“Texas,” Sara answered immediately.
“Oh yeah. I guess I knew that. Okay, I’m talking internationally. Anywhere in the world. Where would it be?”
“Texas.”
Lincoln sighed as the truth stopped at a Stop sign. “Way to be adventurous.”
“Are you taking me to Texas?”
He laughed. “No. Sorry. Not this trip.”
The cool air warmed and Sara sat up straighter, poking her face out from behind the collar of her coat. “Way to be adventurous. You won’t even take me to Texas.”
“Touché.”
“What are you working on anyway? I mean, when you actually work.” Sara laughed when Lincoln shot her a look as he turned the truck toward Fennimore.
“Shed over by Blue River. Framework and siding and roof are done, but there’s a lot to do inside yet.”
“Is that what you want to do for the rest of your life, Lincoln?”
Sara had asked her husband a similar question. He’d said it was all he knew how to do. He’d trained under a guy he knew over the summer when high school was done, somehow going to school full-time too in the fall as well as working full-time. Then he’d graduated and started up his own business, Lincoln joining him later. She’d always wondered at that; to be so happy with something so simple; to not dream and want more than an everyday life.
She’d thought it lacking; a lifestyle unable to bring one happiness, but maybe she was the one lacking to think such a thing. Clearly he had been happy as a carpenter. She’d never thought less of him; in fact, she’d envied that about him, but she’d always wondered why that was enough for him and others when it wasn’t for her. Sara had always wanted to be something more, to have her name known for creating something out of nothing, and she had found that in her artwork. But that drive; that inner voice telling her anything ordinary was unacceptable; where had it come from? Why did some people have it and others not? Maybe it was something all artists felt and maybe that was why they were artists.
“No. It’s not. For now it’s fine. I make good money. But…” He shrugged. “Do I want to be doing it for the rest of my life? No. I want to be able to walk when I’m in my fifties. I want to be able to keep my knees and hips and not have to have back surgery when I’m older. Construction work is hard on a body."
Sara knew. He’d come home with his knees bothering him and his back aching more times than he hadn’t. Construction work made young men old.
“Plus, there’s always the chance of falling off a roof.”
She glanced at him. “Yeah. I know.”
“Don’t even bring it up, Sara,” he warned, sipping from one of the cups he’d carried to the truck.
“I didn’t. You did. That was horrible. I’d never seen him so scared.”
You’d never seen him so scared except for the night of the car wreck, just before he lost consciousness.Then you never saw him look anything at all after that. Sara clamped her mouth shut, wishing there was a way to turn off her thoughts at will. Mindless, numb, unable to feel—what a reprieve that would be.
“It’s not like I meant to fall off the roof. I slipped.”
“You shouldn’t have been up there in the rain anyway. Duh you.” Sara remembered the phone call from his parents, the fear in his eyes, the dread that had filled her, and the dread that had stayed with her until they were at the hospital and she saw Lincoln was okay.
“It was leaking,” he said, like that made it all tolerable.
“Stupid man,” she said softly.
Lincoln glanced at her, the faintest of smiles on his lips. “That I am.”
“You’re lucky all you got was a sprained ankle and scraped up.”
“I don’t need luck, Sara. I got skills.”
“Clearly.” Her eyes met his again and she laughed, Lincoln laughing with her.
They reached Fennimore. It was located on top of a hill, Fennimore Hill, as it was called by locals, and had a population under three thousand. It was a pretty, scenic town with a nice library Sara liked to frequent, or used to, when she read. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d lost herself in a story.
“Coffee?” Lincoln asked as the truck went by Kwik Trip, his lips twitching.
“I’ll pass.”
The truck veered to the left by the Casey’s gas station, taking them in the direction of Dodgeville. Lincoln tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in tune to a ‘Nine Inch Nails’ song.
“You never said what you want to do later.”
“I know.”
“So…are you going to tell me?”
Lincoln grabbed a black baseball cap from the dash, repeatedly adjusting it on his head. “Nope.”
Sara crossed her arms. “I don’t understand why you’re so elusive all the time lately.”
“Especially today?”
“Yes. Especially today.”
“All in good time, Sara. The best things in life come to those who wait. Patience is a virtue. You—”
“Lincoln.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
His deep laughter filled the cab of the truck, and something close to, or maybe even, happiness warmed Sara at the sound of it.
***
Sara stared at the counter full of tins and other various containers of flavored popcorn. Lincoln had basically bought the small Montfort Rural Route 1 store out of stock. She could smell the butter and popcorn scent through the boxes.
“Is it overwhelming?” he asked, popping some cheese popcorn into his mouth.
“It’s…” Sara’s eyes watered. “It’s perfect. Thank you. I had fun today.”
“Day’s not over.” Lincoln grabbed a paper towel from the holder on the counter and wiped his hands on it, tossing the used paper towel into the garbage. “Be right back.”
Sara rubbed her face, a fresh wave of sadness hitting her in Lincoln’s absence. She didn’t even know why. It was a different kind of sadness from what she normally felt and Sara couldn’t determine the cause of it. Loneliness maybe; or the loss of warmth; the fading of light and the impending submergence back into darkness.
Lincoln carried in a pizza with a Papa Murphy’s label on it. He set it on the table. The pepperonis spelled out ‘Happy 28 Years, Sara’. Sara stared at it, her eyes burning with tears. She looked at Lincoln and he tilted his head to the side. “You’re gonna cry over pizza, Sara? Don’t be such a girl,” he gently teased, wiping his thumb under her eyes and taking her tears away.
She sobbed and laughed at the same time, wiping her eyes.
“I got one more thing.”
“Don’t you dare, Lincoln. You’ve done too much already.”
“It’s your special day,” was all he said, leaving her once more.
Sara rubbed her aching chest as her eyes lingered on the words spelled out with pepperonis. It was corny and sweet and she loved it. Lincoln had always had a giving nature, but this, this was too much. She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve his friendship. Friendship. It didn’t feel like the right word. It was more than that; a kinship of two lost souls struggling to live under the loss of substantial grief.
She flat-out bawled when he carried in a large hope chest made out of cherry wood. Butterflies and vines were carved into the lid of it. Sara loved butterflies. She hadn’t known Lincoln knew that. Or maybe she had and she’d forgotten; everything was a jumbled mess in her head most of the time.
“You’re not supposed to cry, Sara,” he chided gently, stroking her hair as she sobbed onto his shirt, wetting it with her tears.
“You’re not supposed to make me cry,” she wailed, his shirt fisted between her hands.
“Trust me; that was not my intention. Do you like it?”
“I love it.”
“It’s my first project. Well, the first I’ve actually finished. I’ve been working on it for months.”
Sara stiffened, slowly moving back so she could see his face. “You made that yourself?”
“Yeah.” Lincoln rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes. “That’s what I want to do. I want to make stuff. Woodworking.” He looked at her. “Do you think I’m lame?”