Once Upon a List

by Robin Gold

  Clara did a double take, sure that she’d misheard him—what with the radio playing “oldies but goodies” and the wind and all. “Wait a minute. What did you just say?”

  “You never know when bait and fireworks might come in handy.”

  “Lincoln.” Giving him a look, Clara insisted he knew damn well that was not what she was talking about.

  “Huh.” He shrugged, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead on the country road. “I could’ve sworn I told you that Meg moved back to Minneapolis to be with Roy, her ex-fiancé.”

  “Roy?” Astonished by both this unexpected news and the casual fashion in which it was delivered—as if implying it was a matter of slight significance—Clara demanded without hesitation, “Her ex-fiancé? What are you talking about, Link? Are you pulling my leg?”

  Promising that there was zero leg-pulling going on, Lincoln recounted how Meg randomly ran into Roy at the Rite Aid when she was in Minneapolis for her cousin’s baby shower, and sparks of rekindled love instantly flew. Apparently, they ended up spending the next four days locked behind closed doors at Roy’s ranch, after which they agreed, in Meg’s own words, that “fate had brought them back together again,” and a love as powerful as theirs could not be denied. “Meg’s a great person,” Lincoln stated. “She told me all about Roy when we first started dating. I have no hard feelings about it.”

  “Really?”

  “If anything, I feel guilty that I don’t care more.”

  “But, I—I thought you two got along wonderfully,” said Clara, thoroughly confused. She had not seen this one coming. And, though she’d never admit it to him, she had given Lincoln and Meg’s relationship some thought. Especially in recent weeks.

  “We got along great. And don’t get me wrong, I wish Meg all the happiness in the world. Still, the truth is,” Lincoln explained, “we had fun together, but our relationship never delved any deeper than that. There wasn’t that real, intense emotional connection, like with—” He stopped himself suddenly, muttering, “Well, anyway, you know what I mean.”

  Clara nodded. She couldn’t help but wonder if he meant Jessica. Or, was it somehow possible that Lincoln could possibly have been referring to . . . oh, never mind—she shoved the unlikely thought out of her head, telling herself it was silly to go there. Silly! Wasn’t it?

  Just then, a Volkswagen convertible filled with loud, giggling women pulled up directly beside them at the stop light. Gawking at Lincoln, the female sitting in the passenger seat gasped, “You’re totally right, ladies! He does kinda look like George Clooney during the ER years!” The two girls in the backseat nodded in agreement, and one gushed, “Oh, he is cute!”—apparently unaware that Lincoln and Clara could hear them over their radio, which was blasting reggae music. “I definitely would not mind a night out with him,” declared the driver as the light changed from red to green. She honked the horn a few times and let out a spirited “Wooooo!” as she sped off, with the women’s giddy laughter trailing behind.

  His cheeks blushing, Lincoln cleared his throat. “I think they may have been drinking.”

  Clara smiled. “You’re a heartbreaker, George.”

  “Anyway, as I was saying, it really is for the best with Meg,” he concluded. “If she hadn’t ended it, I would have. Check it out.” Lincoln pointed to a road sign up ahead indicating that the Wisconsin Dells were only forty miles away. “We’re getting closer.” He smiled at Clara, nudging her arm.

  Funny, that’s exactly what Clara had told Tabitha verbatim last night on the telephone when her best friend, curious about the nature of her evolving relationship with Lincoln, asked if they would be sharing a hotel room during their “romantic weekend getaway.” “While I do admit we’re getting closer, we’re not that close,” Clara had countered. “Besides, this trip is about me crossing something off my time capsule list, not romance. And,” she’d added, “irrespective of how great we get along, let’s not forget that Lincoln has a girlfriend. A girlfriend,” she repeated with emphasis, for some reason.

  “My God. You really do like him, don’t you?”

  “What? What are you talking about? You sound like Leo. He refuses to accept that Lincoln and I can have a strictly platonic relationship.”

  After a decade of friendship, Tabitha was quite capable of reading between Clara’s lines. “I can hear it in your voice. Don’t deny it.”

  “Oh, I . . .” Clara considered denying it. “I . . . I honestly don’t know,” she finally confessed. “It’s complicated, Tab. I shouldn’t even be thinking about this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s Lincoln Foster, for God’s sake! I’ve known him since he was a little boy who secretly saved his boogers in a jar! Our history goes way too far back for this kind of thing. Besides, we already tried it once before and it didn’t work out.”

