Saras Protective Dad part 1 corrected
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Note to the reader: this story contains romance, but not sex. Hope you enjoy.
*
Sara adored fall. There was something about the changing of the season that spoke to her. As the days grew shorter, and the chill crept into the breeze of fine, sunny days, the colours of her New England world would change slowly into the burnished golds, straw and rich browns accented with fiery reds. It was as if nature was determined not to go quietly. The last flush of energy before the long sleep of winter was spent in a spectacular display of visual glory.
She dressed for the season. Light, floating summer dresses gradually gave way to jeans, heavier fabrics, boots and scarves. The brightness of summer fashion fading into the deeper shades of denim, mahogany and ochre. While her friends complained about summer lost, Sara rejoiced in the increasing crispness in the air that brought a pink flush to her cheeks.
She laughed as she walked, arms spread wide for a moment and then a single spin which sent the carpet of fallen maple leaves around her into a little eddy. They cavorted around her ankles for a moment before rustling back to rest on the paved path through the park. She knelt down and picked up one of the leaves. Marvelous, this creation of nature. Discarded and lifeless it was still a thing of exquisite structure and beauty. Was there a lesson here, she wondered, about life?
Sara returned to the present with a pair of boots just beyond the leaf in front of her. It took her a moment to register that they weren’t hers. A second moment to admire them and then, with a flush that had nothing to do with the coolness in the air, a third moment to glance upward. In a world of fall colors, eyes the color of the sky were a brilliant, unexpected contrast. It seemed the sky had – with its view blocked from her – still found a way to condense itself into the two orbs studying her merrily.
‘A melancholy time. So charming to the eye!’
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘Ah, Pushkin. The second line in the stanza is ‘Your beauty in its parting pleases me.’ You make a striking ‘youthful nymph’ crouched down there amongst the debris of summer’s glory.’
‘Umm…’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. That was rather odd wasn’t it. Here: let me give you a hand up and we’ll start over.’
Sarah felt sheepish as she took the large hand he offered to her, and she wondered how long he’d been watching her. She used her gloves to brush the dirt and leaves from her jeans, glancing surreptitiously at the man through the veil of her chestnut hair.
‘I didn’t see you there, I’m sorry. I can get a little lost in my own daydreams when I come here this time of year.’
Her dark eyes regarded him cautiously at first, but the man’s expression, actually his whole person, radiated with a sort of quiet enthusiasm that caused her to smile in spite of herself.
‘So…. Pushkin? I have to admit I’m not much of a literature buff, but I’ll thank you for comparing me to a youthful nymph I think.’
His laugh made her flush again, and she buried her balled up hands into her pockets, her shoulders tight.
His eyes got smaller when he smiled, and almost disappeared when he laughed, which was often, judging by the fine lines at the outside corners. He held out his hand one more time for her.
‘My name is Paul. It’s nice to see someone here who enjoys this place as much as I do, even if she seems to be embarrassed by her enthusiasm.’
‘Yeah, well, sometimes I forget I’m not eight years old anymore. Sara, by the way.’
Paul watched her with amusement. She was certainly younger than him, he’d guess her at just shy of thirty, but something about her bashfulness at the moment made her seem younger. He reached forward and plucked a bit of leaf out of her loose hair, dropping it to the ground with a friendly grin.
‘To be honest, Sara, I was sorely tempted to photograph you there, but was afraid of being knocked around a little for taking a pretty woman’s picture without her permission,’ Paul gestured to the camera slung by a strap over his shoulder. ‘But I also wasn’t certain if nymphs translate to film.’
Sara couldn’t quite tell if he was making sport of her. Those blue eyes were incredibly intense and a little alarming if she tried to meet his gaze for too long.
‘I would imagine there are far more worthwhile things for your lens in this park than a woman making a fool of herself.’
She closed her eyes for a moment, and took a breath. Compliments were never her forte, but she realized she must sound terribly rude.
‘Thank you, though,’ she added.
She leaned back against the tree as he began to pull his digital camera out of its case. She stared at her shoes waiting for him to tell her that he was ready.
‘Thanks, all done.’
‘What …?’
‘Your pensive expression was so striking that I just snapped away.
‘Oh. Um, may I see?’
Paul laughed.
‘Oh no, I want to touch up the contrast and reframe it slightly first. Besides, I need an excuse to see you again.’
