“B-but—" She blinked back the tears as she again tried to push the portfolio back. He didn’t release his hold of her hand or its hold of the folder. “B-but, Mr. Christopher, please. It . . . it is what I wish to do with them.”
Christopher released a deep breath, his gaze drawn again to the portfolio and her white-knuckled grasp under his hand. Then he slightly nodded while giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Fair enough.” He met her eyes. “But no more gifts. These are more than enough to repay me for doing what I’ve felt it my duty to do. The rest are for your future. Understood?”
Sara wordlessly nodded, doing her best to wipe tears from her cheeks and blink others from her eyes as she lowered her gaze. She had resolved herself to let him refuse, so her press for his acceptance of the gift dropped her spirit into a haze of confusion. After such wonderful blessings at his hand, he never asked for anything in return. No innuendo. No stolen caresses.
At his continued regard, she forced a smile and set the memories away, trying hard to live in the new moment and the promise of tomorrow.
Twenty-Three
Sweet Sighs
“It seems Gwyn has tumbled into distraction. Perhaps it’s best.” Christopher set the collection of sketches aside. “I don’t know if I can . . . I don’t think I want her there when I unpack my art. Not yet.”
Sara could only watch his dark expression, her heart thudding a prayer heavenward for peace and wisdom.
Finally, he met her gaze. “I’ll leave a note for Gregory as to where we’ve gone, but, Sara, if we don’t do it now, I’m afraid I won’t have the courage to try again. There are a lot of memories in those crates, and Gwyn . . . . She won’t understand.”
Sara gave a slight shake of her head, immediately followed by a nod. “I will help however I can.”
A small smile lightened his features, and he reached forward to give her a hand a brief squeeze. “Thank you.” Then he stood to his feet, hand still covering hers, and offered her the portfolio. “I’ll speak with Gregory. Will you meet me by the front door? I believe I need to walk.”
Sara nodded, mute as she accepted the portfolio from him. Once he left the room, Sara lowered her gaze, thoughts jumbled as she set the portfolio aside and forced herself toward the entry hall. Please give me the words to say to help him. But as she slipped into her heavy wool coat and gloves, her mind continued to be strangely silent. Hesitation even began to soar, and her head to pound.
Then she heard his quiet step in the hall and released a soft and long breath, offering up all the fears and uncertainties before lifting her gaze from her gloves and meeting his.
Hazel eyes as dark as before, he asked “Ready?” in a reserved tone that lifted the hairs on the nape of her neck.
Sara mutely nodded, preceding him through the door and then waiting for him on the top step. The two didn’t speak as they made their way to Lake Manor. She used the time to pray for guidance and wisdom regarding the upcoming, and more personal unveiling. Remembering her own duty of finally unpacking her mom’s crafts, Sara had a hint at what pains were waiting, but she knew facing it would be the best way to step beyond.
When the two finally arrived at Lake Manor, Christopher’s features congealed into a mask of dread. But as he helped her out of her coat and gloves, he continued to offer her a somewhat forced smile that did nothing to hide his growing struggle. Once more Sara felt no press to offer anything but a small smile of her own while lifting more prayers for his peace.
On the third floor, Sara scrutinized Christopher’s expressions while unpacking the crates of canvases, frames, and portfolios. She continued to pray through the entire duty. For wisdom, for him to have peace, for the right words to say . . . . After a time, Christopher seemed less troubled. He also began talking more, about the histories of some of the art—though they were yet uncovered—or a funny anecdote connected with the painting of one.
Finally, the crates were unpacked and set aside and Sara and Christopher stood side by side looking at the covered canvases, hesitancy looming in the dusty air. Somehow Sara could tell he didn’t want to uncover them. It was as if he were afraid to see a happy collection of memories while thirsting for it at the same time.
Sara faced him, resting a hand on his arm. “I will uncover the first one.”
Christopher said nothing, dark hazel eyes still intensely focused on the covered canvases. When she turned to step toward the canvases, a sudden and gentle clasp on her upper arm stopped her. She turned.
