Once Upon a List (21 page)

Clara's cheeks flushed a rosy shade of pink as she smiled bashfully. “Well, thank you for believing in it.”

Lincoln placed his glass back down. “I've always believed in you, C.J.” Then, forming a fist, he began tapping the table.

Clara sipped her drink, admiring the artistry and care that had gone into the bar's thoughtful construction. Growing up, Maple Manor had always been one of her most favorite places on earth—her own private spot where she could seek sanctuary when she needed to be alone with her thoughts, and over the years, she'd come to consider the wise, old tree that housed it a dear friend. Busy considering the beauty of both trees, it took Clara several moments to realize that Lincoln was still tap-tap-tapping his knuckles against the table. And it took her several moments more to realize that his deliberate, rhythmic knocking possessed a familiar ring. “Wait a
minute
. . .” She narrowed her eyes, leaning forward, listening harder, examining Lincoln more closely.

Looking into her eyes, he continued tapping the table.

A smile spread across Clara's surprised face as her jaw dropped. “
Link!
You speak Morse code!”

“So do you,” he fired back. “Told you it wouldn't take you long to get the hang of it.”

“Well,
Morse Code for Dummies
was a major help.” After studying the thick, yellow manual daily over the last two weeks, Clara had finally been able to cross a red line through
Learn Morse code
on her time capsule list. Apparently, to her delight, she'd retained more knowledge than she realized.

“So?”
pressed Lincoln. Tapping his knuckles against the table, he repeated his question for Clara.

“Um”—she hesitated—
“well . . .”
And then, concentrating ardently, she answered him with a slow and deliberate series of knocks.

“I was hoping you'd say that.” Smiling, Lincoln rose and extended his hand to Clara, which she promptly accepted.

“But I'm warning you”—she stood up—“I'm an awful dancer.”

“That makes two of us,” he assured her, leading her on to the dance floor where a smattering of couples swayed to a breezy rendition of
Embraceable You
.

“I'm clumsy enough I could even fall,” she advised with a smirk.

“I already have,” he confessed softly.

A pleasurable shock passed through Clara, collecting in a knot in her belly.

They danced, holding each other close, for one brief song, before the band announced it was taking a “quick, fifteen-minute break,” and Lincoln and Clara, wiped out from a memorable day complete with Plunge Boys, Oak Cars, and Morse code, returned to the Historic Chippewa Inn.

Standing in the middle of their cozy suite's shared sitting room, they gave each other a long, end-of-evening embrace, just as they'd done the night before. Only this time, Clara's rapidly beating heart did flip-flops as she prolonged their charged hug for as long as she could, hoping perhaps Lincoln might choose not to release her. But, eventually, to her disappointment, he let her go, his arms falling limp at his sides.

Clara had to stop herself from frowning. “Well”—she smiled up into his eyes, still standing close enough to smell the lingering scent of sandalwood on his body—“I guess . . . this is good night.”

“I guess so.” Lincoln stared at her longingly, not moving a muscle.

“Okay then.” Desire swelled within her. She resisted the urge to leap on top of him.

“Good night,” he whispered.

“Good night.” Turning around, Clara slowly began walking toward her bedroom. She told herself that it was completely ridiculous to feel let down that Lincoln hadn't made a move. Of course he hadn't. What was she expecting? After all, like she'd insisted to Tabitha, they were friends.
Just friends
. The “F” word. Besides, Clara reminded herself, just because she harbored a sincerely surprising, unexpected growing attraction toward him, in no way, shape, or form did that mean it was reciprocal. Not at all. Maybe he'd been talking about something else earlier that evening when he mentioned he'd “fallen.” Maybe he'd been referring to some kind of enchanting herbivore with scales and a beak from the Cretaceous period. Alas, if only she were a T-rex, perhaps things would be different, she thought to herself.

“C.J.?” Lincoln suddenly called out just as she was reaching for her doorknob.

Halting, Clara's pulse rate skyrocketed, and she felt her breath catch in her throat.

“Forgive me if I'm out of line,” Lincoln's voice trembled. “But . . . you have no idea how badly I want to kiss you.”