He smiled as he said it, bringing the crinkle again to the corners of his eyes. It was a very nice smile, Sara decided, and was surprised to find an answering one rising unbidden on her face.
‘OK, I’d like that too.’
‘These chilly mornings are just right for a latte or a hot cocoa. Tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, I usually have a slow start to Saturday and read in a corner of a cafe someplace anyway.’
‘Great, well where shall I meet you?’
‘Black Forest, at ten?’
‘Done’, he said and held out his hand.
Sara extended her own tentatively. She gave a little gasp when, instead of shaking as she expected, he brushed a soft kiss on the back of her hand.
‘Until tomorrow then, Sara.’
And with a grin and a final flash of his blue eyes he was gone.
Sara stood and watched him stride away along the path, the leaves dancing joyfully around him as he went. As the distance increased it was difficult to tell whether they were rising before him or in his wake. It was easy to imagine that these children of the gods of autumn were parting before him, making way for the Lord of Winter.
She shook her head and turned towards home. She tried telling herself that the unsettled feeling in her stomach was just hunger. Or perhaps she was shaking a little from the cold. She retied her scarf and hugged herself tightly as she left the shelter of the trees and the wind increased. No, the butterflies in her stomach flitting like the leaves in the fall gusts had nothing to do with the recent encounter. Nothing at all. Or, so she kept telling herself.
——-
The bell chimed cheerily as Sara pushed open the oak door. From the Avenue’s sidewalk you could see through the glass panes and imagine the atmosphere, but it wasn’t until you stepped inside that you got the full force of that extravagant assault on your senses. The tantalizing scents of freshly brewed coffee combined with pastries and cinnamon. The smell of the pine cones in the brazier against the far wall underlain with that distinct smell of old, well-worn polished timber. The sound of chatter and laughter was a counterpoint to the clink of crockery. The sights, smells and sound of Black Forest always rejoiced her spirits.
Sara waved at the barista. She was a regular enough customer that several of them recognized her. She’d often stop and chat while waiting for her order. It was another of the things she liked about the place. It was friendly in that comforting, old-world way. Professional service was fine, but it had no charm when it was delivered with a cold crispness devoid of feeling. No, the feeling here was just right and she loved it.
‘Sara?’
She walked over to the counter where Jill smiled at her through a cloud of steam from the espresso machine.
‘Someone left a message for you early this morning. A little unusual, too’, she
said with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Ben? Under the counter. Can you get that for Sara?’
Ben handed her a leaf.
The large maple leaf was still green-tinged at the centre, fading through yellow to a burnt orange at its outer points. Written hastily in a dark brown ink across the patch of marigold was, ‘Sorry. Called away. See you soon? P.’
The keen pang of disappointment was a little unexpected. After all, they’d only talked for a matter of minutes yesterday, and yet she’d really been looking forward to coffee today. She would have blushed to admit how much time she had spent on her appearance before she left the apartment, carefully crafting herself to appear carelessly cute. She noticed the barista studiously wiping down an already spotless area of the countertop, watching her intently. She was obviously hoping for some details about the mysterious note.
Rather than try to explain, Sara counted out the money for the coffee, dropped a bill into the tip jar and thanked her. She carefully tucked the leaf into the pages of her book, and turned back towards home.
As she made her way down the peaceful path back to her apartment, shuffling her feet through the carpet of newly fallen leaves, her thoughts spun, making up reasons for his cancellation. Perhaps he had second thoughts, and just didn’t want to see her? Maybe he had a wife, and couldn’t get away. The longer she thought, the more preposterous her ideas began, ranging into ideas straight out of movie plots.
Sara shook her head and laughed in spite of herself. He hadn’t left a number or anything, so she was unsure how or if they would ever meet up again. There wasn’t much point to worrying about it. It was disappointing, but that had been her luck lately. Why should it change?
——-
‘Mike, for God’s sake! I still don’t understand what’s so important about this guy that I needed to drop everything and drive down,’ Paul groused as he pulled a suit jacket on over his t-shirt.
Mike just laughed. He’d known Paul for five years now, and had organized at least twice that many gallery showings. Paul wasn’t your typical New York artist type, but he wasn’t exactly the easiest photographer to work with either. Where most of the artists Mike dealt with were self-important divas, Paul was almost too laid back. If Mike hadn’t pushed so hard, he was sure that Paul would never have tried to sell his photos in the first place, much less make a living at it. A damn good living too. And now this.
