by T. I. Lowe
Opal stared at the rack. “There was a burn in the middle of the table, but it still had potential.” She shrugged.
“Are these shelves even sturdy?” He reached out and pushed a palm against one of them, clearly no give to the shelf in sight.
Opal let that be his answer. “Feel free to look some more.”
“No. I like this one, but what if I don’t want to use it as a bakers rack?” He frowned at the tag in his hand before placing it back on the whitewashed surface.
“Then don’t. It can be anything you want it to be.” She kept smiling even though his frown deepened. It was all she could do to suppress an eye roll, baffled by how people seemed to always want to make everything so complicated.
After Mr. Randal circled around the bakers rack and tested the shelving once more, he asked, “Will you hold it for me?”
“Sure, but only for a week.”
He balked. “Only a week? You held that porch swing for over a year for me.”
Opal pointed toward the corner where the swing, made from three dining chairs, still sat. “Yes, and even though I had multiple offers on it, I held it, only for you to finally tell me last week you’d changed your mind.”
Mr. Randal crossed his arms. “Well, furniture is a big commitment.”
“Yes, sir.” She nodded her head at the perpetual bachelor, thinking he had commitment issues all around. “Tell ya what, I’ll hold it for two weeks.”
It took more wasted time before he agreed and finally left Opal alone. As she watched the door close behind him, her phone started ringing somewhere within the showroom.
“Oh, shoot. Where did I leave you this time?” Opal began maneuvering around the furniture pieces on a frantic search to find it. “Please don’t stop ringing!” The flashing screen caught her attention on an ottoman near the back. As she rounded a hutch, her foot slammed against it and she nearly toppled over. Stumbling a few painful steps, she managed to scoop up the phone and answer it. “Hello?”
“Why are you gasping? Are you okay?” Carter asked.
“Just . . . stumped . . . my . . . toe!” Opal screeched. She plopped onto the floor, yanked the flip-flop off, and chanced a glance at her throbbing pinkie toe. “It’s still there.”
“That’s good. Look, I’m calling to let you know that tomorrow is a go.”
Toe almost forgotten, Opal’s chest tightened. “Okay. I’ll be there. Thanks for letting me know.”
“No problem. I’ll see you then.”
As the phone clicked off, Opal stared at the various furniture pieces, pausing on the ones Lincoln designed. She could only hope and pray he was ready to accept himself in a new light just as he so easily did with each creation he refurbished.
19
Postsurgery was always a weird out-of-body experience. Mouth pasty and body heavily weighed down, Lincoln became aware of the familiarity of it all coming back as he regained consciousness. What wasn’t familiar was the antiseptic scent tinged with a hint of honey. It took a minute, or maybe an hour for all he knew, before he could talk his eyes into opening long enough to search for his sweet-smelling pixie, but he found her nowhere. He knew it was wishful thinking, but disappointment settled into his empty stomach anyway.
“It’s about time you woke up,” Jefferson said from the side of Lincoln’s gurney.
Lincoln had seen his dad when he glanced around, but the scowl on Jefferson’s face and the frustration with not finding Opal had him wanting to play possum, so he allowed his eyes to drift back shut.
“Son, you okay?” A firm hand clamped down on Lincoln’s forearm.
Without opening his eyes, Lincoln mumbled, “Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“Do I still have a leg, and if not, are we still allies?”
“Yes to both.” Jefferson’s voice boomed around the recovery room, startling Lincoln enough to reopen his eyes.
He licked his dry lips and tried swallowing with a good bit of difficulty. “Then what’s the verdict?”
Jefferson stood a little taller and released Lincoln’s arm. “How about getting my boy something to drink.” He barked the order, making Lincoln aware for the first time that a nurse was on the other side of the bed.
“Mr. Cole, does a Coke sound good?” the blonde asked in a soft tone, totally opposite of his father’s.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
“I’ll be right back with it.” She scurried away.
