Take Care, Sara

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