Chapter 188:
Unraveling Threads
Megan’s POV
The pitter-patter of the rain pelting against the window served as a soothing background while I sat at my desk, going through old photographs. The studio was quiet for once with most of the team being out for the afternoon. It was one of those rare moments of solitude that I actually treasured and needed to reflect and delve deeper into my work.
“Hey, Megan, got a minute?” Max’s voice broke through my reverie. He stood in the doorway, holding a small, worn box.
“Sure, come on in,” I said and pushed my chair back, gesturing to a chair alongside mine. “What’s that?”
Max walked over and set the box gingerly on my desk. “I found it in the attic. Thought it might be something you’d want to see.”
I raised an eyebrow at that. “What’s inside?”
He shrugged. “Haven’t looked yet. Figured we could open it together.”
Feeling my curiosity getting the best of me, I cautiously opened up the top of the box. Inside were letters, some old sketches, a few trinkets; all of them bespoke of a story nearly forgotten. I pulled out a faded photograph of a young lady standing in front of a beautiful old house. A familiar sense to her tugged at my memory.
“Who is she?” Max said, bending in closer.
“I think… I think that’s my grandmother,” I said, reaching for the picture. I reached out and traced her face with my finger. “She used to talk about her days as an artist. This must be some of her old work.”
Max’s eyes went wide. “Your grandmother was an artist? That’s amazing. What else is in there?”
We gingerly opened the box and began setting things on the desk. Letters, done in fine, flowing script, sketches of different landscapes and people, and a small, leather-bound journal.
“Look at this,” Max said, picking up one of the letters. “It’s dated 1952. She must have been really young.”.
I took the letter from him, reading aloud the words. “‘Dearest Eliza, I miss you more with each passing day. The city is not the same without you. I hope to see you soon. ‘”
“Eliza,” Max murmured. “Is that your grandmother’s name?”
I nodded. “Yes, Eliza Matthews. She was quite the character, from what my mom used to tell me. Always full of life and stories.”
Max smiled. “It sounds like she was. Do you think there’s more about her art in that journal?”
I opened the leather-bound journal, the pages yellowed with age but still intact. “Let’s find out.”
We turned to sketches, notes about her art, and reflections on her life. It was as though we had stepped through into another era, into her vision of the world. One entry caught my attention.
“June 5, 1953. Today I met a man named Thomas. He’s an artist too, and we spent hours talking about our work. There’s something special about him. I feel inspired in a way I haven’t in a long time.”
“Thomas,” Max said, looking at me. “Do you know who he is?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never heard of him. But it sounds like he was important to her.”
We read on, joining the fragments together of Eliza’s life. Evidence began to build up that Thomas had been very instrumental in her artistic life. Indeed, the pages of the journal were full of notes about meetings and their love of art and how they found inspiration in each other.
“Hear this,” I said, and read another entry. “‘August 15, 1953. Thomas and I have decided to collaborate on a series of paintings. It is the most exciting project I’ve ever worked on. Can’t wait to see what we come up with.'”
Max tipped his chair back, reflective. “Sounds like they were pretty close. You think any of the work they collaborated on survived?”
“I hope so,” I said, with an involuntary surge of determination. “There’s much more to uncover here. Maybe we can learn more about Thomas and their joint work.”
Max nodded; his eyes were full of curiosity. “This is very interesting, Megan. It’s like unraveling some mystery. And who knows, maybe you will find something that will give you ideas for your own works.”
I smiled, glad he was so into the idea. “You are. This might be just what I need. Thanks for bringing this to me, Max.”
He beamed. “Anytime. I’m happy I could help.”
Just then, Sarah entered the studio, her eyes lighting up when she saw us. “Hey, what are you guys up to?”
“Hey, Sarah,” I called, waving her over. “We’re going through some of my grandmother’s old stuff. It turns out she was an artist too.”
The excitement in her eyes made her light up. “Really? That’s so awesome! Can I see?”
“Of course,” I said, scooting over a little. “We were just reading through some journal entries of hers. She used to work with another artist, and we’re simply piecing their story together.”
It was with this eagerness that Sarah joined us-young enthusiasm contagion. Sharing what we had found put me in a renewed sense of purpose. My grandmother’s story had been a part of my artistic heritage, and I felt the need to honor it.
Over the next day or two, the studio was abuzz as we learned more and more about the mysterious Eliza. We called up local historians, rummaged through old records, and even visited a few galleries in search of her work. The more we found out about her, the more talented we realized she had been and how amazingly her work had influenced people around her.
One afternoon, rummaging through some old newspapers, I came across an article that took my breath away. It turned out to be a review from 1954, regarding the exhibition of Eliza and Thomas’s joint work. The praise in the article was all about their styles merged together and the emotional depth of the paintings.
“Max, Sarah, look at this,” I called, waving the article at them.
They bent closer to the yellowed page. “Geez,” Max said, reading aloud. ” ‘The collaboration of Eliza Matthews and Thomas Whitaker has produced a collection of paintings that defines humanness. Their work is only a testament to the magic of artistic synergy.’ ”
“Thomas Whitaker,” I repeated, and that name rang a bell. “I’ve heard that name before.
“I know him!” said Sarah, her eyes wide. “He is a very famous artist. His pieces are still on display in various galleries.”
My heart began to race at this point. “That means … there might still be a way to see their collaborative pieces.”
We didn’t waste any time calling up all the galleries exhibiting pieces of Thomas Whitaker. After a few calls, we got a lead in some upcoming exhibition of some lesser-known pieces by Thomas, possibly done with Eliza.
We went to the opening night of the gallery. Upon entering the hall with the works, the air was electric. My eyes naturally gravitated to one corner where a small crowd formed.
“There,” Max said, gesturing to the crowd. “Let’s go see.”
We waded through to it, my breath catching at the painting. It was the exquisite fusion of styles: the tender touch of Eliza paired perfectly with the bold strokes of Thomas. One felt the emotion that had gone into the piece-a reminder of the passion and connection they shared.
“Look at the signature,” Sarah whispered, nudging her finger toward the bottom corner. “Eliza Matthews and Thomas Whitaker.”.
I looked at the painting. My eyes welled up. The connection to my grandmother was instantaneous. “She was amazing,” I said under my breath. “And to think, I never knew.”
Max slipped an arm over my shoulder. “Now you do. And you can carry her legacy forward.”
I nodded, suddenly inspired. “I will. Her story isn’t just a part of my past; it’s part of my future.”.