“I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.”
e.e. cummings
Megan Lautner removed the cover and critically eyed the large, unfinished canvas beneath. After several days of incessant rain the pearling pink morning light was once again perfect for continuing. At this rate it was taking much, much longer to complete the painting than normal, but her exacting nature would not allow for short cuts. She worked steadily as long as the light held out then set it aside to await the next perfect morning while she worked on other, less important, commissioned works.
She grimaced. Perhaps thinking of them as “less important” was not accurate, as all of her paintings were important and she never failed to give any of them anything other than her best effort, reaching deep within herself for what many considered divine inspiration.
Meg was nearly sixty-three and had spent most of those years, beginning as a child art prodigy, honing her talent and perfecting her technique, astounding the critics with her evocative portraits that brought the full measure of the model's personality and nature to life, often to their dismay. Yet they continued to seek her out, for the value of owning such a portrait wasn't limited to monetary worth and investment, but also for the cachet it brought with it. To own a M. Lautner original was to own something sublime, and people were willing to pay through the proverbial nose for the privilege of having their portrait done by a master.
In addition to the portraits, she painted landscapes and the occasional still life, donating them to the various charities she was devoted to. As with her portraits, they also brought high prices at auction and carried their own brand of distinction.
But the one she sat before now in her motorized wheelchair was hers and hers alone. A reflection of a vision that had haunted her since girlhood, that came from somewhere deeper than mere inspiration, and was destined for no other eyes than her own. She'd been working on it for more than two years as the light she sought only emerged during the early spring. At no other time could she capture the vision she had become obsessed with recreating.
And now it was almost finished. This would be the final spring of its creation, the final strokes bringing it fully to life. Bringing him fully to life.
Taking her pallet in one hand, she spent the first hours of the morning mixing various colors of acrylic oils with her knife, then instinctively switching back and forth with the proper brushes as she added the final definition to his features and the mysterious, ambiguous background. The canvas was to be his doorway. Or hers, she wasn't certain. Perhaps it was to be theirs. All she knew was that it was a portal she was creating. A portal through which the past and present would meet. Through which they could finally stand before one another in life as well as dreams.
As she worked, she was no longer a 63-year-old woman marred by age and deformity. In her place was the spirit of ageless youth with a fey, almost otherworldly beauty and healthy body. No human could see her for what she truly was. Didn't care to see what lay beneath the surface and beyond the wheelchair. But he did. He always had. And to him, she was perfection, just as he was for her.
Finally, just as the light began to glare she set aside the pallet and brush and relaxed with a deep sigh of satisfaction. Now they need only wait another ten days, when the moon reached its total fullness in the early morning hours of the final Saturday of April, and the portal would open.
Gazing up, her azure eyes met his of deepest sienna. In their painted depths she saw them already coming to life, just as she had for over two years. In his chiseled, almost exotic swarthy features she saw the paint beginning to change, the strokes slowly smoothing into flesh. Beneath the flowing, poet's shirt she could almost see him breathing, his powerful chest seeming to expand ever so slightly. His strong legs encased in black, form-fitting pants and black leather boots that reached above his knees seemed to radiate restless energy. He sat, his head and upper body turned in her direction, before a piano, upon which was a parchment bearing musical notes. His left hand sat lightly upon the keys while his other was poised before the music with a quill. He was every woman's fantasy. Yet he was no true fantasy. She knew he was real. As real as she was to him in his world. He was the missing half of her soul. Her muse. Her eternal love since she was a young girl when he had first appeared to her while she lay in a deep coma following a tragic accident.
“Soon,” she promised quietly, and she heard his answering promise whisper through her mind just as she reached for the heavy drape to protect his image again. Then she methodically began cleaning her brushes, preparing to spend the afternoon working on the elegant, cold-eyed portrait of a tycoon's socialite trophy wife.
The threat of severe weather became reality in the early evening of the final Friday of the month when high winds, vicious lightening and violent thunder accompanied torrential rain that obscured any view further than a couple of yards beyond the windows of her cottage where it perched on the high cliff overlooking a river. Megan loved storms. Their dangerous drama fed her innately passionate nature, making her feel more alive than she ever did on any tranquil day. And this night she knew the storms were nature's birthing pains, bringing Joshua to her. Tonight, their physical selves would finally meet after decades of dream times. Tonight they would finally be together, and Megan was ready for whatever would come of it. For with his arrival she would become whole. She would become the woman she should have been.
As the evening progressed, she found herself sitting before the vanity her parents had given her so long ago, staring into the oval mirror at her aging face, graying hair held back with a simple black band, and soft, plump upper body. She wore a emerald dress that hid her paralyzed legs just as the long sleeves and high neck hid the scars from that long ago accident. Around her neck, suspended on a silver chain, was a heavy, antique silver French poesy ring with the encryption, “Lamour nest pas un sentiment.” Love is not a feeling. Her only other jewelry was a pair of small diamond stud earrings that flashed each time she turned her head.
One of his compositions from long ago played softly from the speakers in the living room. Joshua Bennington had been living his own life some three hundred years ago, creating music famous in his day that still had the power to move both blood and spirit. As soon as she was able following her release from the hospital, she had researched his name and found he had indeed once existed as an English nobleman, a child prodigy in his own right. He had been real. And she had realized in awe that he was still real, but in another time parallel to her own. And so he had remained, until tonight.
Shortly after midnight, she moved from the wheelchair to the chintz chaise in the dimly lit living room so she could put her feet up. With age had come circulatory issues that caused her legs to swell. Once she was comfortable she relaxed, her eyes closing as one of his sonatas lured her to sleep. As she slept the storm passed, allowing the clouds to dissipate, and the room soon filled with the gentle light of the full moon. And as she slept, time reversed itself. By the time Joshua knelt by her side, her serene face was once again that of a beautiful young woman and her broken body was once again whole. When he knelt to kiss her softly on the lips, she shifted toward him, her arms lifting to encircle his neck as she slowly awakened. When they parted, they smiled into one anothers eyes.
“You're here,” she whispered and he nodded.
“Yes,” he answered quietly in a rich baritone voice, “Are you ready?”
She frowned in confusion.
“Ready?”
“For our beginning. In the world we have created for ourselves.”
“Where is that?”
“Where we can be together. Where there is no this time or that. It will be our time.” He rose and offered his hand. “Are you ready, my love?”
She smiled up at him before rising gracefully on strong, straight legs. Hand in hand he led her past the wheelchair to the studio where the painting waited, his image now the flesh and blood man beside her. The ambiguous background morphed into another time, another place as they passed through, and the portal closed in their wake, leaving only the image of a devoted couple gazing lovingly into one anothers eyes behind.
Another beautiful story of love come to pass by deep longing. You are very good at this of story with the characters and the scenes show beautifully described.
While reading I thought about The Twilight Zone. I heard they were bringing it back and this story would fit the genre beautifully. Unfortunately, they probably have a staff of writers that crank out every episode using AI to the max.