‘I’m sorry that I pulled you away from your Saturday morning cartoons, buddy, but this guy won’t move until he meets you. He’s a really interested and well-connected buyer. He really likes your stuff, but it seems like he’s looking for something specific, and if he thinks you’re the guy, this could be huge, okay. So, Paul? Don’t fuck this up, will you? ‘
Paul rolled his eyes and groaned, muttering, ‘Goddamn it, Mike, you know I hate this sort of meeting. I’m shit at selling myself, isn’t that what I pay you the big bucks for? I had better things to be doing this morning, you know.’
Paul had been halfway into the city before he’d realized that, despite how clever his little note might have been, he’d really left himself no way to find Sara again unless he staked out the coffee shop or the park and just hoped. Though, he smiled remembering those dark eyes and the uncertain smile, it might just be a stakeout worth doing. Truthfully, he’d been in such a sleep-deprived haze this morning that he was lucky he had remembered to put on his good jeans, and to throw this jacket into the back of the Jeep.
Mike reached for the door handle and turned back to Paul, his face arranged into that encouraging and hopeful expression that did, despite his complaints, serve to bolster his client’s confidence.
‘Ready, old man?’
All he could do was nod, and assume what he hoped was a pleasant expression himself.
‘Alright, let’s see what this guy wants from me.’
To be honest, he was expecting a much older client. The man rising from his seat and the long granite table was perhaps thirty-five, which made him several years younger than Paul himself. He had a firm grip, and a friendly, if far-off look to him.
‘Mr. Balfor, I would like to introduce Paul Turner. Paul, this is Mr. Eric Balfor.’
‘Mr. Turner. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve been to several of your gallery shows, and Mr. Holloway here tells me that your most recent show was the most successful yet.’
‘It’s, umm … it’s Paul. Please. And yes, Mike here has done wonders for getting my work out there, pounding the pavement and getting some very positive reviews for my pictures.’
Mike smiled, the fond smile of a true friend. That sort of minor self-deprecation sold Paul’s work almost as much as the work itself. Paul hated the actual gallery shows, but Mike always insisted he be there. Once people met Paul, and spoke to him… Paul was, in many respects, an open book. His photography was a reflection of that, and Paul’s personality probably made him more money than the photos themselves.
‘Yes well, your ‘pictures,’ as you call them,’ continued Mr. Balfor, obviously amused, ‘deserve every good word ever printed about them, from what I can tell. I do love the stories you tell through your lens, I enjoy them very much. I am actually the owner of two of your pieces already, and they hang proudly in my home here in New York. And yet, for all the beauty if your photographs, I have not found what I’m really looking for.’
Paul’s head cocked to one side, and a frown flickered across his face. The man spoke eloquently, but he could not fathom where this conversation might be headed.
‘Can I ask if you have ever done any sort of portrait studies?’
‘Not professionally, but I’ve shot quite a few which I have in my personal collection and some for friends.’
‘Do you have any with you?’
The question caught Paul off guard. He always had a folio of work with him to present to clients. It was full of impressive, artistic shots of landscapes, architecture and scenes from life, but none of individual people. Except for the one he’d thrown inside the back cover that morning to keep it flat. He liked it, but for reasons more than just its photographic merit. Was it good enough? He took out the image of Sara and wordlessly handed it across.
Balfor looked at it for a long moment.
‘That is very, very good’, he said softly. ‘When can you start?’
‘I’m not currently working on any commissions so, other than preparing some gallery work, I’m at your disposal. What did you have in mind?’
A quarter hour later, Mike was clapping Paul on the shoulder as they walked back to the Jeep.
‘Brilliant work in there. That silent thing handing over the shot, that was genius! Just the right amount of mystique to incite his curiosity. Couldn’t have done it better myself. I’d better be careful, saying things like that or I’ll be out of a job.’
‘Hardly! It wasn’t a ploy. It was the only portrait shot I had. You could have warned me.’
‘Honestly, I didn’t have a clue what he wanted or I would have told you. He just asked to meet. And when Eric Balfor ‘asks’, you don’t say no. He doesn’t ask twice. We had one shot: today.’
‘I think I’ve blown my shot for today.’
