Take Care, Sara by Lindy Zart_ 5 page

Sara got out of the car and stood there, envisioning him the second time she’d seen him. He’d stood just a few steps to the right from where she now stood. Sara could feel his warmth; she could smell his scent of coffee and cherry Carmex, and man. She could feel the sunshine beat down on her as it had that day, masking the bitter cold of the present.

She’d been walking, careful to stay near the road and out of the woods. Part of her had wondered if the mysterious man would be there again. Part of her had been excited by the thought, especially when she’d thought of that smile of his.

His back had been to her, broad and muscular through the long-sleeved red Henley shirt he’d worn; his faded jeans tight against his defined backside and legs. His physique had made her mouth go dry, especially watching his muscles clench and bunch as he worked. He had a chainsaw in his hands, the engine loud and grating to her eardrums as he’d cut fallen tree limbs in half.

She walked past, eyes on him the whole time. Sara had known the exact moment he’d sensed her. The engine had abruptly cut off and a deep, raspy voice had called out, “Aren’t you worried about serial killers with chainsaw fetishes?”

Her heartbeat had picked up as well as her breathing. Sara had spun around, blinking at the sight of him. His tall body had lounged against the back of a blue Dodge Ram, one elbow on the tailgate. His eyes had been hidden below the bill of a dirty white baseball cap, but she’d known they were watching her raptly. Sara had felt them on her, going up and down the length of her, searing in their intensity. He stripped away her clothes with that look, visualized himself and her naked together, writhing on a bed, or maybe against the wall, intertwined. She’d known it and it hadn’t bothered her one bit.

“Wrong state,” she called back.

He tipped his head back and laughed. “I think you’ve watched too many horror movies,” he drawled, removing his cap to wipe a hand across his forehead before tugging it back down in place. In that brief moment he’d been hatless; his electric blue eyes had zapped her, her body unconsciously jerking in response.

“Maybe,” Sara had said, slowly moving toward him. She’d been scared. She’d been scared and it had had nothing to do with serial killers. Sara had been scared because she’d never been so instantly attracted to any man before.

“So…Sara…Cunningham, is it?” She nodded. “Miss Cunningham, I do believe you are a thrill seeker.”

“You think so?”

“I do.” He straightened as she drew nearer, naturally looming over her at his height of somewhere around six feet tall. “Why else would you have shown up here a second time?”

“I like the scenery?”

His lips had formed into a slow smile and her stomach had dipped at the facial transformation from sharply angled features to rugged handsomeness. “Which scenery?”

Oh boy, she thought, I’m in trouble.

“I think I should take you out,” he said before she had a chance to form a reply.

“Take me out where?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. She had been almost to him, close enough to know the top of her head might have reached his chest if she were to test it out.

“How about a movie? What are you in the mood for? Some ’Texas Chainsaw Massacre’?”

She laughed and he grinned and a date had been set.

Sara shook her head, pushing the image away. Only he didn’t fade away. She inhaled raggedly, closing her eyes against the tall form walking toward her. It was a ghost, an illusion. It wasn’t real. He wasn’t really there.

“Sara? What are you doing here?”

She opened her eyes, her racing heart slowing. It was real. But it wasn’t him. Lincoln made his way to her, his features becoming more defined the closer he got. He had on jeans, boots, a red flannel jacket with the hood of a gray sweatshirt sticking out the back of it, and leather work gloves. He pulled his gloves off as he reached her, shoving them into the back pocket of his jeans.

“I’m…” Her teeth chattered together, making it almost impossible to form words. She hadn’t realized it was so cold, lost as she’d been in her memories.

“Shit, Sara, how long have you been standing out here?” Lincoln exclaimed as he moved closer, briskly rubbing her arms to bring some life back to them.

“I don’t…know.”

“Come here.” He enfolded her between his arms, his clean smell mixing with the scent of the wood burning stove from the house nestled back in the woods. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

Sara couldn’t speak or move. It felt like a betrayal to him to have his brother’s arms around her. She wanted to pull away, but couldn’t gather the strength to. She felt safe, safer than she had since her world had been destroyed.

“Come on. I’ll drive your car over to the house. What were you thinking, coming out here without a coat or boots or anything?”

“I…wasn’t thinking,” she stuttered, following him to the red Pontiac Grand Prix.

“That much is obvious.” He opened the door for her, shutting it after she was in the car.

“What were you doing?” Sara asked as Lincoln started the car.

“Looks like I was rescuing you from being frozen alive.” He pulled the car onto the road and drove the two miles it took to reach the house he’d grown up in. It was a two-story log-sided cabin, almost disappearing into the trees cocooning it, becoming part of the background. Smoke curled up from the chimney, lights shone through the windows in the gloomy-skied day.

