Page 11 of Dear Henry, Love Edith
PS—I couldn’t resist a quick pit stop to the grocery store today. I put some butter pecan ice cream in the freezer. Help yourself.
Henry set the note down on the kitchen island before sinking onto a stool and massaging his temples. The past few hours had left him with a dull steady headache. He’d spent the better part of the day finagling business negotiations with the local historical society on projects Henry thought were already locked. Or at least they were when his brother Nick ran the company. Now that Henry was in charge, it seemed the president of the historical society had all sorts of concerns.
Henry shoved back from the island. Maybe he was reading too much into it. Maybe the president was just being thorough.
His phone chimed on the counter. Shoot. Probably Angela again. He’d meant to call her back before he left the office. Henry’s knee flared with pain as he maneuvered off the stool. He’d call her in a minute.
First, ice. He opened the freezer, intending to grab the bag of frozen peas dedicated solely to his knee, when his eyes landed on the carton of butter pecan ice cream.
Not his first choice when it came to ice cream. Probably not even top ten. But considering her age, he should be grateful Edith hadn’t picked up orange sherbet. That had been his grandma’s favorite.
He yanked the carton out, retrieved a spoon, then settled back on the stool, knee forgotten for the moment, and glanced at Edith’s note. His lips tipped up in a small smile, rereading her words. Sometimes she sounded more like Kat than his grandma.
Despite her abysmal ice cream decision-making skills, Henry couldn’t help enjoying Edith’s presence. For some reason, it offered a small taste of his childhood again. Back before he messed everything up.
Henry scooped a small bite into his mouth, letting the creamy, nutty taste melt on his tongue as he angled his head to the side. Okay, so maybe not the worst. Maybe top ten potential.
Henry shoved another spoonful in his mouth and stared at his phone. He should really give Angela a call. His eyes closed as the headache that had receded to a whisper threatened to come back with a vengeance. It wasn’t so much he didn’t feel like talking; it was more about the type of conversation he didn’t feel like having.
He dug his spoon into the carton. He’d call Angela later. First, he had a letter to write.
Edith bit her lower lip as she turned the key in the front door. In the silence of the night, the gentle click sounded more like a gunshot. She clasped the door shut and removed her shoes to soften her footsteps, stifling a giggle as she realized she was behaving like a teenager who’d broken curfew.
As promised, Henry had left the front porch light on. She smiled, thinking of his worry over her climbing some rickety steps. If he only knew the living accommodations she was going to have once she made it to South Africa.“I hope you don’t mind lots of mud. Oh yes, and frogs, spiders, cockroaches, and the occasional snake.”
Resting against the door, Edith recalled Kaya’s cheery warning, followed by her own quick response.“Don’t mind at all. Nope, not a bit.”
At least not the mud. She’d worry later about whether she minded frogs, spiders, cockroaches, or the occasional snake.
Edith palmed her stomach. She’d only seen pictures of the remote village online, but those images never ceased to set off butterflies. The same flutter she used to get when she trained for marathons and knew race day was growing closer and closer—a steady flow of nervous excitement mixed in with several drops of self-doubt. Although this time, the proportions felt reversed.
What if, after years of dreaming about living a grand adventure overseas, she didn’t actually have what it took?What if instead of staying for three years like she hoped, she ran home after three days because of a bunch of spiders?
Stop.Edith straightened from the door. Of course she had what it took. She was her great-great-aunt Edith’s namesake, wasn’t she? The same call to adventure that had buzzed through Edith Genevieve McClintock’s blood decades ago now hummed through her own veins, didn’t it?Yes.
With a new resolve in her step, Edith took to the stairs, pausing halfway to the second floor. Maybe the butterflies in her stomach would feel better if she fed them.
After visiting the crisis nursery house and dropping ice cream off at Henry’s house, she’d wandered around town the remainder of the afternoon, checking out a few of the shops, then catching a double feature at the theater. But she never did eat supper. She ate a tub of popcorn at the movies—starting tomorrow she really was going to get back to eating healthier—but popcorn didn’t count for supper. Everybody knew that. Especially the butterflies in her stomach.
And if she was going to start eating healthier tomorrow, she should probably take advantage of the butter pecan ice cream tonight.
Edith padded back down the stairs and to the kitchen. A night-light over the counter revealed another note on the kitchen island.
Aww. Sweet Henry.She grabbed the note and tucked it into the back pocket of her jean shorts, then opened the freezer door and pulled out the ice cream. “Or should I say, Sweet Tooth Henry?” she said, gaping into the mostly empty carton.
Back upstairs in her room, ready for bed, Edith settled under the covers and unfolded Henry’s note. She couldn’t say why, but she looked forward to reading it as much as she would a favorite novel. What would he have to say—other than confessing a serious addiction to butter pecan ice cream?
Dear Edith,
So you love, love, love Paul Newman, huh? Good to know. More than a few of the older women at my church have commented that my baby blues put them in mind of the late great actor. Should our paths finally cross in this house of mine, I’ll be prepared to catch you when you swoon.
Speaking of hubba-hubba, I think I’m in love with this ice cream. Who knew butter pecan was this great? The next gallon is on me, Edith.
“Darn right it is, buster,” Edith muttered with a smile.
So I hear you’re doing some traveling? Good for you. It’s never too late to chase after a bit of adventure. Even if that guy’s eyes are as pretty as mine or Paul Newman’s (which hardly seems possible), don’t let him stand between you and this opportunity. If that guy had half a brain, he’d beg to go with you!
Kat mentioned you’re a widow. I’m sorry for your loss. If you don’t mind me asking, how long were youand your husband married? How did you meet? Do you have children? My mother would tell me to mind my own business, and she would be right. So if I’m nosing into things I shouldn’t, just tell me to buzz off. I’ll understand. I might cry for a while, but I’ll understand.
