by Robin Gold
Though she was feeling adventuresome, Clara wasn’t quite sure if she had the guts to “dare to drop.” “Oh gosh”—she swallowed—“I don’t know, Link. It looks scary.”
“Come on,” he persuaded. “When are we ever going to be back in the Wisconsin Dells at Noah’s Ark again? This could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. What would Walt Whitman say?”
Knowing Lincoln was right, Clara dipped her hand in the Endless River and splashed him in the face. “He’d say: Now, Voyager, let’s go to the arcade first while I build up my stinkin’ courage.”
After a jaunt in one of the park’s three classic arcades, complete with Ms. Pacman—Clara’s favorite video game, involving fruit—followed by a raucous ride on Bumper Boats, Clara and Lincoln proceeded to the Holy Mother of all water rides: The Plunge.
During their twenty-five minute wait in the winding line, Clara’s nervous stomach did somersaults, her anxiety level increasing with each rider’s haunting scream as they plummeted down the radically steep slide. Beginning their slow climb up the wooden, ten-story staircase, Clara and Lincoln passed a menacing plaque that warned in bold letters, THE POINT OF NO RETURN: FOR YOUR SAFETY, RIDERS ARE NEVER PERMITTED TO WALK DOWN STAIRS! “No problem,” Clara mumbled to Lincoln. “I can do this.”
Only, when she finally reached the top of the staircase and was asked by a Plunge Boy—a handsome young man in his late teens who resembled David Beckham—if she wanted to ride on her mat “feet- or head-first?” Clara instantly froze, paralyzed with fear, stuttering, “I—I can’t do this!”
“Sure you can.” The encouraging Plunge Boy grinned, well accustomed to this sort of P.P.H. (Pre-Plunge Hesitation, as it was known among seasoned park employees). “I promise, you’re gonna have a blast. And it’ll be over in five measly seconds. Bam!” He clapped his hands together. “Piece o’ cake! So what’ll it be”—he nodded at the mat—“feet- or head-first?”
Biting her lip, wide-eyed and visibly trembling, Clara stared down at the bottom of the aqua slide, ten looooong stories below, and shook her head. “No. No way, man. This is CRAZY!” Spinning around, she started toward the staircase.
“Sorry. Can’t let you do that.” The agile Plunge Boy lunged to the side, blocking Clara with his bronzed, muscular arm.
“This is nothing, C.J.,” Lincoln chimed in, attempting to comfort her. “It’ll be fun! Here”—he stepped in front of her—“would it make you feel better if I go first so you can see there’s nothing to it?”
“No!” Clara grabbed his hand, her wobbly knees clanking together as she desperately pleaded with him, “Don’t leave me up here! Please! I can’t!”
Suddenly, a little girl with black braids standing in line with her father behind Clara shrieked, “I can’t either, Daddy! I wanna get down! I wanna get down NOW!” She began to wail.
“Miss, I appreciate that you’re nervous,” the well-trained Plunge Boy stepped in, “but the staircase is wet and slippery and way too dangerous for me to let you climb down. Not an option. So you’re gonna have to take a seat on the mat and—”
“And what?” Clara interrupted, her voice growing louder and more hysterical by the second. “Dare to drop? Hell no, Plunge Boy! I wanna get down!”
“I WANNA GET DOWN, DADDY!” screamed the little girl with black braids.
“It’s okay, it’s okay . . .” Lincoln gave Clara’s hand a gentle squeeze.
“It’s not okay!” Clara hollered. “Look how freakin’ high we are! This slide is for LUNATICS!”
“This slide is for LUNATICS!” sobbed the little girl with black braids.
“Fuckin’ A. She’s right!” said the teenage girl standing in line behind the little girl with black braids, shuddering.
“Miss, you’re holding up the line and starting a riot. I’m gonna need to ask you to please sit down on your mat and enjoy your ride down the slide now,” said the Plunge Boy. “Come on.” Crouching, he gave her mat a welcoming pat.
“Oh my GOD, Link!” Clara clung to him.