As the curtain fluttered closed behind the nurse, Lincoln’s father began, “The doctor rattled on and on, but I’ll spare you all that for now and just give a briefing.”
Lincoln’s mind was so muddled that he wasn’t confident he’d understand a brief version, but he nodded his head anyway. The room swayed a bit, so he stilled and blinked up at his father.
“So your leg had all sorts of pieces of shrapnel so embedded that they were overlooked during the other surgeries. The doctor said this is common, but what’s not common is that your leg even survived with that much damage.” Jefferson sounded right proud of that fact, from what Lincoln could tell. “And, well, as that went to shifting around inside your leg, it caused more damage, so they removed as much scar tissue as possible and had to do an entire knee replacement.”
“Again?” Lincoln already had that done once. The nurse hurried back in with a cup. She elevated his bed and held the straw to his lips. Lincoln took a sip and relished in how refreshing the cold soda was going down his parched throat. He went to take another greedy sip, but the nurse moved it out of reach.
“You need to drink slowly or risk getting nauseated,” she warned with a look of pity.
He was already nauseated but decided not to share that tidbit, worried doing so would cut him off the soda supply altogether. He watched her place the liquid gold on the side table and jot something down in the chart before checking his vitals.
“Everything looks good. We’ll be moving you to your room soon.” Blondie smiled and left as quickly as she appeared.
“That woman is moving around too fast,” Lincoln grumbled while rubbing his bleary eyes.
Jefferson chuckled and handed him the out-of-reach cup. “Don’t guzzle it.”
“Yes, sir.” Lincoln held the paper cup tight and took a long pull from the straw.
“I’m gonna go get your momma before she storms in here and kicks me out.”
Lincoln looked around again. “You been here the whole time?”
“Since you got out from surgery, yes. Had to make sure my kid was okay.” Jefferson tipped his head and vanished behind the curtain as well.
Lincoln inhaled again, wishing to find a hint of sweet honey but only finding the astringent odor. When the cup was empty, he closed his eyes and tried to doze back off into a place where he could find Opal. It had been a lonely time without her, but a tiny package he’d received the day before had given him the encouragement needed to face the surgery and long recovery.
Nausea pitched Lincoln’s stomach and sent the room into a spin, but he managed to swallow the bile back down. No way was he letting his father get the best of him again. He knew he was stronger this time, and he was determined to prove it to Colonel Jefferson Cole.
“Stop acting like a little girl!” Jefferson spewed the insult as he slapped the mat near Lincoln’s head.
Lincoln, in turn, groaned as he managed one more one-legged push-up. His chest and arms were on fire and sweat puddled on the mat below him, but he’d be darned if he was going to let his sixty-six-year-old father show him up.
Jefferson did as promised with the dare and did two more regular push-ups to Lincoln’s one. “You . . .” He grunted and his arms shook as he finished the last one. “. . . ready to give up?”
“Ain’t happening, old man,” Lincoln said gruffly as he positioned his good leg to take on his weight while lifting the other.
They’d formed a good-size audience at the gym as the Coles went head-to-head in the push-up challenge. It had been their norm as of late. After th
e therapist took care of working Lincoln’s healing leg, Jefferson would take care of working out the rest of him. The last month of competitions had been quite beneficial in more than just the physical aspect. They’d developed a bond that had never existed before now, and Lincoln was certain he could lean on his father on those hard days and have the man’s support 100 percent.
Evidence of this showed up the day after post-op when a blood clot had formed. Jefferson stayed by Lincoln’s side steadfast and comforting. He’d always been steadfast, but the comforting side had thrown Lincoln for a loop. Nonetheless, it had proven the dark days would be just as manageable as the easy ones.
“It’s all right, momma’s boy. You can phone it in,” Jefferson whisper-yelled, sending a chuckle through the group watching on.
“This is a walk in the park!” Lincoln taunted as he pushed through another push-up, determined to go for one more after that to prove his point. “You . . . seriously need to . . . up the ante on these . . . sissy challenges.” His eyes blurred and his chest screamed for him to hush up.
