CHAPTER THIRTY

“No?” Edith’s arms and shoulders turned rigid as she pressed away from him. “What do you mean, no?”

“We can’t get married. Not like this. It wouldn’t be right. This whole thing isn’t right. I’ll call the newspaper, tell them to issue a retraction of some sort. Or I don’t know, call a town hall meeting. Something.” He would fix this. Somehow.

“It’s too late. Don’t you get it? It’s too late.” Edith placed her palms against her cheeks. With eyes growing wider and wilder by the second, she put Henry in mind of that painting The Scream. “Sharon’s counting on us, Henry. The whole town—” she let out a hysterical giggle—“maybe even the entire nation. It’s too late to go back.”

“What are you talking about?”

Henry listened as Edith gave a rambling description of her phone call with Sharon. “But we cannot do any interviews. That is the one thing I refuse to do. I’ll pay for the whole stinking wedding myself. Last time I ever spoke live to a crowd was over the intercom in junior high for morning announcements, and it did not go well, Henry. It did not go well.”

Pulling her back into his arms, he cradled her head against his shoulder. His intent worked. She stopped talking, allowing him a moment to think.

So okay. Things had escalated even further than he’d thought. A lot further.

“Henry?” Her muffled voice spoke against his shoulder.

“Shhhh . . .” He patted her head.

What options did they have? Tell the truth obviously. Which would mean disappointment, embarrassment, humiliation—basically all the things he’d worked hard to bounce back from ever since high school.

Or option two. Stay engaged. Get married. Then eventually divorced once Edith realized how much she resented him for standing in the way of her dreams. Ouch.

“Edith?” He loosened his hold on her enough to lean back. A crease from his shirt had left an indentation on her cheek. Maybe he’d been holding a little too tight. “What’s in it for you if we go through with this? I mean, besides not disappointing anybody. Aren’t you supposed to leave for South Africa any day now? That’s been your dream all summer. Why would you throw it away now?”

“Who says I’m throwing it away?”

Henry’s eyebrows dipped. “So you think we can just keep on pretending we’re engaged while you run off for the next couple of years? Am I supposed to tell people it’s a really long engagement or . . . ?”

“No. I’m not saying that. I’m saying maybe my dream just gets postponed for a little bit. I still go, I just go later.”

“Like after we’re married? ‘Hey guys, we’re back from the honeymoon. Now my wife’s leaving the country. Oh no, I’m staying here. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.’”

“No. Not . . . I don’t know. I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

“The same way we’ll figure it out if you get pregnant?”

“Wow.” A blush spread up Edith’s cheeks. “Jumping a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?”

“Well, it’s possible.”

“Is it? I’m not so sure. Brian and I weren’t exactly trying to prevent it during our marriage and it sure never happened for us.” She shrugged uncomfortably. “Besides, we’re not exactly spring chickens, you and me.”

“What, thirty and thirty-two?” Henry slid his hands around Edith’s waist and tugged her closer. “Pretty sure that falls under the spring chicken category in this town. Even if it doesn’t, we’re going to be going at it like a couple of spring rabbits once we’re married.”

Edith smacked Henry against the chest. “Real classy.”

He chuckled and let her escape his grip. “I’m just saying it’s possible, okay? It’s something we need to consider. Something you need to consider.”

A breeze ruffled the curtains and an outdoor wind chime plunked a hollow tune as Edith moved to the living room window. The morning sun cast a honey glow, making strands of her hair appear even blonder than usual.

It reminded him of the first moment he laid eyes on her. A dizzy feeling of breathless wonder. And that was before he had even started choking.

Now it still felt like he was choking. Only this time on all the words he wanted to say. He wanted her to stay. He wanted to tell her he loved her. But he didn’t want her to live the rest of her life with regret either. If this town hadn’t been enough for Maggie, why should it be enough for Edith? Why should he be enough for Edith?

She wanted to get married out of fear of disappointing the people of this town. He didn’t want to get married out of fear of disappointing her.

He might not have known Edith long, but he knew her well. She would stand by his side to the bitter end if she thought it would keep the peace. Even if it meant killing her own dreams in the process. She’d done it before, hadn’t she? With her first husband.

Henry wasn’t about to let her do it again with him.

He pressed his lips together, the unspoken words squeezing his throat tighter than any noose. As Edith stared out the front window, probably searching for answers of her own, he stared at her, already knowing what needed to be done.

He was getting that woman on a plane to South Africa no matter what. He might lose a piece of his heart when she left, but better than losing a piece of his soul. This time he was doing the right thing. Letting Edith move on to live the adventure she’d always dreamed of, that was the right thing.

He knew it. She knew it.