He stepped forward, and before Clara could respond Lincoln had gathered her up in his arms, his lips hovering just inches from her own. Clara swallowed hard. Her heart was beating so fast that she could actually hear it. “You—You do?” she somehow managed to whisper.

Link's eyes stared into hers with smoldering intensity. “Hell yes, I do.”

Clara recognized the hungry gleam in his gaze. She had no idea how her legs were still holding her up. She tilted her head up ever so slightly, moving her lips even closer to his.

“God, you're beautiful,” Link whispered before at last closing his mouth over hers.

Clara instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him even closer. Lincoln kissed her with such passion that she weakened all over and he had to support her. “Link,” she whispered breathlessly, returning his deep, affectionate kisses as a lovely warmth spread throughout her body and left her head reeling. “Is—Is this really happening?”

He nodded, covering her face and neck in intoxicating kisses.

Clara's lips explored his until eventually, she leaned her head against his chest, letting her weight fall against him as she closed her eyes.

With one arm wrapped snugly around Clara's waist, holding her body pressed close against his, Lincoln gently placed his other hand on her crimson cheek, stroking it with his fingertips.

Clara felt like she was melting into him.

“You lied to me,” he whispered.

“What?” She had no idea what he was talking about. Shocking as it was to her, all she knew was that folded in his arms, feeling the strength of his shoulders, she was exactly where she wanted to be. Exactly.

“You did not leave my apartment
just before midnight
the night of the race.” Lincoln slowly traced his hand up and down the length of her spine. “Liar, liar . . .”

Clara's brows shot up. “Lincoln Foster!” Astonished, she leaned back so that she could look him directly in the eye.
“Scoundrel! You were awake.”

Flashing a sheepish, guilty-as-charged grin, he shrugged, entwining his fingers with hers.

“I can't believe you!” Clara kissed him long and hard for it. What a strange, phenomenal sensation this was!

“I was secretly hoping you and Milk Dud would be swayed by the staggering powers of the sofa-bed and wouldn't leave,” Lincoln admitted.

“I was secretly hoping you'd kiss me ever since we left the Edgewater,” she confessed, surprising even herself with her daring honesty.

“Believe me, I've wanted to.”

“Really?” She smiled.

“God, yes.”

Taking Clara's face in both hands, Lincoln slowly leaned in and kissed her lips with such tenderness and love that she let out a soft little gasp before she could stop herself.

She knew she still had a lifetime of mourning ahead of her. But for this moment—at least for this brief and priceless moment—she was happy. Truly happy. And so Clara retreated to Lincoln's bedroom with him.

And together, Clara and Lincoln took the plunge.

•
Learn Morse code

 

29.

“T
his is wonderful!” Tabitha squealed into the telephone. “I hate to toot my own horn, but I had a strong feeling something would happen between you and Link this weekend. Just like I had a strong feeling Meg,
lovely
as she may be, wasn't destined to remain in the picture for very long. It's so obvious how crazy you two are about each other.” She took a quick inhalation of breath. “Okay, okay, so tell me what happened next.
Wait 'til Max hears about this!”
she shrieked with joy. “All right, you woke up this morning after a toe-curling, fabulous night, went out for a lumberjack breakfast in the Dells, drove back to Chicago, and then what happened? What next,
what next?”
At last, Tabitha paused with bated breath.

Just thinking about the magical weekend caused Clara, lounging on her couch with a Sunday-night steaming hot cup of chamomile tea, to break out in a sparkling grin. “Uh, let's see . . . We stopped at Leo's to pick up Milk Dud, visited over there for a while; both he
and
Lincoln creamed me at Memory. It was pathetic. I swear to God, I have zero short-term memory. And then Link dropped me off at home. That was basically that.”

“That was basically that
. Listen to you! Do you know I can actually hear your smile over the telephone?”

“You can?”

“Oh, yes. So tell me, when are you seeing each other next?”

“Dinner tomorrow night.”

“And
after
dinner?” Tabitha pressed.

“To be honest, I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the last three days,” Clara admitted. “I'm telling you, Tab, I was not expecting this at all. The whole weekend was the kind of thing you see in a movie. A
cheesy
movie! Only . . . it was . . . real.”

“Awww,”
cooed Tabitha. “I am so happy for you.
And
Link.”