Lincoln would never admit the training with his father was more rigorous than basic training had been, but there was no denying how much stronger his body was growing from it. Most nights, Lincoln would fall into bed out of pure exhaustion. The nightmares didn’t stand a chance, due to him being so tired his mind hadn’t enough energy to produce them. As a result, Lincoln woke up each morning ready to get out of bed. The quicker he did, more often than not beating the sun up, the quicker he could get on with living.
The weighted defeat had lifted for the first time since waking from that first surgery well over a year ago. In the last month, he realized no pill or person or feeling could lift it. It was turning back to God and accepting his grace that had Lincoln finally finding his healing. No, he wasn’t perfect and never would be, but God was willing to take him as he was—broken and defeated—and make him new. To offer a second chance at life and to be a beacon for others to do the same.
Seashore Wishes was a foundation placed on his heart to help other soldiers after coming home from career-ending injuries. It was only a wish at the moment, but Lincoln was confident that God would see it come to fruition. He’d not gone through that dark trial in vain. There was a purpose behind the second chance, and he lifted his own wishes that God would reveal it.
As he finished one more push-up before collapsing on the sweaty mat, Lincoln recalled one of the shells Opal had given him after that one botched physical therapy session.
The woman hadn’t admitted it, but he had known she was praying for his healing. At the time he assumed she was praying about his knee, but now he suspected the wise woman was wishing for his soul and he was thankful it had come true.
“I . . . could . . . do this . . . all day,” Jefferson grunted out as he pushed through two more wobbly push-ups. “But we’ve . . . got to . . . get to the bait shop.” He collapsed in the same graceless fashion as Lincoln.
After showering, Lincoln rummaged around in his closet, where he’d left behind a majority of his wardrobe last fall. It took a while, but he finally found a pair of jeans with minimal holes and a plain, clean T-shirt. He took the time to pull his hair back, knowing it was the way his parents preferred him wearing it. His mother had commented on how beautiful and full his long hair was, but that she didn’t care for it hanging in his handsome face. He’d give them that out of respect, but he made it clear no scissors were coming near his head. He’d also taken to keeping his beard trimmed neatly. Forgoing the flip-flops, he shoved on a pair of worn boat shoes and met up with his father outside.
“That walk of yours is getting smoother by the day,” Jefferson commented. Of course, he was wearing a pressed T-shirt and cargo pants with shiny work boots on his feet. The familiar blue hat was shoved low on his salt-and-pepper head.
“Yes, sir,” Lincoln answered. Thankfully, he was off the crutches and back to just the cane.
They both loaded up into the truck, along with Fletcher, and headed over to the bait shop, making small talk the entire way with ease. Their normal tense quietness had abated ever since Lincoln had come home. For that he was thankful. The two men talked constantly, catching up on years wasted. It all came to them with such ease that an outsider would have never guessed the father and son ever acted otherwise.
“We got a job ahead of us,” Jefferson said as they both sat in the truck staring at the old store that looked like a weathered shed with its natural wood siding and rusted tin roof. A simple sign hung above the screen door—Bob’s Bait Shop.
“Paps know we’re here to sort through it?” Lincoln had only seen his grandfather at the Sunday dinner a month back before he and Gran took off on an RV road trip.
“Yeah. His direct order was to have it done by the time he got back.” Jefferson chuckled and climbed out of the truck with Lincoln following suit.
Lincoln pushed open the front door and was met with dust motes dancing along the sunlight seeping in through the windows. Off to the side, the antique soda cooler box caught his attention. For old times’ sake, he reached over and slid one of the glass tops back, wishing it was filled with the icy cold drinks again. Feeling nostalgic, he wandered around some more until his father declared it was time to get down to business. They rummaged around the dusty store for a while, discussing a plan of action as Fletcher stretched out on the small front porch.
“I’d say call around to the other stores and see if they’d like to take some of the supplies off our hands for a reasonable price,” Lincoln commented while roaming down the aisle of artificial bait and lures.
