Mightier Than the Sword

Seb stood there dazed. Why hadn’t she told him? He’d never felt sadder or happier in his life. He must win both their hearts, because he would sacrifice anything, everything, to be with them.

The crowd dispersed as the last few children were reunited with their mothers, until finally Seb was left standing on his own, still clutching the bunch of red roses. He crossed another road and entered another door in the hope of finding someone who could tell him where they lived.

He walked down a long corridor, past classrooms on either side that were decorated with pupils’ drawings and paintings. Just before he reached a door on which a sign announced Dr. Rosemary Wolfe, Headmistress, he stopped to admire a child’s painting of her mother. It could have been painted by Jessica twenty years ago. The same confident brushwork, the same originality. It was no different this time. Her work was in a different class from anything else on display. He recalled walking down another corridor when he was ten years old, experiencing exactly the same emotion—admiration, and a desire to know the artist.

“Can I help you?” said a stern-sounding voice.

Seb swung around to see a tall, smartly dressed woman bearing down on him. She reminded him of his aunt Grace.

“I was just admiring the paintings,” he said, somewhat feebly, hoping his exaggerated English accent would throw her off guard. Although she didn’t look like the kind of woman who was easily thrown off guard.

“And this one,” Seb added, pointing to My Mom, “is exceptional.”

“I agree,” she said, “but then Jessica has a rare talent … are you feeling all right?” she asked as Seb’s cheeks drained of their color and he staggered forward, quickly steadying himself against the wall.

“I’m fine, just fine,” he said, recovering his composure. “Jessica, you say?”

“Yes, Jessica Brewer. She’s the most accomplished artist we’ve seen at Jefferson Elementary since I’ve been headmistress, and she doesn’t even realize how talented she is.”

“How like Jessica.”

“Are you a friend of the family?”

“No, I knew her mother when she studied in England.”

“If you tell me your name, I’ll let her know you—”

“I’d rather not, headmistress, but I do have an unusual request.” The stern look reappeared. “I’d like to buy this picture and take it back to England, to remind me of both the mother and her daughter.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not for sale,” said Dr. Wolfe, firmly. “But I’m sure if you were to speak to Mrs. Brewer—”

“That’s not possible,” said Seb as he bowed his head.

The headmistress’s expression softened and she took a closer look at the stranger.

“I’d better be going,” said Seb, “or I’ll miss my train.” He wanted to run, but his legs were so weak he could hardly move. When he looked up to say goodbye, the headmistress was still staring at him.

“You’re Jessica’s father.”

Seb nodded as the tears welled up uncontrollably. Dr. Wolfe walked across, removed the picture from the wall, and handed it to the stranger.

“Please don’t let them know I was here,” he begged. “It will be better that way.”

“I won’t say a word,” said Dr. Wolfe, offering him her hand.

Cedric Hardcastle would have been able to do business with this woman; someone who didn’t need to sign a contract to keep her word.

“Thank you,” said Seb, handing her the flowers.

He left quickly, clutching the painting under his arm. Once he was outside, he walked and walked. How stupid he’d been to lose her. Doubly stupid. Like the bad cowboy in a B movie, he knew he had to get out of town, and get out fast. Only the sheriff could know he’d ever been there.

“Union Station,” he said as he climbed into the back of another cab. He couldn’t stop staring at My Mom, and would have missed the neon sign if he hadn’t happened to look up for a moment.

“Stop!” he shouted. The cab drew into the kerb.

“I thought you said Union Station. That’s another ten blocks.”

“Sorry, I changed my mind.” He paid the driver, stepped out onto the pavement, and stared up at the sign. This time he didn’t hesitate to walk into the building and straight up to the counter, praying that his hunch was right.

“Which department do you want, sir?” asked the woman standing there.

“I want to buy a photograph of a wedding that I’m sure your paper would have covered.”

“The photographic department is on the second floor,” she said, pointing toward a staircase, “but you’d better hurry. They’ll be closing in a few minutes.”

Seb bounded up the stairs three at a time and charged through some swing doors with PHOTOS stenciled on the beveled glass. On this occasion, it was a young man looking at his watch who was standing behind a counter. Seb didn’t wait for him to speak.

“Did your paper cover the Brewer and Sullivan wedding?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ll check.”

Seb paced back and forth in front of the counter, hoping, willing, praying. At last the young man reappeared carrying a thick folder.

“Seems we did,” he said, dumping the folder on the counter.