Sara fell into step beside Christopher as he moved toward his office, Teddy and Paul following behind. “Could you find another story-cycle?” She paused at the doorway. “It was such a wonderful surprise when you did before, and I rather think everyone would love to see another.”
“Not a bad idea,” Paul said. “You should have heard some of the verbal renditions of the story-cycle I heard at the party. Inventive, every single one.”
Christopher smiled down at her. “Of course I can try, but are you so certain another display like that is what you want? Don’t you want to try something new?”
“But it would be new.”
“Yes, I guess it would,” he admitted, chuckling. He motioned inside. “After you.” Christopher caught Teddy’s amused smirk. “Shut up, Parker.”
Laughing, Teddy moved to sit in the chair beside Sara as Christopher retrieved the collection of sketches from their locked location of his desk.
“Could we keep the first story-cycle up?” Sara offered. “You put so much thought and care into it. I would hate to have it missed by those who were no’ able to come to the first unveiling.”
“That isn’t a bad idea,” Paul agreed. “And there’s no reason we should move it, either. The lighting in that room is perfect for its simplicity.”
“Should we have more drama in the second?” Christopher pulled out the sketches. “I seem to remember several with a bit more flair for that.”
Teddy nodded. “Drama in the main room would be great. The openness of the hall would invite louder discussion. The smaller room is more confined, and people have a tendency of whispering there.”
Sara looked from each person with wide eyes, listening with awe and wonder as they discussed options. Christopher’s attention continued to stray to the rapt expression in her dark blue eyes. Her lips would tilt upward in a smile, and then slightly part as either Teddy or Paul made an observation on one of her sketches which caught her by surprise.
The flush remained on her cheeks as well, making him certain she never before held the center of positive attention. Yet, of her own confession, she always chose to remember the good in each one of her experiences. The sunshine in a rainy afternoon. The laughter from children after a snow. The possibilities of a new life after leaving a familiar, old one.
Christopher lowered his attention to the sketch in his hands; A woman sitting at a vanity regarding herself in the mirror while a child peeked around the woman’s shoulders.
“A great many of these have a certain feeling of . . . family and safety,” Paul noted, lifting his held sketch. He attracted Sara’s attention. “Why don’t we have that the focus of this display?”
“Not bad.” Teddy pointed to Christopher. “It seems to me we haven’t had the same amount of families come. Maybe we could use this display to get into that again? Remember the fun we used to have with the kiddies coming over to do clay-works with me, or drawing with you and reading with Carla?”
Christopher’s insides twitched, but he forced a smile as he lifted his gaze. “Yes. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Say. Why don’t we have this unveiling earlier in the day? Then families could come and see that we’re getting back to the same-old, same-old. We could even have children’s activities in some of the side-rooms,” Teddy continued.
Excitement shone in Sara’s eyes, her hands clasped tight in her lap. It would be fun to have children in the gallery again, reminding him of a past of laughter and play that seemed to now only vaguely echo in the halls. Christopher lowered his focus to the sketch. The woman and the child. Family. A completion previously broken.
“Teddy, we shouldn’t get too carried away,” Paul was saying. “Maybe an art contest, but nothing much more than that. Not until we remember how to keep them occupied and satisfied and not screaming for their parents.”
Teddy laughed. “I guess you’re right. It would be just my luck to have a clay fight break out five minutes after starting the class.”
Christopher caught Sara’s glance of concern and offered her a small smile. She flushed and lowered her gaze. “Fair enough,” he said. He cleared his throat and dragged his focus back from regrets and too-soon endings. “So it’s agreed then. Family will be the focus. Which pieces should we have out?” He set the one with the woman and the child aside. “This one, most definitely. Maybe even as the finale. Paul? What do you have?”
The remainder of the morning was invested in choosing ten pieces of art for the second display, agreeing upon a time-line for the story-cycle, and then laughing at possible children activities over coffee and cookies. The lesson was forgotten, especially when Gwyn ambled down sometime before lunch to say “Hello” and “Look what I drew.” She then robbed all attention, especially Sara’s, who drew the girl up onto her lap and shared awed commentary for each image.
