Hannah's List (17 page)

“Oh, Harvey. I told you—we’re just friends.” Even that was a stretch, but she didn’t want Harvey questioning why she’d invite a man she didn’t like.

“Nope, I know the signs. You think I lived this long
without kicking up my heels once in a while? I was quite the ladies’ man in my younger days.”

Smiling, Macy plucked a blade of grass. “I bet you were.”

“Don’t you get discouraged now, you hear me?”

“I’m not discouraged.”

“Good. This doctor has the hots for you.”

“The
hots?
” Macy laughed out loud. “Wait till you meet him. Then you’ll see for yourself how wrong you are.”

“Wanna bet? He sounds like exactly the right kind of man for you.”

“We’d make a terrible couple. He’s so…stuffy.”

“Then he needs you.” He turned and glared at her. “And you need him.”

Macy shook her head. Even if she was attracted to Michael—and she wasn’t admitting that at all—they were completely unsuited. Total opposites.

Just to take one example, she liked to hum and he liked to frown.

I
stopped at a wine “boutique” and picked up a bottle of champagne for dinner with Leanne. She’d be making either crispy pork chops or, more likely, something Italian. I was wandering around the store, trying to decide if I should bring red or white wine. The clerk, who came around the counter to offer assistance, suggested champagne.

“It isn’t just for weddings, you know,” he told me. “Champagne goes with everything.” He recommended Drappier. I’d never heard of the brand, but I took him at his word and purchased the bottle.

When I arrived at Leanne’s I was glad I’d gone to the trouble of buying something out of the ordinary. The aroma coming from her kitchen was delectable, and I sniffed appreciatively.

“I’m making an Italian dish,” Leanne said as she led me into her apartment, “but my family background is Ger
man. My great-grandmother came through Ellis Island in the late 1890s. Apparently, she was a wonderful cook.”

I was grateful for a homemade meal, especially after my excellent dinner with Winter. I’d forgotten how good it was to eat something that didn’t come from the freezer or out of a can. And any meal I didn’t have to fuss with was a major improvement over my own haphazard dinners.

“My grandmother used to make a pot roast every Saturday,” Leanne said. “She baked it in the oven with different vegetables and then parceled out the leftovers to whoever came for the meal. That sometimes meant a dozen people.”

“That many?”

She smiled. “Always. Grandma never learned to cook for two. She made enough to feed a family of ten her whole life. No one complained—except Grandpa, who peeled the potatoes.”

“Well, I may not be doing anything as useful as peeling potatoes, but I did bring this.” I set the cold bottle of champagne on the kitchen counter.

“Thank you,” Leanne said with another smile. She motioned toward the stove. “I hope you like lasagna.”

“Sure do.”

“I prepared it yesterday afternoon, so all I had to do was put it in the oven once I got home from work.”

She moved to the cupboard and took down two wineglasses. “I apologize, but I don’t have champagne flutes.”

“These will do just as well.” I tried to sound knowledgeable, as if I often served high-quality champagne and other wines. Actually, I’d gotten quite an education that afternoon and was intrigued by the number of wines available from every corner of the world. I’d return to that store, I decided. It was time I took an interest in something other than medicine.

While Leanne washed and dried the glasses, I removed the foil and the wire casing. I turned my back, thankful for the clerk’s advice on how to remove the cork, which came out with a festive
pop.
I figured that made me look like an expert. If I’d been with Ritchie, I would’ve lifted the bottle high and demanded extravagant praise. But because I was playing the role of sophisticate, I acted as though this accomplishment was par for the course.

Speaking of Ritchie…I’d made the mistake of mentioning dinner with Leanne at the gym that morning. Naturally, my brother-in-law felt obliged to give me a list of
dos
and
don’ts.
This dinner was a much bigger deal than our first date. Tonight I’d been invited to Leanne’s home and she was cooking for me.

According to Ritchie—when did
he
become so knowledgeable about dating etiquette?—this was a significant gesture on Leanne’s part. In his view, making me dinner was a clear sign that she was willing to move forward with the relationship. I wasn’t sure, despite Ritchie’s insistence that I take her invitation seriously.

I poured us each a glass of Drappier and we sat down in her small living room. She had appetizer plates out with
olives and roasted red peppers and two kinds of cheese. I leaned forward and speared an olive.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I didn’t arrange this dinner for the weekend,” she said, “since that’s when I originally invited you.”