  “Please. That’s not a good excuse,” Tabitha insisted. “You were fifteen. You also had a crush on Teen Wolf. Let me ask you, do you enjoy spending time with Lincoln?”

  “Of course I do,” Clara admitted, reluctantly. “He’s just so easy to be around. And we always have a great time together. But I could also be confusing genuine friendship with something more,” she rationalized, more to herself than to Tabitha. “After all, it’s been a long time since I spent any quality time with a man who’s not my brother. AND”—her voice raised a notch—“let us not forget, please: Lincoln is happily committed to Meg”—she repeated for the third time—“which definitely renders us just good friends.”

  “Who spoon,” Tabitha had slipped in. “I say go for it. You only live once.”

  “No way. I’ve been through more than enough drama as it is. I’m not about to get involved in something messy.”

  “Why does it have to be messy?”

  Clara groaned. “You’re incorrigible. I’m hitting the sack. Link’s picking me up early in the morning.”

  “What are you gonna wear? Is your bathing suit one piece or two?”

  “Good niiiiight, Tab. I’ll call you on Sunday when I get back. Tell Max I send my best.” She quickly snapped her cell phone shut, shaking her head with an exasperated little grin, deep in thought.

  If one leaves the Wisconsin Dells without taking a scenic tour, one can’t, in all honesty, say one has experienced the Dells. Thus, the first thing Clara and Lincoln did after checking into their cozy, two-bedroom suite at the Historic Chippewa Inn, a luxurious bed-and-breakfast surrounded by country gardens and flowing springs, was take a Wisconsin River tour. Journeying on a famous “Original Wisconsin Duck,” a green-and-white amphibious army vehicle used during World War II, they traveled by land and water on trails tucked away among the natural beauty of the Dells, squeezing through the narrow walls of Red Bird Gorge, plunging into the winding river, spying flora, fauna, and breathtaking views from towering sandstone cliffs to picturesque wilderness trails.

  After their tour, as the radiant summer sun began its slow descent in the western sky, Clara and Lincoln took a leisurely stroll down the Waterpark Capital of the World’s thriving Main Street, where swim apparel was abundant, along with yellow foam “Cheesehead” hats shaped like wedges of cheddar, frosty snow cones, and moccasins, a time-honored Dells tradition. At one of a dozen old-fashioned candy stores, Lincoln handpicked and purchased a giant bag of sweets for him and Clara to share, including everything from pastel-colored saltwater taffy, chocolate fudge, and a variety of scrumptious penny candy, to the best melt-in-your-mouth homemade peanut brittle either one of them had ever tasted.

  They were deep in conversation when they approached the Guess-Your-Weight-or-What-Month-You-Were-Born Girl’s busy, red-and-white-striped booth, situated on a long, bustling block of classic carnival games where cheerful circus music being piped through loudspeakers filled the seaside air. Clara grabbed Lincoln’s arm, pulling him to a halt. “We have to do this in Libby’s honor! Come on.” She grin
ned, pointing to the sign that read $2 FOR 3 GUESSES! “What do you say?”

  “I say she can guess my birthday, but there’s no way in hell I’m stepping on that giant scale that looks fit for a velociraptor.” Lincoln popped a handful of sour cherry balls into his mouth, followed by a miniature chocolate-covered pretzel, followed by a root beer barrel. “Nuh-uh. No way.”

  Clara eyed him, smiling as she stuck her hand in the candy bag, removed a turquoise chunk of rock candy, and ate it. “Maybe you’ll be able to stump her.” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down in a devious fashion. “I’ll go first.” Clara flagged down the busy Guesser Girl and handed her two crisp one-dollar bills.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the buoyant employee blared into her microphone, “we have another contender! That’s right, you heard me! A fine, young woman who dares to challenge the great and powerful Guess-Your-Weight-or-What-Month-You-Were-Born Girl! She’s a brave one, that’s for sure!” Ultimately, Clara wasn’t surprised when the undeniably skilled Guesser Girl nailed her weight perfectly in a scale-free moment that would have made Libby proud, nor was she surprised when she discovered that she’d gained nineteen pounds since returning to Chicago seven months ago. “Oh well. No crappy stuffed unicorn for me, I guess,” she said, pouting at Lincoln.

