by Lindy Zart
“What is it?”
“Have you talked to Spencer lately?” she blurted, and then wished she hadn’t.
“Not for a few weeks. Why?”
“Uh…” Sara fidgeted. “He…” She blew out a noisy breath. “He brought this grief counselor over and the guy is completely whacked. Completely.” Like me.
“Really? Who is it? I might know him.”
“Mason Wells.”
“Nope.” He shook his head. “He must not be from around here. Why did Spencer bring him over? Not that I don’t think it was a good idea.”
Sara’s face heated up. She wasn’t going to tell Lincoln about Wyalusing State Park. He would look at her differently and she couldn’t bear it. Not yet. Not before it was unavoidable.
“He thought I needed to talk to someone,” she mumbled.
“Clearly he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Sara looked up, almost smiling at his carefully blank expression. “Clearly.”
“Without a doubt.”
“Without question.”
“So why is he whacked? Is he a cross-dresser or what?”
An image of Mason in a tight pink halter dress and red lipstick shot through her mind and Sara smiled. “No.”
“What defines him as loony then?”
She sat back, agitated and flushed. “I don’t know. He just…he demands things and is bossy and…and he made a comment about his brother telling him something all the time, like in the present tense.” Sara paused. “His brother is dead.”
Lincoln flinched and Sara immediately felt bad. She reached over without thought, touching his rough hand. “I’m sorry, Lincoln. I didn’t think of what I was saying before I said it.”
His fingers curled around hers, anchoring them to one another. Sara stared at their interlaced fingers, her heart beating much too fast. She looked up, confused by the force of his gray eyes. Lincoln’s features were tight with held-in emotion and she instinctively knew it was because there was something he didn’t want her to see.
Sara tugged her hand away, fumbling with the bar stool and almost knocking it over in her haste to get to her feet. She was going to pretend whatever had just happened hadn’t happened. From the closed look on Lincoln’s face, he had decided to go the same route. Nothing had happened. Maybe that was what bothered her so much. That frozen space of time when their hands had touched and their eyes had met and everything had gone still.
“This guy…Mason…what exactly is he having you do that you don’t want to do?” Lincoln was turned sideways from her, head averted, coffee mug clasped between his white-knuckled fingers.
Sara opened her mouth, but her throat was too tight, and nothing came out. Keep it normal. What was normal? She closed her mouth, swallowed, and tried again. “He wants me to paint.”
Lincoln’s brows lowered as his head lifted. “And that’s bad?”
She shifted her feet. “Yes. No. Not exactly.”
Humor briefly lit up his eyes, lightening them to a slate gray. “Well, which is it? Yes? No? Or not exactly?”
“I haven’t painted since…since before. I can’t. I have no ambition or inspiration to, and even if I wanted to, everything would be of him. Somehow. Even if I didn’t mean it to be. It would hurt too much,” she ended softly.
“Maybe it would be cathartic.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t be,” she shot back.
“You won’t know unless you try.”
“Trying is overrated.”
Lincoln snorted, getting to his feet. “There’s a movie I’ve been meaning to watch. Come on, you can be my date.” He stiffened at the same time she did, quick to add, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know.”
His expression cleared. “Still take your popcorn smothered in ranch seasoning and oil?”
Sara hadn’t had popcorn in too long. It was her favorite snack. Well, it had been, when she used to eat regularly and enjoy food. Now it was something she did as an afterthought. “I do.”
Lincoln smiled. “Good. I’ll get it started and you can put the movie in.”
“What is it?” she asked, curious.
His back was to her as he opened and closed cupboards, rounding up the essentials to popcorn making ‘Lincoln Walker style’. “Something to help us improve our karaoke game. I was planning on watching it today. It’s already in the DVD player. Just get it ready to go.”
Sara turned toward the living room. The whole house was wood walls and black accents. It was very rustic and woodsy and it was clear funds hadn’t been an issue during its design. She’d always loved this house. Their parents had had it built after they’d married. Both had been general medical doctors. The upstairs had three bedrooms and a bathroom, the stairs leading to it opened and in the middle of the downstairs. The outline was basic, mostly exposed, and more than adequate in size.
