Merry Christmas, Lincoln (A Take Care, Sara Christmas Novelette)

Merry Christmas, Lincoln (A Take Care, Sara Christmas Novelette)

Merry Christmas, Lincoln (A Take Care, Sara Christmas Novelette)

Published 2013 by Lindy Zart

Copy right 2013 Lindy Zart

Cover design 2013 by Juli Valenti

This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is dedicated to everyone who loved Lincoln and Sara enough to beg, heckle, and
demand
that I write more about them. I also have to thank Kristy Louise at Book Addict Mumma for asking for a Christmas excerpt about Lincoln and Sara. That Christmas excerpt turned into this.

1

“There’s something wrong with Sara.” Admitting it out loud made it real, and that in turn made Lincoln feel sick. He rubbed his face and dropped his hands, looking bleary-eyed at his friend.

Spencer Johnson raised a lone dark eyebrow at him, taking a swig from the bottle of Busch Light waiting on the bar counter. “Wrong as in?”

“I don’t know.” The frustration was evident in the harshness of his tone, and Lincoln lowered his voice and repeated in a calmer tone, “I don’t know. She’s acting funny.”

The bartender, a blonde with enough cleavage to make thirty men happy—just not Lincoln—stopped before them. “Need a refill, boys?”

His eyes swept over the woodsy, rustic interior of Double K’s, not even glancing at the well-endowed woman. Instead he saw Sara’s drawn face in his mind as she slammed the bathroom door on his question of her well-being that morning. A profound sense of helplessness washed over him.

Christmas music played from a jukebox, annoying him. It wasn’t even
Thanksgiving
yet. Why was everyone in such a hurry to get to Christmas? He was aware his bad mood was a product of his ineptitude to get Sara to open up to him, but knowing that didn’t make the sour disposition go away.

In the darkest recesses of his mind, he couldn't help but wonder: Was she thinking of Cole and missing him, maybe even regretting that he was not there and Lincoln was instead? He hated thinking that way; he hated the weakness inside him that couldn't take that insecurity away. Three years had gone by since Cole's passing, not that time really did anything to alleviate the loss; it just made it more bearable. 

He knew she missed him;
he
missed him. But what if something had changed with her, with her feelings for Lincoln? He didn’t want to think that—the thought made everything inside him tighten up and a sick feeling churn through him—but why else would she be acting so strange? He couldn’t think of alternatives. Those were even more terrifying than what he was
already
thinking.

Lincoln could deal with Sara no longer loving him like she used to. He would hate it and he would hurt every day because of it, but he could deal with it. The thought of her being sick or something far, far worse than that—he couldn't deal with that.

Spencer nudged him and he looked up. “You want a refill or what?”

Lincoln shook his head, causing his bangs to cover his eyes. “No. I need to get home.”

He stood up and shrugged his gray Carhartt jacket on. Winters usually didn’t affect him that much—he’d wear hoodies for the majority of the season, foregoing a heavier jacket, but lately—and he thought his current mind frame had something to do with it—he was cold all the time; cold with dread; cold with frustration; cold with fear.

The off-duty cop asked for their bill, reaching into his jean’s pocket for cash. He tossed a twenty on the counter and looked at Lincoln. “Look, if you’re worried about her, just ask her what's going on.”

“I
have
. She won’t tell me anything.” 

“
Make her.”

He snorted. “You know Sara. You can’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to do. She’s stubborn. And she hides. When she’s hurting, she hides. Every time I try to ask her what’s going on, she gets mad or weepy or runs away. She probably thinks she’s protecting me somehow by not telling me whatever is going on, but really she’s just driving me insane.”

“Tell her that too.”

Sighing, Lincoln turned toward the door. He swung back around to ask, “How are the wedding plans going?”

Spencer groaned, flipping the collar of his black jacket up. “Don’t ask.”

He laughed, only a little bit pacified to know he wasn’t the only one currently miserable. “Gracie going nuts?”

“You could say that. Actually, it’s her mom more than anything. That woman acts like it’s
her
wedding.” Spencer shuddered, most likely picturing his soon-to-be mother-in-law as a prospective wife.

“
She was the same when we got married last November. But I know Sara was grateful to have her. Rachel means well.” He didn’t add the lack of his parents’ involvement, or the strain between them and Sara that had never gone away, though he’d always hoped it would. It was their loss. One day, they would regret it.

Icy air stung his face as he stepped out of the building and into the Boscobel night, the sky lit up with streetlamps and the white Christmas lights hanging from trees. Even the
town
was anxious to bypass Thanksgiving. Lincoln hunched his shoulders and ducked his head against the coldness.

Spencer caught up to him, saying, “I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

Lincoln smirked. “I’ll be glad when I get to see you in a white tux with a pink shirt.”

He groaned. “Who
does
that to their fiancé?”

“
Should have told her Valentine’s Day was out.”

“
And have her sad face haunt me every day? No. Gracie wanted a Valentine’s Day wedding and I’m going to give that to her.”

“
Way to man up.”

They reached their trucks; Lincoln’s a silver Dodge; Spencer’s a red Ford, and faced one another. “You know what makes it bearable?” Spencer asked, grinning. His arms rested on the hood of his truck, his chin on his hands.