He crossed the room. If this was to be the end of them, he wasn’t saying goodbye without making it memorable. He’d sweep her into his arms and dip her back like that black-and-white World War II picture of the soldier and nurse. This kiss would be one for the ages.

Before he made it to her, Edith spun from the window and grabbed him by the shirt. Maybe she had the same idea. “There’s people outside. And one of them has a video camera.”

Or not. “What?”

“A video camera, Henry. A video camera.”

“I heard you.”

“What do we do?”

The landline in the kitchen began ringing. “Um . . .” Henry backpedaled out of the living room. Honestly he didn’t know what to do. “Let me see who that is. Just . . .” He pointed toward the front of the house. “I don’t know. Tell them to hold tight if they come to the door.”

Seeing on the caller ID that it was Peg—and not USA Today—Henry breathed a sigh of relief. “Hey, Peg.”

“Henry, where are you?”

“Sorry. Some things have come up this morning and I’m running late. Is everything okay?”

Peg released a throaty chuckle into the phone. “Yeah, you could say that. Charles Henderson just called. He said he happens to be in the area and would like to meet with you. He didn’t mention it, but I’ve got a feeling he may have been influenced by that front-page article plastered all over the region. Nice shiner by the way.”

“Thanks,” Henry said, racking his brain for the name Charles Henderson. Charles Henderson. Charles Henderson. Was he supposed to know Charles Henderson?

Able to read him over the phone just as easily as she could in person, Peg let out an exasperated sigh. “Charles Henderson, Henry. Multimillionaire. Philanthropist. Halfway houses. Does any of this ring a bell?”

It was ringing a bell. So were the people at the front door.

“He wants to start a halfway house here?”

“He’s the one behind that giant grant I applied for. Remember? I must’ve told you a dozen times.” She huffed out a frustrated sigh. “Just get down here. He’s on his way now.”

“O-okay.” Henry heard foot traffic in the front entryway along with a cacophony of voices. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“Now, Henry. He’s not the type of man you keep waiting. Oh, and, Henry?”

“Yeah?”

“No pressure or anything, but for the love of all that’s holy, don’t screw this one up.”

Peg disconnected the call just as Edith flung herself around the corner, barreling into Henry’s chest with eyes full of panic.

“It’s a news station from the Quad Cities. They said Sharon promised them an interview. Did you hear me? They want to interview us. Live. Now. What do we do?”

Henry shrugged and rubbed his hand along his neck. “Tell them we can’t. Or at least I can’t. I have to get down to the office.”

“What? Now? Are you kidding me?”

“Sorry to intrude.” A young woman with a short blonde bob and a megawatt smile that said she was anything but sorry stepped into the kitchen. “But we should get you onto the couch and ready. I think the lighting will work best there.” Raising two perfectly groomed eyebrows when nobody moved, she said, “I’m sorry. Is there a problem? I’m Emily Goodbar, reporter for KWQP TV 8 news.”

“I know who you are.” Henry cleared his throat. “And yes, there is a problem. Neither of us agreed to an interview. And even if we had, now is not a good time.”

“Oh, I see. Perhaps if we added a little makeup, you might feel more comfortable.”

“Huh?”

“Your eye. It is rather disconcerting, isn’t it? All that swelling and bruising. How about if we—?”

“The problem isn’t my eye. The problem is I need to go.”

“Emily, we’re gonna be on in five minutes,” a voice shouted from the living room.

“I’m aware,” Emily replied tersely, glancing at her watch. “Look, we’ll keep it short and sweet. We’ll be done and out of here in no time.”

“I already told you we are not doing an interview. Not now, not ever.” That might not have been what he said before, but this lady was starting to annoy him.

“Henry.” Edith ran a palm up and down his arm, ever the peacemaker. “You might be able to do an interview at some point, right? Maybe in the afternoon?” Edith flashed a placating smile toward Henry followed by an apologetic one to the reporter. “How about if you came back later? Maybe tomorrow. Would that work?”

“I’m not sure you guys really understand the concept of how a live story works.”

“Edith, I’m sorry.” Henry unlocked the iron grip she had clamped on his wrist. “But I really do have to leave.”

“You know what?” The reporter waved Henry away. “It’s fine.” She turned the full force of her smile toward Edith, appearing much like a crocodile facing a live chicken, and grabbed on to her arms. “We’ll just do the interview with you.”

Edith backed into the refrigerator. “What? No. I can’t. I’ll start sneezing and—”

“Two minutes!” the cameraman shouted.

“Coming,” Emily responded.

“Henry,” Edith pleaded.

“I’m sorry.” Henry watched Emily drag Edith around the corner into the living room.

He should stay. Edith needed him.

He had to go. Peg was counting on him.

Looking at his watch, knowing he didn’t have time to waver any longer, he stepped through the door—hesitating just long enough to hear a voice start to count down—then closed it behind him.