Page 7 of Dear Henry, Love Edith
The waitress stood next to her booth, a hamburger basket in her hands and an uneasy expression on her face. “Your airway’s closing up, isn’t it?”
Edith retrieved her spoon and released an embarrassed laugh. “Was I thinking out loud?” She’d been known to do that on occasion.
“Not exactly.” The waitress set the hamburger basket in front of Edith. “But your lips were moving and you were making all sorts of scrunchy faces.”
Edith shrugged, the embarrassment radiating off her cheeks enough to char the hamburger. “Just gathering wool, as they say.”
The waitress pulled a bottle of ketchup from her apron pocket and plopped it next to the basket. “Anything else I can get you?”
“No. Well, actually, Miss...?”
“Gabby.” The young waitress pointed to her name tag.
“Gabby. Cute. Say, Gabby, any chance you know the man who just left? The one who—”
“Almost died? Yeah. A little bit. I mean, not really. I don’t know his name or anything. Me and my family just moved here a few months ago. This is only my first day working here. He lives in our neighborhood, but no, I don’t know him.” She buried her hands in her apron pockets with a shrug.
“That’s fine. No worries. Just curious. Thanks.”See?Nobody even knows who he is. If that’s not a sign to forget about him, then I don’t know what is. Best just eat your burger and get on with your business. So what if he looks like Paul Newman? Tons of people probably look like Paul Newman. But you’re not sitting here, thinking about them, are you?
Edith froze with a fry halfway to her mouth as she realized Gabby hadn’t stepped away from her table.
“Gathering more wool again, ma’am?”
CHAPTER THREE
“Well, Henry, you sure did a number this time, didn’t you?”
Sweat drizzled down Henry’s forehead as he tried focusing on Frank Sinatra’s voice crooning “You Make Me Feel So Young” from speakers perched above a row of empty treadmills soon to be filled with Westshire’s Spicy Citizens Club, formerly known as Westshire’s Seasoned Citizens Club, formerly known as Westshire’s Seventy-plus Citizens Club, previously known as Westshire’s Senior Citizens Club.
Whatever name they were going by these days, Henry guaranteed they felt younger than he did.
Henry grimaced at Lance, his physical therapist and drill sergeant and yeah, might as well say it, new best friend, considering the amount of time they’d spent together these past several weeks talking about every topic under the sun. Henrylearned early on, when it came to rehabilitating his knee, it was either talk or cry. Today might be cry. “Is it as bad as I think it is?”
“Nah.” Lance lifted Henry’s leg into another stretch and nodded in greeting to a gray-haired gentleman wearing a blue T-shirt withWestshire SCCemblazoned across the front. The man returned Lance’s greeting with a raised coffee mug, never breaking his stride to the treadmills.
“A few dozen more exercises today,” Lance said, returning his focus to Henry, “a few extra sessions this week, at least one month of hard, grueling therapy tacked on at the end...”
“Is that all? Here I was afraid I may have set myself back.”
Lance finished the stretch, then stood and snapped a resistance band at Henry. “You did set yourself back. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re not in high school anymore. You’re practically middle-aged.”
“I’m three years older than you. Remind me again what the average life expectancy is these days?”
“Remind me again what possessed you to participate in a full tackle scrimmage football game?”
“It was the alumni match. Nobody else from my graduating class could make it. I had to... you know...”Redeem myselfsounded pretty pathetic, no matter how true. “Represent.”
“Well, how about next time you stick to representing the marching band, like me.” Lance folded his arms across his chest and motioned his head toward the crew assembling around the treadmills. “’Cuz now you’re going to be sporting a limp the rest of your life that represents your teammates’ granddads.”
Henry grunted. Lance might have a point. Not the marching band bit. He’d take walking with a limp over wearing ahat with a plume any day. He finished his last repetition of leg exercises on the floor mat before leaning up on one elbow. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, as long as it’s not ‘Am I done yet?’”
“What do you think of Goldie Hawn?”
“Goldie Hawn.” Lance frowned, stretching the resistance band between his hands. “To tell the truth, she always sort of rubbed me the wrong way.”
Henry lowered himself onto a recumbent bike and began to slowly pedal. “Really? I’ve always kind of had a thing for her myself.”
