Free Take Care, Sara by Lindy Zart Page B

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?”
    “Red hot. Fiery,” he murmured, his eyes darkening.
    He reached for