The walls were imbedded with him, the air around her lingering his touch. She reached the flat screen television, seeing his reflection in the black monitor. “Sara,” was whispered near her ear. Sara spun around, a choking sound leaving her.
Lincoln was to her before she had a chance to completely freak out. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He clutched her arms, watching her face.
Sara searched the room with her eyes, looking for him. She shook uncontrollably, jerking with the force of it, her pulse racing. He was gone. It was disturbing how upset she was that she couldn’t find him again. Not for the first time, Sara thought maybe she was losing her mind. Then she thought, would that be such a bad thing? At least then she’d think he was with her and it wouldn’t matter if he really was or not, because in her mind, he would be.
She turned pained eyes to Lincoln. He inhaled sharply as he gazed at her face. “Lincoln, there’s something wrong with me,” she whispered.
Lincoln’s lips thinned. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Sara,” he said firmly.
“Yes, there is. There is. I…” Did she really want to tell him? She did. Sara had to tell someone. “I think I see him. I think I hear him. Voices talk to me in my head.”
He lowered his head until his lips were close to her ear, his breath fanning the side of her face and neck as he murmured, “He’s like my conscience, telling me what to do and say, what not to do and say. I feel him all around me. Sometimes…sometimes I even think he is me, inside of me, part of me. He badgers me into doing things I don’t want to do. He tells me to stop being stupid. He warns me against doing things I shouldn’t. So, no, Sara, I don’t think something is wrong with you, and if there is, well, then, there’s something wrong with me too.”
Sara moved back, their faces close. She felt strange. Connected. Sara felt like she hadn’t felt in a long time. There was nothing romantic about it, but still guilt washed over her at the link to another man other than her husband. Lincoln’s eyes darkened and Sara drew away, shaky and confused. Why did she sometimes think she saw things in his expression, in his eyes, that shouldn’t be there?
He straightened, messing up her hair, looking like the normal Lincoln, a teasing grin in place. “Got that movie ready yet?”
Sara worked to keep her voice steady when she replied, but it shook regardless. “Got that popcorn ready yet?”
That was apparently the queue for the popcorn seeds to start popping, filling the room with the scent of roasted kernels. The pop pop pop became louder and frenzied, the seeds in a race to see which could be popped the fastest. Lincoln left to concentrate on the popcorn and Sara turned the television and DVD player on, letting the previews play as she waited. A framed photograph on the shelved bookcase along the wall caught her eye. She slowly walked to it, her breath catching. It was them, on their wedding day.
Sara’s dark hair was upswept to the side so that it waved down over one shoulder. She was smiling, her eyes sparkling, and her skin healthy and glowing; a strapless cream-toned dress in a simple design fitted to her slim body. The backdrop was the woods outside the house she now stood in; g
reen and abundant with life.
She stared at herself, wanting that Sara back. Her eyes slowly went to him, the sight of him stabbing her in overwhelming grief, so strong she couldn’t breathe for a moment. She trailed a finger over his grinning face, closing her eyes as recollections whispered through her mind.
“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” His face was close to hers, his eyes trained on Sara’s. His fingers sifted through her hair, cupping the nape of her neck. “If anything ever happened to you, there wouldn’t be enough tears in the world for me to cry. That’s how much I love you.”
“Popcorn’s ready.”
Sara started, turning away from the photograph. Lincoln sat on the couch, popcorn bowl on the coffee table, two sodas next to it. He lifted an eyebrow at her and Sara hesitated, the intimacy of sitting next to him locking her in place.
“Do you want your own bowl so you don’t have to sit next to me?” he asked dryly.
“No.” Sara rubbed her arms as she made her way to the couch, sitting on the edge of the couch, stiff-backed.
A long pause ensued.
“Are you going to push play?”