Will the sun ever shine again?

Sara walked up the steps that led to the large deck, nostalgia hitting her. She went still, thinking she heard his laughter on the wind, picturing him standing at the now-covered grill, flipping burgers, a beer in his hand. Sara would have been sitting at the black wrought iron patio set, eyes repeatedly pulled to him as though a magnet connected her to him.

“You okay?” Lincoln asked, watching her, one hand on the doorknob.

She nodded, shifting her gaze from his. This was the house he and Lincoln had been raised in, and after their parents moved to Florida to retire, the house they’d shared as bachelors until she’d come along and changed all that. What if she hadn’t gone for a walk that day? Would he still be alive, living his life with some other woman?

Sara hadn’t been to the house since before the accident. She inhaled deeply, the scent of coffee enveloping her as she stepped inside, the heat of the interior quickly warming her. Her eyes went to the black leather couch to the left, where they’d sit and watch movies. He’d play with her hair, his arm around her, his lips smiling against her cheek as he kissed her.

“Coffee?”

She blinked at Lincoln. He’d removed his jacket and hat and stood by the coffeemaker in the kitchen area to the right. He looked back expectantly. His features changed, altered, and she was staring at her husband. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, and when she opened them, he was Lincoln again.

“Yes. Please.”

“I was walking.”

She frowned at him. He set a mug of coffee on the black marble countertop and pulled out a barstool across from her. Sara did the same, sitting and wrapping her frozen fingers around the hot cup.

“In the woods. I was walking. I didn’t have much to do today for work with the snow and all, so I went for a walk. Some days are great, others kind of get to me. Today is one of the latter days. I thought some fresh air might help clear my head.”

“Did it?”

Lincoln gave a short bark of laughter. “Nah.”

“What does help?” Sara sipped her coffee, hoping he had some magic answer that she could try. She knew she was wishing for things that could never be before he even answered. There was no quick fix; there was no magic solution to eradicate the guilt and sorrow she carried around.

He tapped the fingers of one hand on the counter. “You know, I don’t really know. If I’m kept busy I don’t dwell on things too much. I guess work helps.”

Mason’s demand that she work on her art flashed through her mind. She didn’t know how to do that without being overwhelmed by the past. How would that be helpful? It wouldn’t. His next visit was only a few days away. She sighed, rubbing her forehead.

“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; green 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-covered 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.

Sara landed against the wall, shaking and nauseous. She blinked at it, but it didn’t disappear and it didn’t transform into a normal splotch of paint. A whimper left her as she dropped to her knees beside it, tracing it with a trembling finger. She hung her head, tears burning her eyes, and quickly cleaned it up, feeling as though she was wiping a part of him away from her soul, hating every swipe of the wet cloth against the paint.

She was nervous. She had no reason to be nervous. Sara chewed on her thumbnail as she paced the living room floor. There was no one to impress, no one she had to look good for, and even if there had been, he’d been the only one she’d ever wanted to impress and he’d liked the way she’d looked no matter what she’d worn or how she’d looked.

It was the thought of trying to pretend to be normal. They would expect things out of her. Like conversation. And smiles. They would expect her to laugh and joke and be the old Sara. Only she couldn’t be the old Sara because that person was gone. That Sara wasn’t ever coming back. She knew that as surely as she’d known she was going to be a painter the first time she’d picked up a paintbrush at the age of four.

She’d unseeingly grabbed a pair of jeans and a top out of the dresser and now wore a hot pink buttoned-down shirt with a black buttoned vest over it and a pair of dark blue jeans. Sara had a pair of knee-high black boots on. She’d applied perfume and just as quickly wiped it off. Sara had tried to hide the paleness of her face and the darkness from under her eyes with makeup, but it had been a useless attempt. Her hair needed a decent cut and not knowing what to do with it, she’d twisted it into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck.

The flash of headlights in the window alerted her to Lincoln’s arrival. Sara grabbed her purse, made sure all the lights were off, and locked the door behind her. The temperature hovered somewhere between the forties and fifties and the scent of rain was in the air. Most of the snow had melted from less than a week ago. Wisconsin could never make up its mind which way it wanted to go as far as the weather went.

Sick feeling and jittery, Sara walked down the sidewalk with the click click of her boots in tempo with her heartbeat. Every step taken toward Lincoln was a step Sara fought an intense urge to turn around, race back into the house, and stay there. Indefinitely. Be normal, Sara. For once, for tonight, just try to be normal.

She paused near the curb, gathering her strength. The sound of a door opening and closing made her flinch, and there Lincoln was, striding toward her, a tall shadow with no features under the glow of a streetlamp. He didn’t say anything, stopping before her, watching her in the dark.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 528