His focus remained on the covered canvases. “Wait.”
So she clasped her hands in front of her. Praying. Waiting. Not knowing what to say or do other than what he requested of her.
Then Christopher’s hand released her arm and lightly touched her back, drawing her focus. He nodded, still not looking at her, and whispered, “Go ahead.”
Sara stepped forward, kneeling in front of the first available canvas and cautiously reaching out for the cover hiding its face from view. Dear Lord . . . . She lifted the cover to reveal an oil of a massive building. “Oh my,” she breathed moments before sending a bright smile over her shoulder to Christopher. “Richmond College?” She stood, hearing his hesitant approach. “What a grand building it is.”
His lips relaxed into a smile as he took the painting from her. “Yes. It definitely is that.”
Sara watched him a moment more before focusing on the other covered canvases. Lord, please show me which to choose. A smaller canvas captured her attention, so she lifted it carefully up and pulled back the cover. Tears sprung to the surface at the sketched image of young mother and newborn baby resting comfortably within a rocking chair near a window.
“Oh how lovely.” Sara turned and moved toward Christopher. “Is this Carla and Gwyn?”
He set aside Richmond College and accepted the pencil sketch, expression softening to a pained remembrance. “Yes.”
“She is beautiful.”
“Yes, she was.”
Sara watched his reaction to the image and lifted a prayer. While it was the first time she had seen more of a softening to his face than a shock and twist of agony, there was still a presence of intense grief. Please, Lord.
“I remember when I sketched this one.” He brushed dust from the frame. “The sun on her hair and the smile on her face. I had never seen her so beautiful as that day. Holding our Gwyn. Our dreams of family fulfilled." Christopher gave a slight twitch, his hand tightening on the frame moments before he set it aside.
When he continued to stare down at it, Sara’s heart ached. “M-Mr. Christopher?”
Clearing his throat, he fisted his hands. “I—” He twitched again, even giving his head a slight shake. “Sara, I . . . I can’t do more,” he confessed in a gruff voice.
“That’s fine, Mr. Christopher, and we’ve yet to get ourselves ready for the dinner party.”
Nodding, Christopher touched her elbow as he gestured toward the stairs, walking along beside her in silence. He then preceded her while holding one hand to steady her down each narrow stair. “Watch your step. This board is loose. There you are.” And each comment sounded distant and distracted. As if his attention still focused on an image of family somehow lost. One he regretted.
Lord, give him peace from the loss. Please. He tries so hard to step past it, but . . . it’s so hard for him.
They passed through the narrow door just as Harold crested the stairs.
“Harold. I forgot to mention to Em we’re having a small dinner party this evening. Can you let her know and get everything started?”
“Certainly, Mr. Christopher.” And he turned to descend the stairs again.
Christopher motioned Sara forward, her eyes intercepting his sidelong glance. “While I could only unveil two, it was easier than I thought it would be,” he admitted. “Thank you for offering your help. I appreciate the care.”
She forced a smile.
He again offered her a steadying hand as they descended the stairs to the main floor. Th
en he helped her into her coat and offered forward her scarf and gloves while quietly asking if she minded walking. Sara shook her head. So, once he shrugged into his own overcoat, he opened the door and escorted her out and down to the sidewalk.
Tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat, he breathed in deeply of the late-afternoon air and released it slowly. Sara watched his profile as he did so, noticing that even though the lines didn’t seem as haggard as before, there was still the tautness of sorrow. But the realization it wasn’t as great eased her heart more than anything else could have, and she found herself sighing as she moved her gaze to an absent examination of the sidewalk.
“Teddy will want to discuss which to show.” He looked over at her, holding her gaze. “I doubt he will let me get away with only two pieces, and if I put this off for another day, Ted will hang me by my thumbs.”
“At least you made an act of good faith. I do no’ believe he would be too upset if you were to wait until after my revelation.”
A slight twitch of Christopher’s lips caused Sara to release another breath of relief. “Ah. You don’t want to share the attention?”
