Debbie Macomber Read Free Page B

the place mat.
    â€œHow’s that nice Dr. Snellgrove?” Rosalie asked, shakily lifting a spoonful of soup to her mouth. She helped herself to crackers from the box and crumbled them in her bowl, one cracker at a time.
    â€œI like him.”
    â€œI do, too. Did he give you another prescription?”
    Harry shook his head. As it was, the visiting nurse, who stopped by the house every second day, had to use a chart to keep his medications straight.
    â€œYou’re going to be fine, aren’t you?” his wife asked.
    Harry saw that her face had tightened with fear. “Of course I am. It’s…it’s just a matter of getting the proper rest.”
    She instantly relaxed. “Good. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
    Harry didn’t, either. He sighed. Perhaps he should take this opportunity to introduce the subject—again. “I was thinking that the upkeep on the house is too much for me.” Harry felt that if he described the idea of moving to assisted living as something he needed, he might have a better chance of convincing her.
    Rosalie ignored the comment. Although her face had wrinkled with age, Harry saw her as he had that first time, sixty-six years ago. She’d worked at the lunch counter at a Woolworth’s store in Seattle. Harry had gone over from Yakima to take a short training course, shortly after he’d gotten an underwriting position with the insurance company. He’d worked for the same company for more than forty years.
    It had been his first trip to the big city, and the crowds and noise had overwhelmed him. A friend had suggested they stop at the lunch counter for a bite to eat. One look at Rosalie, and he was completely smitten. Until then, he would’ve scoffed at the very thought of love at first sight. He never did again. One look and he’d fallen head over heels for his beautiful Rosalie.
    â€œHarry?”
    He blinked, surprised at the way he’d become immersed in his memories.
    â€œYou’re finished your lunch?” she asked.
    â€œYes,” he murmured. “I’m not very hungry.” She didn’t seem to be eating much herself, he noticed.
    â€œI’ll fix you something later,” Rosalie suggested.
    â€œThat would be good.” He lingered at the table. “Dr. Snellgrove wants me to use my walker.”
    Rosalie pinched her lips together. “Haven’t I been saying the same thing? If you fall down again, I won’t be able to help you up, sweetheart.”
    This was a problem. A week ago, he’d fallen and, struggle as he might, he couldn’t get back on his feet. Rosalie had tried to help and soon they were both exhausted. As a last resort, she’d phoned the fire station. They’d sent out an entire crew, embarrassing Harry no end, although the firefighters couldn’t have been nicer. He purposely hadn’t mentioned the incident to Dr. Snellgrove. No reason to. He was fine, a bit chagrined, but no worse for wear.
    With careful movements, Harry shuffled into the family room and settled down in front of the television. Rosalie carried their soup bowls to the sink and after rinsing them out, sat in her own chair, beside his.
    â€œ Oprah will be on soon,” she informed him.
    This was her way of letting him know she’d be watching the talk show. Rosie liked Oprah and Dr. Phil, and while she’d grown forgetful in some areas, she had no trouble remembering when her favorite shows were on. Harry hated to admit it, but he’d come to enjoy them, too. The complete lack of common sense exhibited by some of the folks on those programs continued to astonish him, and he was always heartened by the occasional portrayals of heroism.
    â€œWe might think about visiting Liberty Orchard one of these days,” he said, reclining in his chair. He reached for the afghan Rosalie had knit him years earlier and spread it on his lap. The cold never seemed to