Lincoln straightened. “Bull shit. You might be able to fool Cole because he’s too thick-headed to see the strain on your face, or he’s too deliriously happy to want to think you’re not the same, but I’m not like that. I see you, even when you don’t want anyone to. You’re pale. You’re not eating. Your eyes are red and you’re subdued. What gives? Are you not happy about the baby?”
Inhaling slowly, she said softly, “Of course I’m happy.” But her voice cracked and there was a tremble to it. “I’m pregnant. I’m supposed to be pale and not able to eat and whatever else you said.”
“Hormonal. That one I forgot.”
She gave him a look.
Lincoln flashed a quick grin before becoming serious again. “This is more than that.”
Sara didn’t answer. He was right.
With a sigh, Lincoln put his hands on her shoulders and lowered his head so they were at eyelevel. His hands were warm and he smelled like citrusy soap. It didn’t repel her, like most scents did lately. It was familiar, welcome, like Lincoln. “Talk to me.”
“I’m scared,” she admitted, blinking her eyes against tears.
“You wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t. What are you scared about?”
“What if something happens? To me or the baby. I can’t say any of this to Cole. I can’t worry him.”
“He should be worried,” Lincoln said grimly “He’s your husband; he’s the father. He should be worried.”
She shook her head. “No. He’s so happy. I want him to be happy.”
“You want him to be happy while you’re miserable? That doesn’t sound fair. If anything, you should both be miserable together, worrying about things you have no control over, losing hair, losing sleep, looking…you look terrible, Sara. Where’s your glow?”
Scowling, Sara slapped his arm and moved away. “I haven’t found it yet.”
“Well, until you do, I’ll be miserable with you. How’s that? Cole can be blissfully unaware of reality and I’ll sympathize with you. You have a worry, a complaint, some disgusting tidbit to share; I’ll be here for you to dump your problems on. You can traumatize my brain and ears with all your pregnancy woes. I’m a man; I can take it. Deal?”
Sara looked at her brother-in-law, thinking she couldn’t have asked for a better one. But she had to ask, “Why?”
“I want you to be happy, Sara, and if you’re not happy, I can’t be,” he said simply.
***
It was Sunday. Sara had her portable bed put away and was showered and dressed long before the time Mason had threatened to reappear. She’d even made a pot of coffee, but she defiantly did not bake anything. Part of her wondered if he’d even show up, but in the pit of her stomach, where it churned and flipped all around, she knew he would.
The knock sounded at exactly nine in the morning, startling Sara from her bleak thoughts. She swallowed, opening the door to cold air, a snow-covered street, and Mason. His amber eyes flickered over her, approval in them. He rubbed snow from his dirty blond head, stepping inside and taking off his brown leather jacket to reveal a black sweater. He handed a small white bag to her, the delectable scent of cinnamon and sugar teasing her senses. Sara took it, looking at it and then at him.
“I figured the baking comment was probably pushing it.”
“You were right.”
Mason smiled and bent down to take his boots off.
“Where’s Spencer?”
He paused, glancing up. “Spencer isn’t part of the sessions, Sara.”
She moved to the kitchen, careful not to look at him. Her pulse picked up at those words and her chest squeezed. Spencer she knew. Spencer she trusted. This guy, he was an enigma; she wasn’t sure how to read or take him. Sara didn’t particularly like him either. She set the bag down.
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“The ones that don’t ask are the ones that need it the most.”
“I don’t want it.”
“But you need it.”
“Philosopher on top of grief counselor. Multi-talented.” Sara poured two mugs of coffee.
“That’s me.” He took the mug she offered, blowing on it before taking a sip.
“Do you have any credentials? Anything to show me you’re not a hoax?”
One eyebrow lifted. “Spencer’s a cop. It’d be pretty dumb of me to masquerade as something I’m not when one of my good friends could have me checked out at any time.”
“You never said you were smart.”
He choked on his coffee, setting it down on the table and wiping a hand across his lips. Amusement, fleeting but intense, blazed over his features. “Tell me about yourself.”
Sara wrapped both hands around her cup, slowly raising it to her lips. It hovered there, brushing her lips as she said, “I’m twenty-seven, I’m an unemployed artist, and I’m responsible for my husband’s death.”
Mason acted like she’d never spoken; his facial expression blank. “What’s this room?” he asked, walking toward the room she’d used as her art studio.
“Don’t go in there,” she said, panic making her voice harsh. Sara thumped her coffee cup to the counter, hot dark brown liquid sloshing over the rim as she hurried for the door. Mason was already opening it when she reached him. “Mason! Don’t!” she gasped, her heart thundering and her breaths leaving her in short, panicky bursts.
Cool air swept over her in an icy hug of sorrow as the door swung open and she closed her eyes against it. It cocooned her in longing and unforgettable loss. Whispers of the past tingled through her scalp and under her skin, chilling her. He was in there, waiting for her, waiting to crash her world around her with images, scents, and sounds of everything she missed, wanted, and would never have again. Sara couldn’t open her eyes. If she did, she’d see him.
“Sara. Open your eyes. Face it. You have to face what hurts you. That’s the only way you’re going to cope. Open your eyes and see. It’s just a room.”
Mason knew nothing. It wasn’t just a room. It was where they’d spent hours and hours together in quiet harmony. It was where she’d created with her hands what she wouldn’t have been able to had he not been there with her. It was where they’d laughed and smiled and simply were, existing, together.
Hands on her shoulders, strong and firm, Mason said, “Look at me, Sara. Tell me what you see.”
“What do you see when you see me?” he asked, eyes intent on her.
Sara set her paintbrush down, turning her attention to him. “What do you mean?”
He motioned to her half-finished project. “I see you glancing at me, and then you paint something. What you’re painting looks nothing like me.” He leaned closer in his chair to get a better look. “In fact, it doesn’t even look human. Or like anything else, for that matter. What is it?”
Sara stared at the blues and greens she’d swirled together. They’d meshed, pulled apart, and gone off in their own elegant tendrils. She cocked her head. She didn’t know what it was. But it signified how she felt about him.
“It’s the blue of your eyes. See here?” She pointed. “That’s the same shade as your eye color. It’s…serenity and peace and wholeness. It’s you and how you make me feel.” Sara shrugged. “I don’t know how else to explain it.”
“You know what color a painting of you would be?”
She caught the teasing glint in his eyes and smiled. “What?”