Resurrecting Harry by Constance Phillips Page A

change is overwhelming.” His fork scraped the plate, reminding Bess of her niece. The child often picked at her food when she spun at a tale, and Bess swore she could see the wheels spinning in Erich’s head. As if every word was chosen with delicate purpose. “A death separated me from the one I loved. I was in this place where standing still just wasn’t an option anymore. Like if I didn’t change something, everything, I’d just cease to exist.”
    “So you just got on a bus with nothing and no direction?”
    “Something like that. What did you call me before? Impetuous?”
    “Maybe foolish is a better word.”
    The playful smile returned to his face. “Don’t you ever do anything spur of the moment?”
    “Not in quite some time.” Order and familiarity were two things that kept the gears moving and made going from one day to the next possible. Things that happened without warning, like the furnace breaking, threw her off balance. Those moments reminded her just how alone she was. Grief was another thing she had in common with Erich. “Sorry that you’ve lost someone you love. I know that pain too well.”
    “It was quite unexpected. And at times, more than I think my heart can take. But I try to remember the good times: the laughs, the smiles and the unexpected joys.”
    Each quality Erich mentioned stabbed at a different piece of Bess’s aching heart. How could such happy words recall such pain? She tried to think of the joy she shared with Harry, but more often than not, ended up feeling desolate and alone. Never happy. She pushed her chair away from the table and picked up her dishes, taking them to the sink. Within seconds, she could feel him behind her and smell the fresh scent of the soap from his shower. “Did I say something wrong?”
    She dropped the dishes — too far by the sound of the rattle — and started filling the sink. “No, Mr. Welch—”
    “Erich.”
    “That was Harry’s given name.” Why did I say that out loud? Because it’d been flashing in her mind like a bright, stage light since she’d heard him tell it to Will that morning.
    Harry’s parents had immigrated to the states when he was young, and neither ever lost their heavy Hungarian accents. Their native tongue caused them to focus more on the vowels than the harder sounds. So, when his mother would call him home from playing, his name came out “air-ee.”  To neighbors and friends it sounded more like Harry than Erich, and eventually that was what the entire world came to know him as.
    She didn’t have to look behind her to know Erich loomed close. A heat rolled off him and called to her. Spinning toward him, a familiar urge to slide her hand up his chest swelled inside, but this wasn’t Harry. Standing in the same room and not touching him was always an exercise in restraint, but for those same sensations to roar to life with a stranger felt sacrilegious at best.
    “It’s obvious you miss your husband very much.” The distance between them tightened as Erich stepped closer. He lifted his hand, reaching toward her.
    She braced herself for the embrace or kiss she desired. Instead, he reached behind her, turned off the water and stepped back. Her chest expanded. She wouldn’t have this conversation with Erich. Couldn’t have it with such desire clouding her thoughts. Instead she focused on the menial chore and tried to drown her lust in the dishwater. “Excuse me, it’s getting late. I’d like to finish up these dishes so I can tend to your clothes.”
    A touch grazed her shoulder, adding fuel to the fire burning inside her. “I thought we were having a nice dinner. If I said something to offend you—”
    “You didn’t.”
    “Let me help you—”
    She laughed. Even to her own ears it sounded small, like a nervous child’s. “Silly. Haven’t you done enough dishes for one day? You must be exhausted.”
    His hand fell away. Once again, an almost strangling pressure lifted from her chest. She sidled