Teddy retreated soon after, deciding to make his way to the gallery to begin the set-up of the display. He wrangled a promise from Christopher to come by after the lesson.
“That’s right,” Paul said suddenly. He laughed and came around to take Gwyn up into his arms. “Come along, Angel. Your papa needs to give Miss Sara a lesson, and he won’t be able to do that with the two of us causing distraction.”
“But can’t I watch?” Gwyn asked as Paul carried her from the room.
Paul’s answer and the reason for it was lost as the two proceeded down the hall to one of the other rooms.
Christopher straightened from the desk, looking this way and that for something to focus on to hide the dread. The initial lessons the previous week hadn’t been any type of challenge, simply an introduction to the media. But now, as he knew she needed to begin actually painting objects and specifics, he didn’t know how to . . . inspire her when he couldn’t see or feel the images himself.
“Well then.” He cleared his throat. “Lesson.” His eyes were drawn to the closed studio door. The blank paper waited just beyond. Pencils, colors, palette. All waiting for her touch of inspiration.
A soft contact on his arm caused an internal jolt as he glanced to his right. Sara stood beside him, hesitancy darkening her blue eyes as she worried her lower lip. Dread dried his throat. She only ever looked like that when about to speak directly to a need. Pushed by Someone Christopher tried desperately to ignore. Someone who wouldn’t be ignored. Sara displayed courage in that; speaking in a way that didn’t accuse or belittle. She simply offered.
“Mr. Christopher, I . . . ." Sara sent a fleeting look to the studio door before again meeting his gaze.
He noticed something different in her expression, and the hesitancy didn’t seem to be for him. “What’s the matter?”
She flushed but didn’t look away. “I know you have no’ painted since—” Sara’s cheeks paled. Christopher cleared his throat and looked away. “But could you . . . could you help me? I try so hard,” she confessed, her blue eyes wide as the recognizable glimmer of frustration appeared. “Even using my charcoals before the paints I still do no’ see an image. I thought . . . ." She finally lowered her gaze, clasping her hands in front of her. “I thought, perhaps, if you could help me as before, something might come of it. You are such a natural hand with the brush.”
His chest tightened with the overwhelming desire to do what she asked. To paint. To create. But when he again focused on the studio door and remembered how large the white—“The blind leading the blind,” he mumbled.
“Mr. Christopher, you are no’ blind.” Sara’s tender tone drew his gaze. Her eyes glowed. “You have but closed your eyes to what’s there, perhaps a bit frightened of what you might see.”
“Or what I won’t.”
“But that is no’ what you want.” She rested her hand on his arm, and the warmth of it burned. “Do you no’ want to see the images again?”
Christopher clenched his jaw and slightly nodded.
“Then believe you will and move to the doing of it. God’s whispers never stop. We only stop listening.”
&nbs
p; Christopher frowned and pulled his arm from her touch. “He stopped listening a long time—”
“No, Mr. Christopher. No, He did no’ stop.”
He moved his glare to the studio door.
“You are hurt and angry, and wanting to know a ‘why’ that your heart and mind likely canno’ accept. He chooses no’ to answer, and you hate it. I did, too. But He’s still there. Listening. Watching. Doing what needs to be done to keep you moving forward. That little bit of strength coming when you had no’ left. That little bit of silence when a laugh would have been too much.”
Christopher swallowed hard at the words and what they meant, even as he fought against them. “If He cared, why did she die? Why am I blind? Empty—”
“Do no’ ask for the answer to the ‘why’,” Sara pleaded. “There’s no answer to be had until we face God at the hereafter. Ask the ‘what’ and the ‘how’ and the ‘when’. ‘What can I do to go on?’, ‘How can God make it better?’, ‘When will God bring the blessing from this?’” Sara wrapped a hand around Christopher’s arm and gently but firmly squeezed. “Look for it, sir. It be there. It is always there.”
“I—” And the cacophony of desires, to see the blessing, to have the release, to have that security back; they bombarded him. Pushing. Pulling. Tearing at something deep that hid a terrible agony. A mountain of loss, his wife, his faith, his passion. Desperation to have it back clawed at him, but the betrayal fought it back.
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 wh
iteness 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.”