  “Yeah? Don’t be so sure.” He raised two dollars in the air, challenging the Guesser Girl to identify what month he was born.

  First, she insisted that he had the “unmistakable aura of a Libra” and that he was a “classic” October baby. Next, she suggested that she’d “misread his aura” and “on second thought” he was born in . . . April. And finally, after examining Lincoln long and hard with one index finger pressed against her chin, she took a wild stab at . . . August.

  “Not even close.” Lincoln triumphantly shot both arms in the air. “December twenty-seventh!” Removing his official Illinois state driver’s license from his wallet, he presented it to her.

  The Guesser Girl slammed her palm on a button causing a red light on the booth’s wall to flash and the winner’s siren to whirl. “Hot dog!” she proclaimed into her microphone. “We have ourselves a WINNER, ladies and gentlemen! This tall, handsome Capricorn—who looks an awful lot like George Clooney, if I do say so myself—is a definite keeper. Don’t let him go!” She winked at Clara. “Please take your pick of prizes, sir.” She gestured behind her toward the wall of crappy stuffed animals that cost about a nickel each, but were considered priceless in more meaningful ways by a lucky few.

  Lincoln chose a silvery white unicorn, which, with a twinkle in his eye, he promptly bestowed upon Clara, grinning, “A unicorn for the lady!” Then, his voice growing tender and lowering a notch in volume, he said, “I’d win you the moon if that’s what you wanted.”

  There was a thoughtful pause before a shy smile crossed Clara’s face, and her gaze met his.

  By the time they exited the popular Ghost Out-Post Haunted House attraction, laughing at its corniness, night had fallen, and the clear, June sky was peppered with dazzling stars so bright they appeared close enough to be able to reach out your hand and touch. “Wow . . . I’d forgotten how beautiful Wisconsin is.” Clara stared up toward the heavens with her mouth gaped open. She linked her arm through Lincoln’s. “What a gorgeous evening.” They ambled slowly in no specific direction until eventually they happened upon Mama Mary’s, a charming little Italian restaurant with an outdoor patio illuminated by candles and paper lanterns. “Let’s eat here,” they both suggested at the same time.

  After a relaxing and delicious meal, which included a bottle of Chianti and a shared slice of tiramisu, Clara and Lincoln, exhausted from their first, fun-filled day, returned to the Historic Chippewa Inn, and, after a long, end-of-evening embrace, retreated to their private bedrooms, closing the doors behind them.

  “Good night, Link!” Clara, tucked snugly in her bed, called out across their silent, darkened suite. They’d already wished each other good night, but, laying there thinking about him—wondering what it might be like to intentionally fall asleep in the same bed together—she couldn’t resist saying it one more time.

  “Good night, C.J.!” Lincoln, also beneath his covers, returned in a loud but gentle voice, which brought a subtle smile to Clara’s face. “Sweet dreams . . .”

  “Good night!” hollered some guy from across the hall with a very deep voice like James Earl Jones.

  • Visit the Wisconsin Dells

  28.

  After a hearty, early-morning breakfast, Clara and Lincoln—well-rested and prepared to “soak up the sun and waterpark fun”—headed directly to Noah’s Ark, best known as “America’s Largest Waterpark!” A full-day event, this was not only the Dells’ premiere attraction, it was what Clara had specifically been dreaming of as a ten-year-old waterslide fan composing a mandatory list to stick in her fifth-grade time capsule.

  Upon paying the price of admission and entering the spectacular, over-the-top waterpark where the constant sound of rushing water and children’s laughter pervaded the hot, summer air, Clara—stunned by its glittering enormity—slowly turned to Lincoln. “Holy crap.” A growing smile spread across her face. “We’re really here. Look at it, Link. It’s—It’s a literal wet dream!”

  “It sure is.” He grinned, his mouth slightly agape. “I’ve never seen anything like it. No wonder I wanted to come here so badly when I was a kid! Uh, for the record, C.J., your time capsule list rules.”

  “And here we are, twenty-two years later,” she marveled. “Together. Who would’ve thought?”