“Me . . . and Link . . .”
Clara repeated slowly, her voice revealing genuine surprise. “Jesus. Who would have ever thought?”

“Well, let's see . . . Me, Max, Leo . . . your mother, I suspect . . . Meg probably had an inkling . . . and then of course there's Lincoln and—”

“All right, all right, I get the picture,” Clara interrupted, chuckling. “I'm clueless.”

“Well, to be fair, you
have
had a few other minor issues on your mind. Speaking of which, I hate to bring up a stressful topic, but have you decided what you're going to tell The Beer King of Boston?”

Running her fingers through her hair as she immediately plummeted from Cloud Nine, Clara let out a weighty sigh. “Our call is scheduled for Wednesday. Just thinking about it makes me nauseous.” She paused. “It's crazy to consider how your life can change so drastically. I think I've put this off long enough, Tab.”

T
he first grief counselor with whom Clara met shortly after Sebastian's fatal accident shared with her an Abraham Lincoln adage that he suggested was “profoundly inspirational.” Gazing up from his little black notebook where he'd been jotting down notes, and sticking his chewed pencil behind his ear, the grief counselor quoted, “
People are just about as happy as they make up their minds to be
.” Nodding, as if she understood, Clara thought to herself, “What a trite load of flaming donkey crap.” Aching, she longed to counter, “Yeah, doc, how about you and I discuss the wisdom of Honest Abe after you receive a random phone call from the Boston police department telling you that the love of your life—the soul mate you planned to grow old with and can't possibly imagine existing without—was just brutally killed in a freak accident nine days before your wedding. How about we talk then?”

The second psychiatrist Clara sought for help offered her a “powerful” quote from Aristotle, citing in a terribly serious voice and questionably authentic British accent, “
Happiness depends upon ourselves
.” Once again, Clara's eyes glazed over as she pretended to comprehend the ancient philosopher's message. In reality, however, she was thinking, “So Aristotle was a cliché-spouting philosopher like Abraham Lincoln . . .”

The third and final psychiatrist Clara met with—an unnaturally tan man with a bright orange glow whom Leo dubbed “Dr. Oompa Loompa”—told her, “A very wise man once said, ‘
In three words, I can sum up everything I've learned about life—' ”

“ ‘It. Goes. On,' ”
Clara interrupted with a blatantly dismissive eye roll, adding, “Robert Frost.” She exhaled a troubled sigh, wondering if this orange fellow really believed he could help solve her problems by presenting to her a quote that she knew like the back of her own hand. “I know about poetry,” Clara muttered to Dr. Oompa Loompa.

But sitting there at the Ping-Pong table, holding her cell phone, gathering the courage to dial The Beer King's telephone number for their scheduled 2:00 p.m. call to discuss her future at Scuppernong, Clara found herself contemplating all three quotations that the various doctors had shared. And suddenly, they not only rang true—they made sense. The great Robert Frost had hit the nail right on the head. Life does go on. However, as Clara had come to learn, sometimes it's just too damn painful and difficult—if not altogether impossible—to recognize it.

Once upon a time, Clara's promising career at Scuppernong had been exactly what she wanted, and it brought her great joy. For too long she had clung to the fading illusion of that joy. Frightened and disoriented after her fiancé's death turned her world upside-down, she had desperately grasped on to every last remaining shred of the comforting life she once knew. But that old life was nothing more than a beautiful part of the past. A memory to be cherished. Clara finally accepted not only this, but also that she was a different person because of it. A different person with different desires and needs. Sitting at the Ping-Pong table, contemplating her long, enlightening odyssey, she was struck by the incompatibility of her past with her future. Clara knew in her heart there was no going back. What's more, she no longer ached to go back.

Thus, with a new glow of aspiration, Clara told The Beer King that she loved him and the company dearly—there was no denying it had played a critical role in her life and provided her with a strong sense of both direction and satisfaction. But part of conquering grief, and growing up in general, was accepting that things change. Adjusting and adapting is necessary, because if you don't, it's not long before you're living a lie. And, as Clara had learned the hard way, life's just too short for that. She was not quite certain yet what her future held, but she was sure of one thing. Scuppernong was an important part of her past.

And then, having made up her mind to be happy, Clara tendered her resignation.