“Are you going to stop acting like you’re afraid of me?”
Sara sat back, eyes on the television screen. “Better?”
“It’ll do.”
The movie began.
***
Sara burst out laughing as he ambled toward her, neon orange speedo in place. Not that his physique was anything to laugh at. Not in the least. He was all toned agile muscles and rangy build. Her fiancé had the body of a man who worked outside seven days a week with his broad shoulders, narrow waist, tanned skin, and athletic legs. She laughed only because he wore a speedo, and an orange one at that.
“Where did you come from?”
“Got done fishing early. Thought I’d surprise you.”
“You did. Believe me. What are you doing in…that?” Sara set a folded shirt on the duffel bag and turned to face him, hands on hips.
Her small bedroom was covered in clothes, ready to be packed. They were on the dresser, on the floor, all over the bed. She wanted to make sure everything was perfect for their honeymoon, even her clothes. Apparently her fiancé did not have the same idea.
“I’m getting ready for Hawaii.” He struck a pose in the doorway of the bedroom, flexing his arm muscles above his head. In spite of his goofy ensemble, Sara’s mouth went dry and her body responded. He always had that effect on her. Always would.
“You are not wearing that in Hawaii. Where did you get that from?”
“Early wedding gift from Lincoln.”
Sara rolled her eyes and grabbed her white and pink striped two-piece off the bed, shoving it into the bag. “Figures. Shouldn’t you be home? Packing?”
“Now why would I want to be there when my favorite thing is here?”
“I don’t know, so you’re ready for the honeymoon?”
“That’s not for seven days. Plenty of time.”
“Procrastinator,” she mumbled.
“Anal retentive.”
He moved behind her, his scent and warmth making Sara crazy. He smelled like sunshine and deodorant and man; an intoxicating combination. She went still as his hands went up and down her arms, his head bent so his hair tickled her ear and his breath fell across her neck and shoulder. “What have we here?” he murmured, slowly reaching around her.
Sara’s heart thundered and she gasped as his body came flush with hers, causing her pulse to ascend on a maddening course to Heart Attack Central. Two years. Two years they’d been together and every day was like the first day she’d known she loved him. It hadn’t taken long. Days, really. Or maybe minutes.
He snagged the two-piece around one long finger and twirled it in front of her face. “Looks like you got some modeling of your own to perform, now, doesn’t it?”
She made a grab for the garment, but he was quicker, moving his arm out of her reach. “Uh uh uh. You get this back on one condition. You know what it is.”
Sara spun around, her chest heaving with the force of her breaths as her eyes swept up and down his body that was perfection to her. She wanted him. She always wanted him.
His eyes darkened in response, narrowing into slits. His nostrils flared as he said in a low voice that made a shiver go down her back, “Come on, Sara; help a guy out.”
The innuendo was blatant, especially when her eyes drifted down. She had no choice in the matter, not really. None. It had never been just sex between them. It had been more. Always. Sometimes it was frenzied and rough; others slow and sensual, but every time it was potent, consuming. The way their bodies came together; his hardness against her softness, the feelings inside her; the way they moved together in perfect sync. It was so much more than sex.
It was…completeness.
***
The canvas was blank. It stared at Sara in judgment, berating her for her neglect of it. The scent of paint lingered in the cool room, though none had been used in it in over a year. Maybe it was all in her head. Memories had a funny way of inducing scents and sometimes even sounds. The past never seemed to fully leave a room; just as memories kept one’s history alive as well. That’s where he lived; in her memories. Good and bad, Sara couldn’t escape them. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to.
The room was on the small side, but the wall of windows that allowed sunshine in made up for that. The white trim and wood floor made the sunny yellow walls pop out. The sun shone today and that was a small gift. It beat down on her arm and half her face, warming her skin. Sara sat before the empty project, willing inspiration to hit. Instead she saw him. She supposed that made sense, as he’d been her inspiration more than anything else.