I hadn’t given it much thought; I’d surmised that she had other plans. Monday worked fine for me—regardless of Macy’s assumptions. Like I said earlier, I didn’t have what you’d call a busy social calendar.

“My mother-in-law phoned to tell me they were planning to visit Mark this weekend and that she’d get in touch with me while she was in town.”

I didn’t know if that required a response or not.

Leanne stared down at her champagne. “I…I didn’t want her to call—or worse, drop by—in the middle of our dinner.”

“I understand.” It would’ve been awkward for us both. “Did she contact you?”

Leanne nodded. “She phoned me early Sunday evening.”

Just about the time we would’ve been sitting down to eat.

“Muriel was terribly upset. Apparently, Mark’s accepted a job that’ll take him to Afghanistan.”

“He joined the military?”

“No, this is a company the army’s contracted with. Mark was rather vague on the details. All he’d tell his family is that the money will enable him to pay back what he…took and help with the fines. His sister tries to contribute, but she’s having financial troubles of her own.”

I could see the worry etched on her face. It was more than obvious that she still had feelings for her ex-husband.

“He didn’t want his mother to tell anyone, especially his sister and me, but she refused to make that promise.”

“You’re very concerned, aren’t you?”

She lowered her head, and I noticed the way her hand tightened around the stem of her glass. “Yes. Muriel doesn’t really know what Mark will be doing there, but we both suspect it doesn’t have anything to do with accounting.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, hoping I sounded sympathetic. Discussing her ex-husband was uncomfortable, but I wasn’t opposed to it. If she brought up the subject of Mark, then I could introduce Hannah into the conversation, too. That degree of honesty would probably be good for both of us.

The oven timer went off and Leanne leaped to her feet as if she welcomed the intrusion.

I stood, too. “Do you need any help?”

“No, but thanks.” She was away for a short while. When she returned, she reached for her glass and sat back down. “The lasagna will have to wait for a few minutes. We’re also having a salad.”

I nodded. “Hannah used to love cooking, too,” I said, and remembered the wonderful meals my wife had put together. She always felt it was important for me to follow a regular eating schedule, even during my residency, when the hours were crazy and days melded into one another until time lost all meaning. Often I had no idea what day of the week it was. Hannah brought meals to me at the hospital and cooked for the other residents, too. Everyone loved her. How could they not?

“This recipe is one I got from her.”

“From Hannah,” I breathed, abruptly drawn away from my musings.

“We were talking about our favorite dishes and she told me about this one. The next day, she handed me the recipe.”

I was touched that Leanne had made it for me. At an earlier stage of my grief I might have found that presumptuous—or distressing. Now it warmed me with memories of Hannah and with gratitude toward Leanne.

While I ate another olive, Leanne set the salad bowl on the table. I rejoined her in the kitchen and we sat down at the small dinette table together.

She’d gone to considerable effort to make this meal as pleasant as possible. The salad, which included several leafy greens, was full of green peppers, red onions and radishes, plus pine nuts and goat cheese. The poppy-seed dressing tasted homemade.

“Another of Hannah’s recipes?” I asked as I poured a small amount over the salad.

Leanne shook her head. “This one comes from my mother.”

I licked some dressing off the end of my finger. “It’s delicious.”

“Thanks.”

All at once we seemed to run out of things to say. Potential topics raced through my mind. If I was more interested in baseball, I could’ve discussed the Mariners, who’d played on both Saturday and Sunday. I couldn’t recall who’d won either game, although Ritchie had gone on about it for several minutes that morning.

“Do you like baseball?” I asked, a bit desperately.

She looked up as if the question had startled her. “No, sorry. Do you?”

“Not really.” We both fell silent.

“Most women seem to enjoy cooking,” I said, trying again. “Hannah’s cousin—” I stopped abruptly, realizing I’d sounded like an idiot. It wasn’t a good idea to mention that Winter had made me dinner the week before.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

One of Ritchie’s cardinal rules of dating was not to talk about other women. It wasn’t as though I considered Winter a real
date,
though. I was glad I hadn’t said anything about her cooking for me to my brother-in-law. The less he knew the better.

Leanne seemed to be all out of conversation, too.

“Would you like more champagne?” I asked, eager for something to do.

“Yes, please.”

We both stood at the same time. She opened the refrigerator and retrieved the champagne bottle and I refilled our glasses. While she was up, Leanne brought the casserole dish to the table, along with a loaf of warm, crisp bread.