“Oh no. I only thought it would be so much better if you were able to have the evening to yourself.” She offered a small smile. “It’s been such a dreadfully long time since you had that.”
“And I don’t need it again,” he said. “I’d much rather share, if it’s all the same with you.”
“But your fans!” Sara protested, eyes wide. “Do you no’ want the attention?”
“Hundreds of people ‘ooh’ing and ‘ahh’ing when they don’t truly understand the symbolism?” Christopher scoffed, albeit with a surprising hint of playfulness. “No, thank you. Besides, all those people milling about wanting to offer congratulations and suggestions and handshakes and conversations . . . ." He shuddered and sent Sara a minute wink. “I’ll pass.”
Sara laughed. “Do no’ be ridiculous, Christopher,” she said, cheeks burning at the ease with which she said his name the same moment she scolded herself for it. “You’ve a talent.”
“A talent to paint, yes. A talent to entertain, no. At least not when the focus will be moi. I would rather watch someone else gather the praise.”
“Oh. You would rather my face redden than yours,” Sara offered innocently.
“Something like that, though I’ll deny it.”
“But it’s such a happy occasion. Your art has no’ been seen for such a time. It should be a celebration to itself, not shared with me. I have gathered enough attention and praise the past weeks.”
Surprisingly, Christopher moved his gaze to a scrutiny of the sidewalk, his hands shoved a bit deeper into his pockets. Sara watched him, smile softening at his expression of embarrassment and uncertainty.
“Yes, well, it’s been too long since I’ve had the focus. I don’t think I’m up to it. All the compliments and the well-intentioned criticisms . . . ." He bent to retrieve a pebble and gave it a somewhat furious chuck down the walk. “I never was one to accept anything gracefully. Things said on my art are a little too . . . personal.”
“Oh how I understand that.”
The smile returned. “Yes. I guess you do.” He sent her a sidelong glance. “I’m still amazed you let me push you into that first display.”
“I amazed myself with that bit of courage,” she confessed.
“Did you actually trust me that much? Even then?”
“I . . . I wanted to trust someone.” She peeked at him, meeting his thoughtful scrutiny. “I did no’ have such in so long I suppose . . . I suppose I missed it.”
“But your art? It’s such an intense aspect of your persona, Sara. What a terrifying thing to open to strangers, and yet you let me push you into it when you barely knew who I was. Even still you barely know me, yet you allow me to reveal you to who knows how many people.”
“But I love people! I was only too much the fraidy-cat to look up and see them before. Since coming here, I have a different way of looking at who I am and what I can offer.” She motioned toward him. “You are such a gentleman, and your daughter a sweet bit of heaven, your sister one I never had, Mister Paul and Mister Teddy a way to have me laugh at myself and others, your friends so accepting and encouraging . . . . I feel safe.”
Christopher watched her for a long moment before again focusing ahead, adjusting his hands within his pockets. “I would have said the same about you.”
Her eyes widened. “Me, sir?”
The replying nod seemed almost absent-minded. “I’ve always felt comfortable around you . . . . Like Carla.”
Sara lowered her gaze, worrying her lower lip as she blinked a hint of wetness from her eyes.
He touched her elbow with a kerchief, drawing her gaze back again. “I’m sorry.”
“Whatever for, sir?”
“For talking of things that are better left alone. It only upsets you.”
“You need no’ apologize. I am only upset because I canno’ do much more than listen. I know as how that’s seldom enough when the pain pushes at a person’s heart.”
“Truth be told,” he confessed in a low voice, “I don’t know how to . . . to talk about it. Since her passing everyone has always kept clear of even mentioning her name. Myself included." He shook his head. “I don’t know how to grieve her, Sara.”
She watched his profile, how his jaw clenched as he continued to stare at the sidewalk beneath their feet. He didn’t seem to understand he already began the journey.
Christopher released a deep breath. “Does it never end?”
Lord. “It is a daily struggle, sir. Some days harder than others.” Sara’s blue eyes darkened as she watched the twist of the haunting return to his expression. “The difficult part is past, that long step beyond the grieving. But we always miss them.”