She glanced at the empty chair in the corner to the left of her; thinking if she looked hard enough, he’d materialize, offer a sweet smile and a wink. Only no matter how long or hard she stared, he didn’t. Sara had hope he would come back to her, somehow, someway, even if it was ludicrous and close to insane. She thought it was a little insane.
Shaking her head, Sara grabbed a paintbrush and mashed the bristles against her fingers, the softness of it gently prickling her skin. She randomly picked a color without looking, popped the goopy lid, and slammed the brush into it, blobs of paint splattering her face and hands. Only when the brush hit the canvas did the color become known. Blue. Her chest tightened. Of course it would be blue, like his eyes.
The strokes were angry, hard, and it showed on the splotches and streaks left on the painting. The acrylic scent assaulted her nostrils in a biting yet soothingly familiar way. The image turned into a deep blue circle, uneven and bold. The longer she mindlessly worked at it, the surer her hand became, the calmer the brushstrokes, and when her hand finally fell to her lap, she stared at the door she’d created. Sara tilted her head as she examined it, wondering why, out of everything she could have made, that was what her mind had told her hand to produce.
The phone rang, startling her, and the wet paintbrush fell from her hand, making a picture of its own on the wood floor. She let out a curse, hurrying to get up without knocking anything else over, and moved for the kitchen. The shrill sound of the phone ringing caused Sara to wince as she reached for the phone. “Hello?”
“Sara? Hey. It’s Spencer. How ya been?” The nervous undertone in his voice was not lost on her.
“I’m painting.”
“Really? That’s great. I’m really glad. Mason must be helping—“
“I’m painting because he ordered me to,” she interrupted, swiping hair out of her eyes with her forearm.
“Oh.” Something like a snicker came over the line. “Sorry. At least you’re painting. You could have always said no.”
“I did. It didn’t work.”
“Mason can be intimidating, but everything he does he does with good intentions. Honestly. I wouldn’t have sent him your way if I didn’t believe that.”
Sara leaned against the fridge, rubbing her paint-cove
red fingers together. “Yeah.”
“Is it helping?” he asked after a pause.
“Maybe.” She didn’t know. Surprisingly, painting had ended up being therapeutic for her, though the start had been rocky.
“I hope it is.” When Sara didn’t respond, he continued, “So, uh, I was wondering…Gracie and I, we’re seeing each other again and we’re kind of having a party and I thought maybe you would want to come? I mean, Mason will be there…Lincoln, some other people. Not really a party. Well, kind of. It’s more of a get-together. For my birthday. Anyway, I thought you might want to come.”
Sara felt awful that the first thing she felt was envy and bitterness toward Spencer and Gracie for being able to rekindle their relationship. It wasn’t their fault she couldn’t be with the only person she wanted to be with; it was hers. Her throat closed and she couldn’t utter a word.
“I mean, if it’s too soon…I just thought maybe you’d like to get out, socialize, try to have some fun.”
“Having fun isn’t exactly on my to-do list,” Sara said softly, the phone pressed hard against her ear.
“Sara…come on,” he gently coaxed. “Please? If you can’t deal, then someone will take you home. Just try. Please.”
“Okay,” she whispered. As soon as the word left her, her stomach rebelled.
“Awesome. I’ll tell Lincoln to pick you up on his way over. It’s this Friday at seven. See you soon.”
The hand that held the phone went limp at her side. Sara’s brow furrowed at the thought of Lincoln picking her up. She knew it meant nothing. She knew it wasn’t a date in any way. It wasn’t cheating. It wasn’t being unfaithful. It wasn’t a betrayal. No one could replace him, not even his brother. No one ever would. She knew all of that. So why did she feel so weird, so awkward, about it?
She remembered the spilt paint and grabbed a dishcloth off the side of the sink, wetting it with warm water. The rag fell from her hand with a heavy splat when she entered the art room and looked down. It was ragged and bent, but the blue paint was unmistakably in the form of a ‘C’. She stumbled back, feeling behind her blindly for something to brace herself against before she fell.