“OH MY GOD, DADDYYYYYYYYYYYY!” sobbed the little girl with black braids.
“FUCKIN’ A!” gasped the teenage girl behind her.
“All right, look,” whispered the Plunge Boy to Clara and Lincoln. “Under normal circumstances we don’t allow two riders on one mat, but how about if I bend the rules to prevent mayhem and let you go down together? Will you get on the mat then?” he implored Clara.
“Together?” she repeated, shaking.
“Yes.” Lincoln smiled appreciatively at the patient Plunge Boy. “Thank you. That would be wonderful. Right, C.J.?” He curled his arm around her shoulder, offering reassurance.
Blinking, Clara made a strange, undecipherable grunt.
“That means okay,” Link explained as he lowered himself down onto the red foam mat, beckoning for Clara to come join him.
“Now you sit between his legs and lean your back upright against his chest,” the Plunge Boy instructed her. “No problem. Fun stuff . . .”
Holding her breath, looking like a deer stuck in headlights, Clara followed his directions.
“Good girl.” Lincoln smiled as she tightly grasped hold of his thighs, clinging on with white knuckles for dear life. “I’ve got ya,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ve got ya now . . .”
“Ready?” asked the Plunge Boy. “On the count of three. One . . . Two . . .”
Like a wild banshee, Clara started screaming at the top of her lungs.
“THREE!” Giving Lincoln’s back a friendly push, he sent them shooting down the slide.
And together, Clara and Lincoln took The Plunge.
That evening, they dined at one of the nicer restaurants in the Dells, the Edgewater—a charming, rustic spot with dim lighting and a hundred-year-old oak tree located smack dab in its center, which a full bar, also made of striking oak, had been built around. There was a jazz quartet playing old standards in the corner near the bar, and several couples swayed to the music, as if in a different era. Over a meal of savory seafood and delicious vodka cocktails known as “Oak Cars,” Clara and Lincoln laughed until their eyes watered about how loud she had shrieked the whole way down The Plunge, and how his aching ears were still ringing. “Your brother might have to teach me sign language when we get home,” Lincoln teased.
“I really am sorry.” Clara giggled, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin as their waiter approached their table with their third round of “Oak Cars.”
“Can I interest either of you in some dessert this evening?” he inquired.
Lincoln looked to Clara for a response before answering, “No, thank you. I think these drinks will do us well.”
“It’s been a hell of a day,” Clara elaborated to the waiter, proudly sharing, “We took The Plunge.”
“Ahhh,” he nodded. “What did you think of Noah’s Ark?”
“Awesome!” Clara and Lincoln replied in perfect unison, as if they’d rehearsed the moment.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said the grinning waiter before bouncing to a new table of diners that had just been seated.
“I really did have a wonderful time today.” Clara removed the straw from her beverage.
“Me too.” Lincoln raised his glass, smiling at her. “To the Dells.”
“To the Dells.” She happily clinked her “Oak Car” against his.
“And,” he added, softening his voice, still holding her gaze, “to the wonderful creator of the list that brought us here.”
Clara’s cheeks flushed a rosy shade of pink as she smiled bashfully. “Well, thank you for believing in it.”
Lincoln placed his glass back down. “I’ve always believed in you, C.J.” Then, forming a fist, he began tapping the table.
Clara sipped her drink, admiring the artistry and care that had gone into the bar’s thoughtful construction. Growing up, Maple Manor had always
been one of her most favorite places on earth—her own private spot where she could seek sanctuary when she needed to be alone with her thoughts, and over the years, she’d come to consider the wise, old tree that housed it a dear friend. Busy considering the beauty of both trees, it took Clara several moments to realize that Lincoln was still tap-tap-tapping his knuckles against the table. And it took her several moments more to realize that his deliberate, rhythmic knocking possessed a familiar ring. “Wait a minute . . .” She narrowed her eyes, leaning forward, listening harder, examining Lincoln more closely.
Looking into her eyes, he continued tapping the table.
A smile spread across Clara’s surprised face as her jaw dropped. “Link! You speak Morse code!”