We sat down again, and the silence seemed to yawn between us.

“How are things at the clinic?” she finally asked.

“I’m having a mural painted,” I said. It was the first thought that came to mind.

I almost blurted out that the woman doing it was
someone on Hannah’s list. But that would’ve been even stupider than talking about Winter.

“Who’s painting it?” Leanne asked. She seemed genuinely interested.

“Her name’s Macy Roth. She’s done several murals for businesses in the area.” I described the jungle scene, with its baby animals and multicolored parrots. “Macy’s quite a character. She doesn’t have a normal nine-to-five job, which is no doubt for the best because she’d drive any employer insane.”

“Why’s that?”

“Where do you want me to start?” I leaned back in my chair and realized I was smiling. “To begin with, she’s constantly late.” Now, that was a bit unfair. Macy had been late for our first meeting, but she’d made a point of letting me know she’d been on time ever since, as if this was some impressive achievement.

“She seems to have a houseful of cats and dogs,” I elaborated, “and she gives them ridiculous names.”

“Such as?”

“Puffball—I think. And Sammy.”

“That’s not outlandish at all.”

“Maybe not, but she refers to them as though they’re human. I thought Sammy was her neighbor, only her neighbor is Harvey, who’s in his eighties and going through his second childhood. That’s in his own words, apparently.” In my opinion, the two of them, Macy and Harvey, would be perfect together because Macy acted like a kid, too.

“I guess she’s an eccentric artist type.”

“
Eccentric
fits her to a tee.” Or, as my father would say, her elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top. He has dozens of expressions like that, and I smiled, remembering his sense of humor.

“She sounds like a lot of fun.”

That was why Hannah had put Macy on her list. My loving, patient wife had viewed Macy as fun. I, on the other hand, saw her as a screwball. A flake. I didn’t typically know people like that.

“How long is it going to take her to finish the mural?”

I shrugged. “A couple of weeks, or so she claims.” I paused. “Did I mention that she hums while she works?” In all honesty, her humming wasn’t nearly as irritating as I’d implied. Besides,
Les Misérables
is one of my favorite musicals. I’d recognized “Master of the House” immediately.

Leanne seemed to find that amusing.

“Show tunes,” I went on. “She says she’s not aware of doing it, which is laughable. Then, before I can stop myself, I’m humming, too, and I have no musical ability whatsoever. Plus I have to listen to my staff joining in.”

“I knew someone like Macy once. A nurse. Her name was Gayle and she was always singing. She’d also jump from one subject to the next without even the hint of a transition.”

“That goes for Macy, too.” The woman lived in her own world and anyone from planet Earth had to wonder what she was talking about.

I leaned closer to the table and offered Leanne my plate as she sliced the lasagna into squares. I waited until
she’d served herself before I dug in. To say it was good would be an understatement of criminal proportions. I remembered eating this same meal with Hannah, and deeply appreciated Leanne’s thoughtfulness in preparing it for me. I savored the second bite and the third. I devoured the lasagna and accepted another helping, which is something I rarely do.

Leanne talked about her friend Gayle, and I matched her stories, but mine were about my trials with Macy. Soon we were both relaxed and smiling at each other across the table.

“Would you like to go to a movie this weekend?” I found myself asking as we lingered over coffee.

“Sure. Anything in particular you’d like to see?”

I didn’t even know what was playing. “You decide.”

“Action, comedy, drama? Do you have a preference?”

“What do you like?”

“Buttered popcorn.”

I smiled. “Action, then. Something along the lines of
The Bourne Identity
.” That was the last movie I’d seen, other than
The African Queen
with Winter the week before.

Ritchie’s Rule #17:
Don’t mention seeing a movie with Winter Adams while you’re with Leanne.

She suggested we have our coffee in the living room and because our conversation about quirky individuals seemed to have run its course, she turned on the television. We watched a news show and when it was over, I carried my empty mug into the kitchen.

“Thank you for dinner,” I said and I hoped the simple words conveyed my very real gratitude.

“You aren’t disappointed that I didn’t bake crispy pork chops?” she teased.

“Not in the least.”

“Maybe next time,” she said.

“I’d love that,” I told her.

“Sure.”

Winter had promised to make me a pork roast soon; I just hoped I didn’t get confused about who’d made what. Between the two, Winter and Leanne, I could find myself in trouble. Ritchie’s Rule #23:
Keep track of meals and movies.