Page 31 of Dear Henry, Love Edith
Dear Henry,
I need you to find me a younger version of yourself (do you know Hobbes by any chance?) who can pretend to be my boyfriend for a little while in order to keep my dead husband’s delusional brother from coming near me. Thanks. I owe you a gallon of butter pecan for this one.
She ripped the paper into shreds. “What am I doing?” she muttered. After taking a drink of coffee that had turned cold, she tore out another sheet of paper from her notebook and leaned over it.
Dear Henry,
“Writing love letters?”
“Ah!” Edith crumpled the paper in her hand. “What are you doing here?”
Steve sat down in the chair across from her, his face pale and wan despite the cocky grin. “Getting a cup of coffee, just like you.”
Edith slammed her notebook shut. “I’m not comfortable with you being here.”
Steve held his hands up in mock surrender. “Very well.”He stood and moved to the table next to hers. Sat down. “This more comfortable for you?”
“What do you want from me, Steve?” Edith worked to keep her voice quiet, not wanting to make a scene. Especially since she recognized a number of people from the banquet last night. The Mickey Rooney look-alike waved at her from across the room whenever she glanced his way. Wasn’t he supposed to be playing golf this morning? She waved back to him. Again.
“Edith, are you listening to me? I said I need you to come home.”
Edith rubbed the headache building along her forehead. “Yes, I heard you. Now it’s time for you to listen to me. That’s not my home anymore. How many times do I have to tell you? I’ve moved on.”
“With Henry.”
“With... my life.”
“And that doesn’t include Henry?”
He was trying to trap her with her words. Brian would use the same sort of lawyer tactics on her whenever he wanted to win an argument, and it always drove her nuts. So Edith would make her words crystal clear this time—even if it was a lie.
“I am moving on with Henry. I am in love with Henry. I want to spend the rest of my life with Henry.” Oh, dear. Her voice must have risen because people everywhere were casting her wide-eyed glances. Probably confused as to why she had fallen in love with her geriatric housemate.
She ducked her head and gathered her notebook, her pens, her last shred of dignity. “You know what? I need to go.”
“Too bad,” Steve said, waving his palm toward the window. “Because your boyfriend’s just about here.”
“What?” Edith twisted, searching for the tall man with the thinning gray hair she’d glimpsed last week. She shook her head. “I don’t see him. I only see—” Her breath caught. “Oh no,” she whispered. She couldn’t tell if the weird sensation in her face was due to all the blood rushing toward it or away from it.
Hobbes. The artist formerly known as Hubba-Hubba.He limped past the windows and entered the shop, looking as intense and handsome in a T-shirt and jeans as he had last night in his tux.
And he was staring straight at her. Why was he staring straight at her? Not only that, he was walking straight toward her. Almost like a man on a mission. Why was he a man on a mission? What was the mission?
Edith stood—a feat considering how her legs wobbled. “Hi.” Before she could utter another word, he scooped her into his arms and kissed her. Soundly. On the mouth. Long enough for her to taste the mint of his toothpaste. Edith’s shoulders relaxed. She rather enjoyed the taste of his toothpaste.
A whistle and a few catcalls sounded.Oh, my goodness.Edith broke the kiss, ducking her head as a light spattering of applause echoed throughout the coffee shop. What had gotten into her? What had gotten intohim? She lifted her gaze.
“Hi,” he said, his eyes crinkling around the edges, first with wariness as if gauging her reaction, then with amusement, her stunned reaction fully gauged.
Steve cleared his throat and Edith jumped. She’d forgottenhe was there. Hobbes turned toward Steve, keeping Edith tucked against his side with one arm, while reaching out with the other. “Henry. Don’t believe I caught your name.”
Henry?Why was he pretending to be Henry? Edith forced herself to take slow, even breaths.
Steve stood, his chair scraping against the wood floor. “Steve Sherman.” He grasped Henry’s hand and squeezed, his grip appearing as tight as the clenching of his jaw.
“Nice to meet you,” Hobbes said, dropping Steve’s hand and tugging Edith closer, “but I should probably get Edith home. She’s worked all night. I’m sure she’s ready to get some rest.” He flashed Edith a confident smile. The one she returned felt tremulous at best.
“Ready?”