“So do you,” he fired back. “Told you it wouldn’t take you long to get the hang of it.”
“Well, Morse Code for Dummies was a major help.” After studying the thick, yellow manual daily over the last two weeks, Clara had finally been able to cross a red line through Learn Morse code on her time capsule list. Apparently, to her delight, she’d retained more knowledge than she realized.
“So?” pressed Lincoln. Tapping his knuckles against the table, he repeated his question for Clara.
“Um”—she hesitated—“well . . .” And then, concentrating ardently, she answered him with a slow and deliberate series of knocks.
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Smiling, Lincoln rose and extended his hand to Clara, which she promptly accepted.
“But I’m warning you”—she stood up—“I’m an awful dancer.”
“That makes two of us,” he assured her, leading her on to the dance floor where a smattering of couples swayed to a breezy rendition of Embraceable You.
“I’m clumsy enough I could even fall,” she advised with a smirk.
“I already have,” he confessed softly.
A pleasurable shock passed through Clara, collecting in a knot in her belly.
They danced, holding each other close, for one brief song, before the band announced it was taking a “quick, fifteen-minute break,” and Lincoln and Clara, wiped out from a memorable day complete with Plunge Boys, Oak Cars, and Morse code, returned to the Historic Chippewa Inn.
Standing in the middle of their cozy suite’s shared sitting room, they gave each other a long, end-of-evening embrace, just as they’d done the night before. Only this time, Clara’s rapidly beating heart did flip-flops as she prolonged their charged hug for as long as she could, hoping perhaps Lincoln might choose not to release her. But, eventually, to her disappointment, he let her go, his arms falling limp at his sides.
Clara had to stop herself from frowning. “Well”—she smiled up into his eyes, still standing close enough to smell the lingering scent of sandalwood on his body—“I guess . . . this is good night.”
“I guess so.” Lincoln stared at her longingly, not moving a muscle.
“Okay then.” Desire swelled within her. She resisted the urge to leap on top of him.
“Good night,” he whispered.
“Good night.” Turning around, Clara slowly began walking toward her bedroom. She told herself that it was completely ridiculous to feel let down that Lincoln hadn’t made a move. Of course he hadn’t. What was she expecting? After all, like she’d insisted to Tabitha, they were friends. Just friends. The “F” word. Besides, Clara reminded herself, just because she harbored a sincerely surprising, unexpected growing attraction toward him, in no way, shape, or form did that mean it was reciprocal. Not at all. Maybe he’d been talking about something else earlier that evening when he mentioned he’d “fallen.” Maybe he’d been referring to some kind of enchanting herbivore with scales and a beak from the Cretaceous period. Alas, if only she were a T-rex, perhaps things would be different, she thought to herself.
“C.J.?” Lincoln suddenly called out just as she was reaching for her doorknob.
Halting, Clara’s pulse rate skyrocketed, and she felt her breath catch in her throat.
“Forgive me if I’m out of line,” Lincoln’s voice trembled. “But . . . you have no idea how badly I want to kiss you.”
He stepped forward, and before Clara could respond Lincoln had gathered her up in his arms, his lips hovering just inches from her own. Clara swallowed hard. Her heart was beating so fast that she could actually hear it. “You—You do?” she somehow managed to whisper.
Link’s eyes stared into hers with smoldering intensity. “Hell yes, I do.”
Clara recognized the hungry gleam in his gaze. She had no idea how her legs were still holding her up. She tilted her head up ever so slightly, moving her lips even closer to his.
“God, you’re beautiful,” Link whispered before at last closing his mouth over hers.
Clara instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him even closer. Lincoln kissed her with such passion that she weakened all over and he had to support her. “Link,” she whispered breathlessly, returning his deep, affectionate kisses as a lovely warmth spread throughout her body and left her head reeling. “Is—Is this really happening?”
He nodded, covering her face and neck in intoxicating kisses.
Clara’s lips explored his until eventually, she leaned her head against his chest, letting her weight fall against him as she closed her eyes.
With one arm wrapped snugly around Clara’s waist, holding her body pressed close against his, Lincoln gently placed his other hand on her crimson cheek, stroking it with his fingertips.