“Always?” He focused on her. “Sara, I am tired. Of missing her. Of remembering a favorite place and seeing her. Or smelling a favorite cologne and remembering how she looked when she gave it to me. Or wearing a favorite suit and remembering a party that went with it . . . . I guess the ache is less than before, but . . . I am tired beyond bearing.”
The quiet intensity weighed down her lips. “I know, sir.”
“I knew ignoring the past would be one of the problems later, but . . . I just couldn’t face it. Not then, and maybe not even now.”
“But you canno’ move ahead if you live behind.” When he didn’t answer, Sara halted him with a gentle pull to his arm. “If you keep remembering the death instead of the life, your Carla will no’ live. She will only have died.”
He cringed. Sara’s throat tightened as she held his gaze and offered up a silent prayer for his aching heart that so often seemed to drown with the grief.
Finally, he lowered his gaze before whispering, “I know.”
“So do no’ keep that image. Let God take that, too. You keep her smile. You keep her laugh. You keep the sweetness that was her life with you and Gwyn. Do no’ keep the death.”
“I don’t know how to let go of that one moment, Sara. It’s always right there.” He met her gaze. “It’s burned into my mind.”
“I know, but because you will no’ let God take it. You think He put it there, so you think He will no’ take it back again. Christopher, do no’ choose to keep it there,” she instructed, caressing his temple with a single finger. “Keep your age of memories and leave that one to a corner. When it comes, push it away. You know she passed on, and missing her is the only hurt you should face.”
He swallowed hard and looked away, reaching to give her hand a tight and lengthy pressure. “I will.”
Sara watched his almost gaunt expression before tucking her hand into the nook of his arm and guiding him slowly forward. “Only do no’ try by yourself. Your friends want to lighten the burden. They but wait for you to ask, ‘Can you help?’ ”
A moment of silence preceded Christopher’s sidelong scrutiny of her profile. Then she heard his whispered, “Can you hel
p?”
Sara’s lips curved upward, and she gave his arm a press. “Yes, sir.”
Twenty-Four
Fact and Fiction
Teddy slammed a newspaper onto Christopher’s desk. “You said something about suing to acquire ownership?”
Dread settled in the pit of Christopher’s stomach as he snatched up the paper.
Clamoring for the identity of art sensation S. A. L. has revealed nothing, and Mr. Christopher Lake of the ‘Richmond Gallery of Art’ is less than willing to grant interviews that deal specifically with their identity. No known date has been given as to when we might expect a revelation, a granting of an interview, or even a moment to offer congratulations.
In addition, reliable sources have observed a lady matching Miss Ann Kreyssler’s description leaving the Donovan’s residence on a fairly regular basis and taken to Lake Manor via carriage. Visits there begin early in the morning and sometimes span through lunch until dinner. Mr. Lake is also seen to arrive at the Donovan home on regular occasions, with and without his young daughter, Gwyneth Marie Lake.
These facts, again, present very specific questions: 1) Is art sensation S. A. L. and Miss Ann Kreyssler one and the same? 2) Will Mr. Christopher Lake soon be taking on a new bride and mother for he and his daughter, thereby giving Lake Manor an intriguing air of English sophistication for hostess?
When attempting to contact Mr. Lake regarding these questions, this reporter is put off with claims of ‘no comment.’ Mr. Lake’s refusal to grant interviews to this reporter begs another question: Is matrimony to the lovely Miss Ann Kreyssler not a viable option?
Rage burned from neck to hairline. “Not once did they mention the propriety of a chaperone—”
A timid knock interrupted any further tirade. Christopher and Teddy’s attentions snapped to the door.
“Gads! She wouldn’t . . . ." Teddy hissed. “Sara wouldn’t have been able to read that trash, would she?”
“Paul cancelled his Chronicle subscription.”
“Maybe Harper’s posted a reply? Haven’t they before about a slanderous article on one of their sponsors? Maybe someone phoned for comment?”