It belonged here. The new creation I was currently working on. But how absurd! I didn’t even know the owners. Yet the thought recurred every time I saw the house.
It looked so inviting. The house that is. Old fashioned,elegant, two storeyed, not too big. I’d always wanted to live in a two storey country mansion with sprawling gardens. As long as I had the staff to care for it so I could continue to be a lady of leisure. A southern belle living a life of luxury, I thought in my wildest imaginings, being pampered and primped and sought after for my pleasurable company. My staff even now are not slaves, you understand. I don’t approve of keeping people in bondage doesn’t matter what their race and creed is. They are in my employ and have good working and living conditions. However, I would need more living in such a house as this. And a southern belle is the furthest thing from reality for me.
I’d seen the house many times in passing. Now it was on the market! Excitedly, I hurried home. I was determined to own it. Being single and rich, it was a simple matter to put the wheels in motion. Duly instructed, my attorney took care of all the details. It was not long before the deeds had been signed. As it turned out the property was in excellent condition. There was nothing that needed to be done other than move in and make it mine.
A month of Sundays later, I did just that. As soon as I opened the door, it felt right. It was home. A weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Ever since my parents had died some two years ago in a horrid boating accident, I had been living alone in their townhouse. A necessary move to sort out their not inconsiderable estate left in its entirety to me as their sole child and heir, I had sold my own house. My plan had always been to return here, just not in these circumstances. To me the townhouse felt stifled and constricted, leaving me breathless and unhappy. Even in my childhood. Which is why I had moved away as soon as I could. Heavens knows why, but it was highly prized by the locals and would sell quickly. The sooner the better as far as I was concerned.
I settled into my new home effortlessly. Life was serene and peaceful. Yet there was a nagging feeling of something missing. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Neither could I work out why I should be feeling like that. I didn’t want for anything. My time was my own to do with as I pleased. All my business affairs were set up to function without requiring my personal presence other than an occasional meeting. Even those I could delegate if I wanted to. My time was largely taken up with my passionate pursuit for colour in all its glorious shades, tones and varieties.
The top floor of the house in its entirety was my studio. All eight of the rooms were dedicated to my various creative pursuits. In one I painted. In another I used fabrics to create unique three dimensional pieces be they clothing, sculptured works or soft furnishings. To my surprise all my creations, regardless of their genre, were highly sought after. I had a long waiting list of people wanting to buy them. They were prepared to wait as long as it took. But for me it was not work. It was passion. It was love. It was beauty. It was birthing. Creativity and joy danced to their own internal rhythm and timing.
I had just completed my latest piece a few days ago. It was the one I had felt belonged in this house. Now, however, was the time to decide to whom it would be offered. The decision was always mine alone to make. That also was understood and accepted. Somehow, this seemed to make my creations even more desirable. But for me it was about it going to the right home and the right person. Only I could make the match for I was the creator, the one who had lovingly and painstakingly birthed it. Only I knew each piece in its intimate detail.
I pulled out the folder with the names of potential buyers. Usually when the time came to make the decision a name leapt out almost of its own accord. But not this time. I looked at the list. Nothing. It felt odd. This had never happened to me before. Perhaps I was too tired, I thought, putting the folder down. After all, the birthing of this creation had been uniquely different right from the very start. I had been feeling a bit out of sorts the last couple of days. Going downstairs to make myself a cup of tea and a bite to eat, I pondered on the turn of events.
Intuitively I still felt that this creation belonged here, in this house. Yet I had not created it for myself. And felt no allure to do that even now. How odd. Being a Sunday, cook was on a day off. I enjoyed pottering around in the kitchen on weekends. It was yet another creative outlet for me. Often I would test out new recipes for the sheer joy of sampling and smelling exotic ingredients. Cook always made sure the pantry was well stocked for whatever I needed. Today, however, I settled for a simple rye, corned beef and mustard sandwich. Gathering my lunch onto a tray, I walked out to the back garden. My favourite spot was to sit in the gazebo and gaze at the splashes of colours made by the flowering trees, shrubs and bulbs. It was glorious.
Hellooo! Startled, I turned around to see who was disturbing my peaceful Sunday. Coming round the side of the house was a person I had never seen before. Ruffled, sandy brown hair, sunbrowned skin, piercingly blue eyes, broadly smiling mouth atop a rippling, muscled body that looked well used to heavy manual work. What a handsome specimen of manhood, I thought, followed immediately by, now there is someone whose portrait I would love to paint. And then – this is him! The new owner of my latest creation. How absurd! I’m sure he wasn’t on the list of potential buyers. I know them all.
As it turned out, he is the new owner. And my husband.
© Raili Tanska
Written in response to Lady Calen’s –
Sandbox Challenge 38 -something wonderful