  “I know.” Lincoln beamed at her for an extended moment before urging, “Come on. Let’s go get changed!”

  When Clara exited the women’s locker room, barefoot and wearing her new, lemon yellow bathing suit—a two-piece tankini that she’d purchased especially for the trip—Lincoln, waiting for her by a giant, mushroom-shaped fountain in his plaid swim trunks, appeared to stop himself from doing a double take.

  “Wow. You look—You look fantastic.” It seemed as if he was trying to make a concerted effort not to let himself stare at Clara’s body, which had resumed its standard healthy and enticing womanly form.

  “Thank you.” She felt her cheeks flush, keenly aware of his eyes taking her in. Perhaps she was mistaken, but she could have almost sworn that she’d detected a glimpse of desire in them. “You don’t look too shabby yourself.” She grinned, noticing that the alleged love handles Meg had previously dubbed “Ben & Jerry” seemed to have disappeared. Then, worried that she might have been caught checking him out, Clara cleared her throat. “I vote we ride Black Anaconda first,” she suggested, referring to the longest water coaster in the entire country, which was over a quarter mile long, and boasted six hair-raising climbs and spiraling, thirty-mile-per-hour drops that inspired the ride’s menacing motto: “You can’t scream long enough!”

  “Excellent call.” Lincoln raised his hand in the air, waiting for Clara to give it a high-five, which she did with noted enthusiasm. “I think it’s this way!” He bolted toward the bustling Paradise Lagoon Activity Pool, where shrieking toddlers splashed their way across a lily pad trail leading to a shallow swim area.

  They were waiting in a long line to ride the wildly popular Flash Flood—their seventh thrill ride of the day—when Clara, soaked to the bone, began to shiver, despite the fact that it was eighty-five sunny degrees outside. “Brrrrr!” Her teeth chattered as she wrapped her arms around her chest. “They should give us towels while we w-w-wait.”

  Standing behind Clara, watching her quiver, Lincoln inched forward and enclosed his arms around her so that the front of his body was pressed against the back of hers. “Better?” He gently ran his hands up and down her chilly arms.

  It was a caring gesture as opposed to a sexual advance, but still, Clara turned her head, water dripping off her ponytail, and smiled at him with her heart suddenly racing. “Much. Thank you . . .”
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  “You’re covered in goose bumps!” he noted.

  Clara wasn’t sure if they were a result of being drenched in freezing water, or being held against Lincoln’s warm, wet body—which felt surprisingly muscular—but suddenly, she didn’t seem to mind the long line quite as much.

  After a few more water coasters and a lunch break, Clara and Lincoln, ready to relax and let their burgers digest, hopped on individual inner tubes and took a long, leisurely float along the snaking Endless River.

  Unable to recall the last time she’d gotten a tan, Clara luxuriated in the sensation of the sun warming her exposed body. Drifting languidly along the water, her mind was not beleaguered with what she was going to tell The Beer King during their scheduled phone call next week when she was required to reveal her future plans regarding Scuppernong; it was not fretting about what might happen if a buyer decided to purchase the judge’s condo that she’d grown attached to; it was not worrying about where the Sam Hell she’d buried Leo’s forsaken recorder and whether or not Libby was going to forgive her for annihilating her backyard; it wasn’t contemplating the last few remaining items on her time capsule list, or “The Untold Want,” or even Sebastian. Rather, Clara was lost in deep thought about her old friend, Lincoln Foster, and her unexpected, new feelings for him, which, she realized while floating “the carefree waterway,” had been slowly blossoming for some time now.

  “Should we take The Plunge?” Lincoln, lounging in the raft slightly ahead of hers, grabbed hold of her foot and gave it a wiggle, knocking Clara out of her reverie. She gasped with surprise.

  “I’m sorry!” He laughed, still holding on to her toe. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Catching her breath, Clara covered her chest with her hand, smiling. “I’m sorry, what—what’d you say?”

  “The Plunge,” Lincoln repeated, raising his eyebrows up and down while pointing toward the north end of the park. “Are you ready to take it?” He was talking about Noah’s Ark’s highest, steepest, undisputedly most terrifying water ride: a fierce, old-fashioned, extreme vertical-drop slide, “ten stories up, five seconds down.” The Plunge challenged the bravest of thrill-seekers, “Do you dare to drop?”