"I don't pretend to know the challenges you're facing, the world you keep erasing and creating in your mind..If I could grant you piece of mind, if you could let me inside your heart. Oh, let me be a part of the narrative, in the story they will write someday, let this moment be the first chapter where you decide to stay. And I could be enough." - Hamilton

Ten-year-old Sara Howard followed behind her father as they entered the Moore estate on business. But as the conversation with Igantius Moore drew out, she sighed in boredom; and when movement beyond the garden window caught her eye, she peered through, brows knitting at what she saw.

Not long after, Mr. Moore sidled up to young Sara, watched her gazing at the young man in the dead garden as he drew sunflowers with thick chalk on the white masonry wall.

Mrs. Moore was off somewhere on another "sabbatical" and the garden flowers had all died, their dried and fragile remnants quaking in the light breeze; but the tall boy was shirtless, covering the wall in bright colors of yellows and orange, abstract vibrant petals open wide to the sky amid rays of drawn sunshine.

Ignatius Moore watched her with a derisive eye.

"That's my son John. He just dropped out of the Harvard Business program to study…..ART." Sara could almost feel the man's anger. "So I've unenrolled him for a term to re-evaluate his life. He's lazy, incorrigible. His head is always off in the clouds…Mind my words, Miss Sara, there are men to be avoided in life but for every failure like John there are a dozen fine suitors in this city, and you seem like you have a good head on your shoulders," he let out of throaty laugh and looked at Sara's father, who just smiled mildly and thought to himself that his daughter would do well to marry a dreamer.

She was so serious, so deeply introspective. And he worried every day that his melancholy would eventually become part of her psyche, as well.

We could all do for a little happy dreaming, he imagined. For dreams, in the end, were sometimes the only thing that made life bearable.

xxx

John stood in something of a trance, not able to absorb that Sara Howard was on the other side of his loft door.

"Open this door now!"

And with that John opened it completely, moving behind it.

After several heavy seconds of silence, she walked in and turned cautiously to see John let go of the door; it slowly waved shut.

He stood there in his underpants, a mug of coffee pressed to his middle like it could protect him, and Sara suddenly felt like she'd made a terrible mistake.

His chest rose and fell with nerves, a small silver anchor with inlaid agate around his neck. Somehow she knew it had been his brother Samuel's, and in spite of herself her eyes traveled slowly down his muscular frame then up again and she felt her face go red.

Almost to hide the fact, she rushed in, wrapping arms around him. He was here. Warm, solid. His heart pounded under her cheek, and John rested one arm lightly on the small of her back but after a few seconds he let the full mug in his other hand clatter to the floor and enveloped her with both arms, face buried in her hair.

"I've missed you," he murmured, the raspy voice tickling her ear.

When the moment finally became awkward, she pulled back, trying to focus only on his face.

"Perhaps you should….could you put some clothes on?"

"I did as I was told, you did say 'open the door now,'" he said, not hiding a small amused grin.

"I did," she laughed.

"Don't…please don't leave." He hesitated then walked down the hallway and her eyes followed him, surprised by the small freckles across his back. But he'd always loved the sun, she thought, remembering the day she first saw him. And that day in the countryside when she'd seen him last.

Sara looked around the loft's den, large but well-furnished although lightly. Scattered here and there, the floor had large dropcloths, splattered in bright colors. And three easels with works in progress on them; and another, a large mural, fastened to the wall, not painted enough for her to see the subject.

The loft smelled of coffee, sweet clove cigarettes and oddly enough….contentment.

She went into the kitchen to retrieve a dish towel to mop up the coffee he'd spilled and noticed a small pile of notes that smelled of perfume, picked one up to read the short note of a suitor.

"Hope you like this, I've tried a new recipe. XXOO Anna."

John suddenly appeared, wearing houndstooth pants and a starched shirt, top buttons undone and the collar missing, as he rolled up the sleeves. He was still barefoot, long black curls combed neatly back away from his face.

He looked up at her from the notes.

"My neighbor," he said, almost shyly. "I think she's sweet on me."

"I can gather that," she said evenly. Of course he had moved on and why shouldn't he have. She had turned him down, after all.

John took the towel from her hands, went into the other room, and she watched him squat down to mop up the fluid as he said, shakily, "Can I get you some coffee? That's still in the pot?"

"I'm fine. John…I'm sorry that I've come…this is…we can try and make this normal, but we both know it's not and….can we just talk? Or I can leave if you prefer. I haven't seen you in six months and..I've just shown up at your door unannounced. And after our day, the last time I saw you. I'm truly sorry, but-"

"Sara," he cut her off, looking into her eyes. She swallowed and looked at the two ornate chairs situated near the window, a small table between them, and she went to one, hoping he'd follow.

When he did, they looked out the windows at the East River, breeze coming in softly with the morning light. The sun had just fully risen and traffic across Brooklyn Bridge had hit full fervor with it, horses clopping, the sounds of commerce below.

She heard him light a cigarette, smelled the burning Sulphur off the striker and when he pushed the silver case to her side of the table, she looked at him.

"I know you smoke," he said with a small smile and shrug.

She opened the case, lighting one of her own, eyes tracing the large room. Oddly enough, the silence was not difficult between them but finally he spoke.

