris has seen in his dreams and on paper and canvas since his college days.”

  Sara looked up, confused, but Dix continued to stare down at the silhouettes and profiles. Finally, Dix lifted a single sketch of a lady’s silhouette within a room. “This is a likeness of the image he saw when he bolted, Sara. An image he has seen in his mind for ages. A lady that, even after he fell in love with and married Carla, he still saw from behind: Faceless and turned away—it’s you, Sara.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Lady of Charcoal

  “What?” Sara whispered. “W-what do you m-mean? I.... I have never met Mr. Christopher before coming here. I swear it!”

  Dix set aside the sketches to take Sara’s trembling hands. “Sara love, I’m not accusing you of a plot. Your coming has been nothing but a blessing. You’ve been a welcome addition to our family. A reason for Gwyn to laugh again. An accepting and thoughtful friend for Teddy. A bit of laughter and learning for myself and Paul.” Dix brushed a tear from Sara’s cheek. “And to Chris? You’re a possible finish to the unfinished. A conceivable completion to his blank canvas—”

  “No!” Sara wrenched her hands from the older woman’s clasp and backed away. “Mr. Christopher deserves more than the likes of me. He should no’ see me in beautiful pictures, dreaming about some lovely lady full of grace and poetry and... and....” She covered her face with cold hands, tears dripping. “N-no... not me."

  Dix drew Sara close. “And why not? You let him be who he is. You encourage him to step outside of the agony. And you do it all with no expectation of anything in return. You give, selflessly, because that gives you joy.”

  Sara sobbed against the older woman as she choked out “B-but I do no’ w-want him to think...."

  “What, Sara love? He thinks of you as a friend. He sees you as an artist. Someone he can confide in regarding the gallery and his very passion: His art. What could he possibly believe could be wrong?”

  But Sara didn’t know. All these years she had done so well in keeping her emotional distance. Keeping her heart guarded. Keeping herself on the outside, safely ensconced within the arms of a God she knew she could trust.

  Then she came to America.

  Pushed outside her comfort to seek a new life. Shoved outside her caution and hesitation to a new way of thinking. Friends. Family. Acceptance. Belonging. Beauty. Things and thoughts she hadn’t ever entertained. And amidst it all? One man who believed the best of her while pushing her to be her best. One man she came to trust and call friend. One man she had grown to—

  Sara released a choked sob. “I love him, mum.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Christopher swiped the wetness from his face and lowered himself to sit on the floor, his back propped against his bed. He gathered up his leather-bound Bible from the floor beside him. He didn’t understand. If the Lady of Charcoal was Sara, why... why Carla? He rested his head back against the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  There came a soft tap and then the creak of the opening door. “Chris?”

  “I’m sorry, Paulie. I had to... I...." Christopher shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  Paul Donovan stepped farther into the room, closing the door behind him. “I know, Chris.” He tossed his overcoat aside and sat beside Christopher’s weary form. “Are you well?”

  “I don’t know. I’m confused. Why her? Why was it Sara in the images?” Christopher shifted his tired gaze to Paul. “Her friendship came when I felt myself slipping to the numbness. Her wide-eyed view of the world came when... when I stopped seeing anything beyond the agony. My smiles for Gwyn? Forced. The attention for supported artists? Stale at best. I lived each day in case there was a moment free of a reminder. Then Sara....

  “She helped me face the reminders while showing that... that it was all right to miss someone. After all, hadn’t she been without family or friend most of her life? She took away my excuses and she helped me grieve. To laugh. To mourn. To make more happy memories. Why her, Paul?”

  Paul examined Christopher’s haggard expression for a long moment. “Chris, God brought Sara to America for many reasons. Don’t ask why this and why that. Be her friend. Accept her help. Accept the blessing she’s been to you. Continue as you have, taking one day at a time. She doesn’t expect more.”

  “But I don’t know if I can continue to view her as simply a friend, Paul. Not after seeing her as...." The memory of the revelation still beat at his heart and mind, his pulse racing—He cleared his throat. “She’s the first woman I’ve felt comfortable with since Carla’s death. The first woman to share my passion for art and artist alike. A friend?” He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “She’s the woman from my images, Paul. The Lady of Charcoal. The internal personification of everything I desired...."

  “I understand.” Paul gripped his shoulder. “Two years without the comfort of a woman is a li
fetime. No one would fault you for accepting Sara as the finish to your family.”

  “But I don’t love Sara, Paul, and she deserves that much. I enjoy spending time with her. Teaching her. Learning from her.... I genuinely care about her, am attracted to her even, but I can’t ask her to be the hostess of Lake Manor and mother to my daughter knowing that trying to love her might...." His spirit shuddered. “I don’t want to resent her, Paul. Not her.”

  “Chris." Paul regarded his profile a moment. “Chris, considering your fondness and genuine concern, do you truly believe you would grow to resent her?”

  “I...." But he didn’t know. The roar of conflicting wants and needs overpowered any reason, making it impossible to discern the next step. She was a friend, but she was the Lady. He cared about her, but he didn’t love her... and yet she was the Lady. How could he not love her?

  Paul smiled. “Topper, don’t burden your recovering heart with the questions. Simply enjoy your friendship. Sara may not be ready for anything beyond that. There is a lot of growing yet for her to stretch out beyond her rough history. Your friendship with her has made that possible. Step forth from that point in your view of her. Don’t press yourself to anything more. Digest. Consider. Leave everything else where it is.”

  Christopher inclined his head, closing his eyes against the onslaught of questions and possibilities. “I will try.”

  “Good. I will give you a moment or three to think on that while I see Damon about making a telephone call. Dix will want to know we haven’t caught our death.”

  “Paul. Tell Sara...."

  “Tell her it wasn’t her fault?” Christopher nodded and Paul’s features softened with an understand smile. “I will.” Then he stepped into the hallway beyond, closing the door behind him.