Seated at a table for two in the corner of the Mayflower Café, a casual coffee shop which Lincoln stopped by most mornings on his way to work—located just a few blocks away from the Field Museum—Clara finished her apple juice and smiled at him. Though she’d protested, Lincoln had also insisted on buying her an enormous red velvet cupcake, a bottle of water, and, of course, a steaming hot cup of coffee to help warm her up. “Honestly, I feel much better now. All I needed was a little sugar,” she said, pressing her hand to her forehead and shaking her head in a gesture of embarrassment. “I feel like such an idiot.” “There’s no need. I’m telling you, I make women faint all the time. Almost daily, in fact,” Lincoln added, clearly trying to set her at ease. “I’ve been contemplating keeping a tab. I think it may have something to do with the fact that I look like George Clooney.” Clara let out a little chuckle. Lincoln had always been able to make her laugh.