“That sounds like a good idea. Paps said for us to take whatever we want first.” Jefferson held up a fishing dip net and nodded his head at it.
Lincoln laughed at the unspoken joke in that, knowing his father wasn’t going to let him forget about losing his net to an aggressive alligator last week. “May need to swipe a few of ’em to be on the safe side.” He turned, being mindful of his knee, and headed over to the live bait section. Of course they had already been cleared out, but what caught his attention was the long wooden cricket box on a metal stand. He ran his fingers over the metal mesh fronts as he opened the hinged top. A segment of rotten potato had been left behind, adding to the sharp stench of ammonia. He overlooked the smell and kept inspecting the lid, finding the hardware a little rusty but in good shape. It always reminded him of a treasure chest in a weird way, and suddenly that childhood notion gave him an idea.
“Found something over there?”
“Yes, sir . . . Hey, how do you feel about helping me out with a project?”
“What do you have in mind?” Jefferson walked over with a few dip nets tucked under his arm.
“I think this cricket box is ready to be transformed into a new purpose.”
“You think so?” Jefferson quirked a bushy eyebrow up.
Lincoln smiled. “Yes, sir.” He lifted the side, testing the weight and finding it manageable. “You reckon we can get this loaded in the back of your truck?”
“I don’t see why not.” Jefferson walked to the door and whistled for Fletcher to come over. Holding the door wide, he pointed. “Sit.” The dog listened, his big body holding the door open. “Stay,” he commanded before walking back over to Lincoln.
They both took a side and began maneuvering the box out.
Jefferson’s nose wrinkled as he angled his face off to the side. “Phew. You have any idea on how to get that stench out?”
“Yep,” Lincoln grunted, trying to keep his leg out of the way. “Opal has shared a trick or two with me.”
“Let’s set it down on the porch for a few.” Jefferson waited until they were past Fletcher and Lincoln began lowering his side before doing the same. “You missing her yet?”
Lincoln sucked in the fresh air to cleanse away the putrid smell stuck in his nose. “I missed her before I even decided to leave,” he admitted, taking a moment to pet Fletcher. The dog seemed to not care for the smell, so he
wasted no time moving to the other side of the porch.
“Why not go see her then?”
Lincoln patted the top of the box. “First, I need you to help me turn this into a treasure.”
“I can try, but I ain’t got much confidence in that happening.” Jefferson regarded the rusty, stained box, looking unconvinced. He motioned for Lincoln to pick up his end.
After nearly dropping it just once, they managed to get the cricket box loaded up with little trouble.
“You have a seat and prop that leg up while I nose around a little more.” Jefferson dusted his hands off and nodded toward the porch.
“I’m okay to help.” He swatted a fly away and began heading up the steps.
Jefferson pointed to two chairs. “Sit right there and work on a list of supplies you’ll need for the cricket box.”
Lincoln did as instructed and sat. Before he could reach over and pull the other chair over for his leg, his father was there doing it for him. He bit the inside of his cheek to contain the smile. “Thanks, Dad.”
Jefferson grunted in response and hurried inside but was back in a flash with a few life vests, which he used as pillows to prop Lincoln’s leg. “Now stay put or I’ll have no problem ordering Fletcher to stand guard.”
Feeling like he truly belonged again as a Cole, Lincoln settled in the chair with no desire to go anywhere for the time being.
20
There was nothing quite as spectacular as a beachside sunrise, kissing the ocean with rays of pink and orange. Opal normally took the time to appreciate the view, but the early morning found her on a mission. Eyes on the sand, looking for a treasure to help send a message of encouragement to Lincoln.
Encouragement. It could be executed in infinite ways, but she remained true to the tradition she began with him last fall. It was always a shell and a simple line of encouragement to let him know she wasn’t giving up on him.
A clamshell with both sides still fused together drew her attention. She bent down and plucked it from the sand, knowing what addition it needed to relay the message this time. It wasn’t a pearl but was just as precious in her opinion.
