Free Marriage Seasons 03 - Falling for You Again by Gary Chapman, Catherine Palmer Page B

around in there to clean them out,” she fretted. “I’m not sure I’ll agree to that. Why do you suppose I have plaque and you don’t? We’ve been eating the same meals all these years.”
    “Probably walking my mail route kept the blood pumping.”
    “As if I didn’t walk just as much as you—running after those two kids, doing my chores, cooking three meals a day. And in case you’ve forgotten, I used to mow the lawn too.”
    “How could I forget a sight like that? You in your pedal pushers with those shapely legs. When I knew you’d be outside mowing, I used to try to get home from work early.”
    “Did you really?”
    “Sure.” He glanced over at her. “I liked the red pants with the polka dots. You were as cute as a bug’s ear.”
    “I cannot believe you remember those crazy pants, Charlie.”
    “They’re burned into my memory.”
    She giggled. “Do you still think I’m cute? Sometimes I feel like I’m nothing but an old wrinkled sack. My curves have gone flat. My hips keep spreading. My neck looks like a turkey wattle.”
    “Don’t forget your plaque.”
    “Oh, Charlie, stop teasing me!” She gave him a playful swat. “I used to think I was kind of pretty. Some people even called me beautiful.”
    She sat back to wait for him to make one of his usual sweetly flattering remarks. Instead of responding, Charlie frowned and adjusted the sun visor. Esther waited a little longer for him to speak up, but he said nothing.
    “Is any of my beauty left?” she asked finally. “Do you still find me attractive, Charlie? In a sweetheart kind of way?”
    Charlie fell silent for so long that Esther decided he must be figuring out how to tell her the truth—her looks were gone, her mind was fading, and even her arteries were clogging up. Well, so what if he did think that? Charlie Moore was no Prince Charming himself. He pooched out around the middle, and he couldn’t see the end of his own nose without those trifocals. What once had been a head of hair to rival Elvis Presley’s pompadour was now a scattering of straight white wisps.
    Just when she’d given up on him answering her question, he spoke. “You know, Esther, a name came to mind the other day, and for the life of me, I can’t place it.” He looked at her. “George Snyder. Does that ring a bell?”
    Esther’s hand tightened on her purse strap. “I haven’t heard that name in years. What on earth made you think of George Snyder?”
    “So you do remember him?”
    “Somewhere back in the past. But you never answered my question, Charlie.”
    “What did you ask?”
    “If you thought I was still attractive.”
    “Of course you are.”
    He sounded awfully grumpy for someone paying a compliment. Esther couldn’t imagine what had unearthed Charlie’s memory of George Snyder. She had filed away that era of her life a long time ago.
    “What’s wrong with you, Mr. Grouch?” she asked. “Are you getting sleepy? The last thing we need is another car accident.”
    “I’m not sleepy. I’m just wondering when we knew this George Snyder fellow.”
    “You always insist you’re not sleepy, but you are. We both missed our after-lunch nap today, and I can tell you’re getting drowsy. You’d better let me drive, Charlie.”
    “I’m fine.”
    “No, you’re not. Pull over to that rest area up ahead. Let’s swap places.”
    “Oh, for pete’s sake.”
    “Don’t argue with me, Charlie. I saw your eyelids drooping way back there in Buffalo. We’ve got a half hour to go till Camdenton and then another twenty minutes to Deepwater Cove. I insist on taking the wheel.”
    “It’s getting dark, Esther.”
    “Which is exactly why I should be driving.”
    “If you hadn’t frittered away so much time choosing Christmas cards, we’d be home by now. Did you have to read the inscription on every single box, Esther?”
    “Pull over right this minute, Charles Moore, and I mean it. You are tired and hungry and irritable, and I’m not riding