Clara felt like she was melting into him.
“You lied to me,” he whispered.
“What?” She had no idea what he was talking about. Shocking as it was to her, all she knew was that folded in his arms, feeling the strength of his shoulders, she was exactly where she wanted to be. Exactly.
“You did not leave my apartment just before midnight the night of the race.” Lincoln slowly traced his hand up and down the length of her spine. “Liar, liar . . .”
Clara’s brows shot up. “Lincoln Foster!” Astonished, she leaned back so that she could look him directly in the eye. “Scoundrel! You were awake.”
Flashing a sheepish, guilty-as-charged grin, he shrugged, entwining his fingers with hers.
“I can’t believe you!” Clara kissed him long and hard for it. What a strange, phenomenal sensation this was!
“I was secretly hoping you and Milk Dud would be swayed by the staggering powers of the sofa-bed and wouldn’t leave,” Lincoln admitted.
“I was secretly hoping you’d kiss me ever since we left the Edgewater,” she confessed, surprising even herself with her daring honesty.
“Believe me, I’ve wanted to.”
“Really?” She smiled.
“God, yes.”
Taking Clara’s face in both hands, Lincoln slowly leaned in and kissed her lips with such tenderness and love that she let out a soft little gasp before she could stop herself.
She knew she still had a lifetime of mourning ahead of her. But for this moment—at least for this brief and priceless moment—she was happy. Truly happy. And so Clara retreated to Lincoln’s bedroom with him.
And together, Clara and Lincoln took the plunge.
• Learn Morse code
29.
“This is wonderful!” Tabitha squealed into the telephone. “I hate to toot my own horn, but I had a strong feeling something would happen between you and Link this weekend. Just like I had a strong feeling Meg, lovely as she may be, wasn’t destined to remain in the picture for very long. It’s so obvious how crazy you two are about each other.” She took a quick inhalation of breath. “Okay, okay, so tell me what happened next. Wait ’til Max hears about this!” she shrieked with joy. “All right, you woke up this morning after a toe-curling, fabulous night, went out for a lumberjack breakfast in the Dells, drove back to Chicago, and then what happened? What next, what next?�
� At last, Tabitha paused with bated breath.
Just thinking about the magical weekend caused Clara, lounging on her couch with a Sunday-night steaming hot cup of chamomile tea, to break out in a sparkling grin. “Uh, let’s see . . . We stopped at Leo’s to pick up Milk Dud, visited over there for a while; both he and Lincoln creamed me at Memory. It was pathetic. I swear to God, I have zero short-term memory. And then Link dropped me off at home. That was basically that.”
“That was basically that. Listen to you! Do you know I can actually hear your smile over the telephone?”
“You can?”
“Oh, yes. So tell me, when are you seeing each other next?”
“Dinner tomorrow night.”
“And after dinner?” Tabitha pressed.
“To be honest, I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the last three days,” Clara admitted. “I’m telling you, Tab, I was not expecting this at all. The whole weekend was the kind of thing you see in a movie. A cheesy movie! Only . . . it was . . . real.”
“Awww,” cooed Tabitha. “I am so happy for you. And Link.”
“Me . . . and Link . . .” Clara repeated slowly, her voice revealing genuine surprise. “Jesus. Who would have ever thought?”
“Well, let’s see . . . Me, Max, Leo . . . your mother, I suspect . . . Meg probably had an inkling . . . and then of course there’s Lincoln and—”
“All right, all right, I get the picture,” Clara interrupted, chuckling. “I’m clueless.”
“Well, to be fair, you have had a few other minor issues on your mind. Speaking of which, I hate to bring up a stressful topic, but have you decided what you’re going to tell The Beer King of Boston?”
Running her fingers through her hair as she immediately plummeted from Cloud Nine, Clara let out a weighty sigh. “Our call is scheduled for Wednesday. Just thinking about it makes me nauseous.” She paused. “It’s crazy to consider how your life can change so drastically. I think I’ve put this off long enough, Tab.”