‘What? Balfor’s a windfall – and I’m not talking about the cash. Just having his name on your client list is setting you up for life!’
‘No, Mike. The girl in the portrait. Sara. I was supposed to meet her this morning when you called me down.’
‘Hah! I didn’t know you had a bit of skirt in Connecticut’, laughed Mike, digging Paul playfully in the ribs.
Paul looked at him coldly.
‘Oh. It’s serious. Sorry, old man, thought it was just a … well, you know. So you two have been seeing each other for a while then?’
‘I met her yesterday.’
‘OK, I deserved that’, chuckled Mike. ‘Well, keep your secre
ts: just don’t let them distract you from Balfor’s work.’
——-
For the next few days, Sara couldn’t get Paul out of her head. Try as she might she kept remembering those brilliant blue eyes. She could feel the echo of his lips as they brushed the back of her hand. She’d read the maple leaf at least twenty times looking for some hint, some hidden message. A return to Black Forest on the Sunday had been equally fruitless.
She was despondent as the door shut behind her, the clanging of the little door bell suddenly cut off as it closed against the jamb. Sara sighed and trudged up the sidewalk. She browsed through the shop windows on the Avenue, but wasn’t really in the mood for any serious shopping. Her reflection in the panes of glass showed at odds with the bright displays. In a side street she found a bookstore and idly thumbed the second-hand sale table. The word ‘Pushkin’ caught her eye and out of the stack she dragged a well-thumbed anthology of the poet’s lyric work. She smiled wryly, bought it and shoved it in her bag.
‘Well, at least I can read the rest of the poem’, she thought.
The next few weeks were a whirlwind of meetings and projects and mandatory overtime. The impending holiday season increased Sara’s workload exponentially, and it left her little time to dwell on the mysterious Paul or those incredible eyes of his.
Still, she found time to flip through the dog-eared pages of the Pushkin collection when she had a moment to breathe. She skimmed verse after verse, and found herself marking pages of her own, noting lines and images that struck her fancy. She’d essentially given up on finding Paul again, and in fact, if it wasn’t for the maple leaf she used to mark pages in the tome she now carried with her everywhere, she would have thought he was a figment of her imagination.
Tuesday was an incredibly long day. Meetings kept her from her desk all day, so by the time she left, she not only had all of her work yet to do, but she missed her bus by several minutes. It was not a bad walk home on a regular day, but it was chillier than usual. Rather than go all the way home, Sara stopped at Black Forest. Her apartment was only eight blocks further, but she was chilled through and they had Wi-Fi, so she could get started on her work, warm up and grab something to eat. It was the perfect solution.
She chose an oversized chair off to the edge of the room near the electric fireplace. It only took a few moments to settle herself in, laptop screen glowing, suede Sherpa coat flung carelessly across the chair back. She didn’t even have to go to the counter to order, the barista pointed to the specials board, brows raised, and Sara nodded. One of the perks to being a regular, she supposed.
Sara loved to work here, she felt clearheaded here and was able to concentrate completely. She scrolled through the PDFs her colleague had emailed early in the morning and got to work.
‘….Miss?’
She started, realizing that the word, which had already been repeated twice from behind her shoulder, was directed at her.
‘Ah, there you are. Do you recognize this woman by any chance? I’ve been looking for her.’
A photograph dropped to the keyboard in front of her. She looked up, startled — and straight into those piercing blue eyes. A merry twinkle glinted in their azure depths. Paul’s smile echoed his eyes and he chuckled softly.
‘I see now why I could not find you at the park. You’ve decided instead to ‘sulk around the stove behind storm windows’.’
‘Oh, you’re disappointed? And here I thought that you must have loved the ‘lavish withering of nature, the gold and scarlet raiment of the woods’, preferring them to me, seeing as I thought we were to meet here by this ‘stove’ on a Saturday quite a few weeks ago!’
Paul’s eyes widened slightly.
‘Touché. Yes, I deserved that. I must apologize for that, but it involves a story if you have the time. May I get you something?
‘I’ve already ordered, but I can easily add to it if you’d like. Latte and the special?’
Paul nodded his thanks, smiling. Sara saw one of the wait staff bringing her order over. She caught her eye, gestured to the maple leaf on the table next to the laptop and held up two fingers. She grinned, nodded her understanding and quickly retreated to double the order.
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