She looked up with a frown. Mason sipped from his cup, eyebrows lifted, waiting for her response. “You do realize you say a bunch of nothing almost every time your mouth opens?”
Half of his mouth quirked. “Depends on how you choose to interpret what I say. If you want to hear nothing, then nothing you shall hear. If you want to get something out of what I say, then you will.”
“There you go again,” she muttered.
He laughed, opening the crinkled white bag to pull out a second caramel roll. Mason took a bite, licking icing from his thumb.
“I thought these sessions were only going to last a month?”
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“You said—“
“What I said was,” Mason interrupted smoothly, “I was on vacation for a month, so technically I wasn’t here as a grief counselor. I never said the sessions would only last that long. People always hear what they want to hear, even if it isn’t the same as what someone says. Clearly you needed me for longer than a month. It’s okay. I get that I’m irresistible.” He winked.
She blinked at him.
“How long have you known Lincoln?”
Sara froze, not wanting to think about Lincoln. Not that that mattered, because he seemed to be all she thought of. It was unnerving and worrisome how much she was thinking of him lately. And she wondered what he was thinking; all the time. Sometimes she even turned to ask him his opinion on something, so used to his company now; almost longing for it when he wasn’t around.
“Sara,” he prompted.
Taking a sip of cold coffee, Sara used the time to gather her scattered nerves. “I met him a few days after I met my husband.”
“Do you know him well?”
“As well as I know myself,” she answered without thinking. Sara blinked as her words registered in her head, looking at Mason. He’d caught them.
His face was blank, but his eyes were narrowed on her. “Interesting.”
Face red, she shifted in her seat. “What is?”
Mason set his cup of coffee down, splaying his long-fingered hands on the table. “You said you know him as well as you know yourself, not your husband. I find that interesting.”
“You would,” she retorted, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes and Sara’s skin was abnormally flushed.
“I would. Yes.” Mason stood, carrying his plate and cup to the counter. His dark blue sweater and jeans boasted his fit frame. “I’ll see you soon, Sara,” he said as he walked to the door to get his coat and boots on.
“That’s it?” Sara got to her feet, rooted to the place beside the table. “You’re leaving?”
Mason tilted his head and studied her. “Yes. I’m leaving. But first, I want you to tell me something about Lincoln.”
She shifted her feet, looking anywhere but at Mason. “Like what?”
“Anything.”
Sara thought of Lincoln; picturing his stormy eyes and stiff jaw and the way his lips curved up, softened, when he smiled. “He…” A smile captured her lips. “He has this habit of nodding his head to music, even when he isn’t aware of it. His body moves too. It’s like he has to restrain himself not to bust out dancing. It’s funny watching him, and most times, he can’t help but sing. Lincoln loves music; always has. It’s…endearing. Sweet.” She exhaled deeply, looking at Mason.
Mason didn’t speak for a long time, finally saying, “I realized something just now.”
One eyebrow lifted. “Oh?”
“It wasn’t anything you said, but it was what you didn’t say.”
Sara frowned. “What? What does that even mean?”
“You, talking about Lincoln. It’s not the words you use, but how you look as you say them. Your face softens; you smile. You glow, Sara. Lincoln is it.”
“Again with the nonsense? Lincoln is what?” she said, exasperated.
Smiling as he shrugged into his brown leather coat, Mason gently mocked, “Open your eyes, Sara. You won’t be able to see until you do.” He left, leaving a reeling Sara behind him.
***
Sara wiped sweaty hair from her face with her arm and leaned back on her heels. The kitchen floor was gleaming clean. Somehow housework did what painting used to do for her, but now couldn’t. It was therapeutic. Maybe she should change her career from painter to housekeeper. She snorted. Sooner or later she would have to figure out what she was going to do about that. Sara had made enough money from her artwork in the past that she was stable for now, even though there was no new income coming in from that. They’d saved a lot too. And of course there was the monthly compensation she received from the accident. Those were in a messy stack in the junk drawer, none cashed.