"I'm painting now…. Even without the family accounts, I could make a living and….I'm passionate about it, I suppose. And I don't miss the paper. Illustrations just capture things. Events, appearances. With painting, I can find the emotion in a moment, the joy…solemnity. Whatever it is, it can be preserved forever and transferred to anyone who sees it, if their heart is open. So….perhaps I've finally found my purpose in life."

"I think you've always known your purpose, you've just let go of people's judgement."

"Perhaps so," he said frankly.

Her eyes wandered the smaller canvases leaning against the walls.

"You're incredibly talented, John. I hope you're aware."

In spite of restraint, his face lit up. John had received so few real compliments in his life, he always received them like water in the desert. But it meant even more to hear them from Sara, whom he would always adore.

But he blushed, which told Sara that he didn't really know the breadth of his talent.

"It hurt me that…you started visiting Dr. Kriezler again months ago… but not me.

John looked out the window, his eyes bright, still riding a small wave of happiness from Sara's compliment.

"Sara, had I not visited Laszlo, I would have never seen him again but….I knew if you wanted to see me…you'd come by one day. And Laszlo needs his friends, especially now, even though he continues to pretend that he needs no one."

"I need my friends, as well," she answered but he responded quickly.

"I pursued you, never listened to what you truly told me. You have dreams to follow and there I was not taking them seriously, not realizing that I was asking you to give them up, not recognizing what marrying someone can mean to a woman in this day and age. I want what's best for you. And I know that's not me. Quite frankly, I'm not the best thing for any woman. For all the animosity between my father and I...I've accepted certain realities about myself. He wasn't always wrong."

He swallowed, his eyes starting to well; but she knew it wasn't self-pity, just regret.

"But Joseph needs me now, I'm a good father. I know that. And in him and with my art I have something meaningful again, even if I experience it alone."

Sara studied him carefully.

"What about your neighbor?"

John laughed heartily and rubbed at a foot crossed on top of his lap.

"Anna is looking at every man in this building as a potential suitor, I think I get a double helping only because our balconies touch."

He was breaking her heart just as badly as she'd broken his. He truly had no idea how wonderful he was.

"But you're doing well. You're not drinking?"

"No," he said quietly.

"And I heard what you did for Flora. She's very happy working at the Institute…. She asks about you."

John just smiled sadly and flicked the ash off his cigarette into a porcelain bowl resting on the table.

"Sara, when you make chief of detectives, the youngest person to do so and the first woman, I'd love to be there, in the front row, to celebrate you. If you'll let me."

She got up and went to the window, trying to find the right words for her emotions, something she'd never mastered.

"I'm sorry, John…for our day in the country. I lived there after the worst days of my childhood and the memories there were no better. I'm just as scarred as you are, we just wear our scars differently."

She turned, leaned against the glass.

"I hurt you, but there are just too many things I need to solve, too many things I need to fix...And become. I can't marry you right now. Do you understand?"

"Sara…." He looked confused. And tired. "You don't have to turn me down again, I have no expectations for us." She watched a muscle work in his jaw. "If you just came here for this…"

But she went to him and took one of his hands in hers

And before he knew it, she leaned in, kissing him deeply, feeling his mouth hesitate under hers for those first moments. And then he reciprocated, pressing into her. Sara's hand wrapped into the edge of his pants, gripping and guiding him to stand; and he did, folding into her and continuing the kiss with a small, desperate sound.

When they finally pulled apart, she looked into his eyes, catching her breath as one of his hands moved lower, fingertips pressing softly into her back, raking.

"Can I….," she breathed, realizing that behind her eyes she saw stars, something she imagined only happened in dimestore romance novels. But there they were, pin pricks of light in her eyes from the emotion of kissing him. "I would love to escort you to dinner tonight, if you're available."

John's eyes traced hers.

"I don't know how you feel about courting a woman who won't marry you. At least… at least not right now. But I can't imagine my heart ever belonging to anyone else." She took a measured breath. "If you'll have it. And I promise to take care of yours, as well, although…I'm not easy to love. I imagine you know that by now, but it should be said."

"Not easy to love?" John whispered, shaking his head that she'd say such a thing. His eyes traced hers until she finally smiled, and he kissed Sara's hand, letting his lips linger, then guided her out to the balcony. They stood, leaning a bit over the edge, their hands locked, listening to city life go by below them. Dreaming.

fin

Author's Notes:

I tried to maintain some authenticity in this fic. The view and angle of John's loft, as well as the description of the windows and doors, match a current NYC hotel that served as both an apartment building and a factory during the late 1800's and early 1900's.

All the businesses described in this work were actually operating in New York City during 1896.

In the late 1800's Scottish anchor pendants and brooches with natural stone inlays were extremely popular. (Google image "Scottish anchor" to see how beautiful and unique these were.) Being a sailor, I imagined that Samuel had one of these pendants and John wore it after his brother's death; although some wore them as a sign of Christianity, especially when the main staff of the anchor had a cross bar added.

I studied delerium tremens and found that the hallucinations people experience during alcoholic withdrawal often mirror the traumas that caused their addictions, making withdrawal the worst gauntlet to sobriety.

The Flora comment references the one-shot "Other Voices, Other Days" in which John makes one last visit to Flora.

I apologize for any typos, as this was written very quickly, and I'll be editing over the next week or so, to tighten it up.

Please review or follow if you can, it makes a writer's day, and thank you for reading!

Cheers,

rane