Page 68 of Dear Henry, Love Edith
“Henry. I like that name.” She popped out of the chair. “You start on your burger and I’ll be back in a few to tell you what I think.”
By the time Henry dipped his last fry in ketchup, Phyllis was back, pulling out the chair across from him. “So it’s like this, Hank. I married the man of my dreams. He is the kindest, most hard-workingest man I’ve ever known. It was like a rainbow appeared just for me the day we got married. Guess how long we’ve known each other.”
“Long time,” Henry answered.
“You bet. Forty-five years. Now guess how long we’ve been married. Better yet, let me just tell you. Two years. That’s right, Hank. The man of my dreams was under my nose for forty-five years and it wasn’t until two years ago that I finally realized it.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
“Not really.” Henry wiped his mouth off with a napkin as Phyllis leaned forward with her elbows on the table.
“Don’t be spreading this around, Hank, but truth is, a lot of us women, why, we’re all mixed-up. Things happen in our lives and it gets us thinking things we’d be better off not thinking. And nine times out of ten it’s because of daddy issues. Does this woman of yours have daddy issues?”
“Her dad died.”
Phyllis leaned back and slapped her knee. “There you go. It’s daddy issues.”
“Well, I think there’s more to it. She and her husband had some marital problems as well.”
Phyllis’s eyebrows almost reached her hairline. “Your girl was married?”
“Her husband died too.”
“Oh, honey, it sounds like she’s got a world of hurts bottled up inside her tighter than this here ketchup bottle.”
Henry sighed. “And she’s afraid to take any more risks on love.”
“Well, of course she is. Who wouldn’t be? I sure was. I can tell you that much.”
“How’d you get past it?”
Phyllis’s face softened into a wistful smile. “By letting a man with the patience of Job show me the type of love I’d been running circles around most of my life. See, that’s the thing, Hank. This girl of yours, she’s gotta figure it out. Just like I had to figure it out. And if you really care about her, you’re just gonna have to trust that she’ll eventually get there, and then be willing to wait until she does.”
“You know something?” Henry stared into Phyllis’s droopy eyes. “I’ll bet if your husband was here right now, he’d say you were worth waiting for.”
Phyllis tipped her head back and laughed. “Let’s see if you’re right. Gary! You glad you waited all those years for me?”
A bald man poked his head out over the counter that separated the dining area from the kitchen. “Sweetheart, there’s not a day goes by where I still don’t find myself waiting for you.” He plunked two plates filled with sandwiches on the counter. “If I didn’t think you were worth it, I’d have fired you by now. Order’s up.” He threw her a wink and slapped a palm on the bell before disappearing again.
Phyllis beamed like he’d just spouted poetry at her. “I better get back to work. You want any pie?”
“Better not. I need to get going. I appreciate the advice though.”
Phyllis waved her hand in the air. “It was my pleasure. Good luck. Just remember this, Hank. No matter what that woman’s been through or what she decides to do, you show her plenty of kindness and a whole lot of patience, and she’s gonna know one thing for sure. She’s gonna know you’re the real deal. And I’ll tell you what, I ain’t ever met a woman who can resist the real deal. Why, when I was—”
“Phyllis!” The bell dinged again. “Just ’cuz you’re worth the wait doesn’t mean this pork tenderloin needs to be.”
Henry left Phyllis a hefty tip and waved goodbye.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
What was I thinking? I should know better than to write letters when I’m tired, overheated, and emotional. And I should definitely know better than to mail said letters when I’m tired, overheated, and emotional! Next time I’m feeling lonely and reflective, I’m going to do what every other self-respecting woman does. Instead of spilling my guts, I’m going to fill my guts. With ice cream. Oh, please, let it still be here. This isn’t a big town. Maybe they don’t even deliver on Saturdays.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
Edith whipped her head around. A postal worker dressed in blue, wearing a bag slung over his shoulder and more hair in his two bushy eyebrows than on the top of his head, stared at her.