“What?”

“
The fact that you will be right there next to me, in your white tux with your pink shirt.”

“
I am
so
looking forward to that day,” Lincoln replied wryly.

“
Oh, I know. We all are.” He patted the top of the truck before straightening. “See you at Thanksgiving.”

“
Wouldn’t miss it.” Lincoln waved and got into his truck, the smile sliding from his lips.

He stared into the darkened window of an accounting business, thoughts on the woman he loved. His heart raced with urgency to get to her, and though they’d been together over three years, it had yet to dim. Any time apart from Sara was too long. Loving one person so much was scary, especially knowing how easily they could be gone, but because of that there was also not a single moment he didn’t cherish having her as his.

Hands tense on the steering wheel, a tick formed in his jaw. He couldn’t lose her.

***

‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas’ played from the stereo system in the living room and he shook his head at Sara’s conformity to the Christmas music before Thanksgiving epidemic. He stood just inside the door, his gaze roving over the wood walls of the place he’d grown up in, but hadn’t felt like home to him until Sara moved in with him. It used to be wood with black accents throughout most of the house, but she’d added creams, browns, and tans to that, softening the look and feel of the log-sided house, adding
her
into the walls and beams, making it her home as well as his—making it
theirs
.

The scent of coffee waved over him, along with the wood burning in the outdoor stove. Cinnamon overlapped those smells and a glance at the black marble counter top showed Sara had baked a cake of some kind.

His head dipped as emotion made its way through him, his eyes locking on the thick gold band on the ring finger of his left hand, appreciation immobilizing him for a short moment.
Thank you, God, for everything you have given me.
He didn’t add a plea not to take it away. That wasn’t how it worked. He knew that.

He remembered how nervous he’d been when he’d asked her to be his wife; how all the insecurities, all the inward comparisons to his brother he tried to keep hidden, flared to life as he asked the most important question he’d ever put to words. There was no way to compete with someone no longer living—he knew that. And later, when he brought up the subject of their residence and how he wanted her in the only house he’d ever lived in—the house Cole had lived in as well. All of his fears had been dispelled with a sweet smile from Sara. He’d worried for no reason. He hoped he was worrying for no reason now. His heart clenched and Lincoln swallowed.

He shrugged out of his coat, hanging it on a hook near the door. When he turned back around, he paused. Sara was in the middle of the open room, near the stairs, her long dark hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, a gray work tee shirt of his hanging almost to her knees over black leggings. Yellow paint had somehow found its way to her high cheekbone and most of his shirt. He hesitated, thinking her the most beautiful sight his unworthy eyes had ever had the fortune to gaze upon.

Her dark eyes crinkled up at the corners as she smiled, rushing for him. “I missed you,” she said breathlessly, hooking her arms around his neck and tugging him to her.

Warm lips brushed the side of his neck and jaw, causing his body to respond as it always did. Her scent, paint and sugar and indefinable Sara, enveloped him, centering him and telling him,
finally
, he was home.

“
I wasn’t gone that long, just a few hours.”

“
Doesn’t matter. I missed you. You know I miss you even when you’re just outside or in the other room.”

Lincoln held her close, his hands locking her body to his. He allowed himself a perfect moment before taking a deep breath and purposely ruining it. He hated it, but he had to. Confrontations were not something Sara enjoyed—neither did he—but sometimes they were necessary.

“I missed you too. But I’m wondering, what exactly did you miss?” he said into her ear. “Being able to shut the bathroom door in my face when I asked you what was wrong?” She stiffened, and when she tried to pull away, he tightened his hold on her. “What’s going on, Sara? And don’t tell me—“

“
Nothing.”

“
Nothing,” he finished.

She pushed at his chest and he let her go, watching as she walked into the kitchen area. Grabbing a knife out of a drawer, she began to cut the cake. It looked more like she was attacking it, but he wasn’t going to comment on that. It was an apple cake. Apple cake was his favorite. She was destroying his apple cake. He sighed on the inside, knowing there had to be casualties with any war.

“That’s not how we do things in this relationship. You know that. We don’t shut each other out when something’s bothering us. We don’t pretend everything is okay when it isn’t. We don’t hide from our problems. We
talk
. Or we fall apart.
Talk to me
,” he pleaded.

“
I can’t,” she softly replied.

“
If I did something wrong, you have to tell me.”

Her shoulders slumped. Carefully setting the knife down, Sara turned; her chocolate eyes large and sad. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Have your—“ He couldn’t get the words out. Inhaling slowly, he tried again. “Have your feelings for me changed?”

“
What?
”

“
Do you not love me as much as you used to? Are you no longer in love with me? Do you love me at all?” The words poured out him, painful and unavoidable. He had to know, either way.

“
This is killing me, Sara, knowing something is wrong and not knowing what it is, not being able to help you. I can’t keep doing this.
Months
this has been going on. It has to stop, even if…even if you don’t want to be with me anymore. If you don't, just tell me.” His voice got choked at the end and he glanced away until he got a grip on his emotions.

Sara didn’t speak for so long, terror—unbearable, horrible in its completeness—raged through him, tightening his throat, his chest, even his hands. He silently stared at his world, hoping it wasn’t about to be destroyed, his eyes pleading.