Hannah's List (3 page)

W
ednesday morning I was at the gym by six. Ritchie was on the treadmill, his iPod plugged into his ears, when I stepped onto the machine beside his.

He looked over, saw it was me and stared expectantly. I knew I was in for an inquisition as soon as we entered the locker room. I hadn’t shown up on Monday morning and ignored his phone calls for the past two days. I wasn’t ready to talk about Hannah’s letter, not even to my best friend.

Ritchie finished his routine first. Just as I’d suspected, he was waiting for me in the locker room, sitting on the bench with a towel draped around his neck. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. When I appeared, he glanced up.

“You didn’t return my phone calls,” he said, as if I needed to be reminded.

“I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

I was reluctant to tell him, although I knew that he of all people would understand. “I got drunk on Sunday after I got home,” I admitted. The hangover on Monday had been a killer. From this point forward I was sticking to beer. Maybe my father could handle the strong stuff, but not me.

“Because of Hannah’s letter?”

I nodded and lowered myself onto the bench. I leaned forward, sitting in the same position as my brother-in-law. “Hannah wants me to remarry.”

Ritchie’s eyes widened. “Get outta here.”

My sentiments exactly. “She went so far as to give me a list.”

Ritchie’s mouth sagged open. “A list? You mean of
women?
”

I nodded again.

“Why would she do that?”

Explaining Hannah’s reason was beyond me. I didn’t understand it, although I’d read the letter a dozen times.

“Hannah seems to think I won’t do well on my own and that I need a wife.” I avoided mentioning that she wanted me to be a father, too.

“She actually gave you a list?” He seemed as shocked as I’d been when I first read the letter.

I didn’t respond.

“Who’s on it? Anyone I know?”

I looked away. “Your cousin, Winter.”

“My cousin?” he repeated.

“Do you know someone else named Winter?” I snapped, sorry now that I’d said anything.

“No,” he said sheepishly. “Who else?”

“Leanne Lancaster. She was Hannah’s oncology nurse.”

“Don’t remember her. What’s she like?”

I wasn’t sure what to tell him. “Quiet. Gentle. A good nurse. Hannah really liked her.”

“No kidding.”

I ignored that.

“Anyone else?”

“Someone I’ve never met. A model she worked with by the name of Macy Roth.”

Ritchie released a low whistle. “A model, you say?”

“Hannah says Macy will give me a reason to laugh again,” I told him, unable to disguise my sarcasm. “And that’s practically a quote.”

My brother-in-law chuckled. “I bet Steph wouldn’t tell me to marry a model if anything happened to her.”

I knew Ritchie was joking; still, I couldn’t let the comment pass. “Just pray to God nothing does.”

My brother-in-law frowned. “It was a joke, Michael. Lighten up, would you?”

He was right; I didn’t need to take every little comment so seriously. “Sorry,” I muttered.

Ritchie nudged me. “You going to do it?”

I shook my head. “I doubt it.”

“Why not?”

The answer should’ve been obvious. “I’m not ready.”

“Will you ever be?”

Good question. “Probably not,” I said honestly. I’d lost my wife, my soul mate. I couldn’t ever forget that or blithely “move on” with my life, as various friends and acquaintances were so fond of telling me I should.

“I thought you’d say that,” Ritchie said. “Hannah knew you’d hibernate for the rest of your life, which is why she forced the issue. My sister loved you and—”

“Listen, Ritchie, I don’t need a lecture.”

“I don’t intend to give you one. Answer one simple question and then I’ll shut up.”

“Okay, fine. Ask away,” I said, resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t leave me alone until he’d said what he wanted to say.

He stared at me for a long intense moment. “Do you suppose it was easy for her to write that letter?”

I sat up straighter.

“What woman wants to think of her husband with someone else?”

“That’s two questions,” I said.

“They’re one and the same,” he argued.

I closed my eyes. Insensitive jerk that I was, I hadn’t given a single thought to what Hannah must’ve been feeling when she wrote the letter.

“If the situation had been reversed, could you have offered up the names of men you’d trust to be her husband?”

I didn’t need any time to think about
that
one. “No.”

“Me, neither,” Ritchie confessed. “That said, the least you can do is take her letter to heart and get in touch with these women.” He chuckled. “If it was me, I’d start with the model.”

Very funny. It’d been years since I’d asked a woman out. I wouldn’t even know how to go about it. “Dating…me?”

“Dating—you. Sure, why not? You’re young and you’ve got a lot of years left.”

Hannah had said almost the same thing.

“You already know Winter. If you’re more comfortable with her, then give her a call.”

“And say what?” I asked. My fear was that the only subject we had in common was Hannah. If we went to dinner, Hannah was all we’d have to discuss, and we’d both be crying in our soup before the main course was served.

“Hell, I don’t know.”

“I’d want to talk about Hannah.”

Ritchie didn’t seem to think that was so terrible. “So would Winter. They were good friends, even as kids, trading clothes, spending the night at each other’s houses.” He smiled. “Once when we were all in our early teens, our two families went camping. The restroom was clear on the other side of the campground.

“In the middle of the night, I could hear Hannah and Winter whispering that they had to go to the bathroom really bad.” Ritchie’s eyes gleamed with a look of remembered mischief. “Neither of them wanted to make the long trek across the campground so they decided to walk into the woods close to our campsite.”

I knew what was coming.

“I waited until they had their drawers down, then turned my flashlight on them.”

I grinned. Ritchie had always been a practical joker.

“You wouldn’t believe how loud they screamed,” he said, laughing. “I swear they woke up half the campground.
People thought there was a black bear on the loose. Those two girls single-handedly caused a panic.”

Years earlier, when we were first dating, Hannah had told me the story. I had to admit it was funny. But the most I could manage now was a weak smile. Maybe she had a point; maybe it
was
time I found a reason to laugh again.

“Call Winter,” Ritchie urged.

He made it sound easy, but it wouldn’t be. I had no idea what to say, how to approach her. “Do you see her often?”

“Hardly ever,” Ritchie said. “Life’s strange, you know?”

“Tell me about it,” I groaned.

“Our families were close when we were kids and we both live and work in Seattle, but the only time we see each other is at weddings and funerals.”

He winced and I could see he instantly regretted the reminder.

“It’s the same with my cousins,” I said. We’d drifted apart through the years without any intention of doing so. Life got busy and people scattered, and those connections were hard to maintain.

“Give her a call,” Ritchie urged a second time.

If we could talk about Hannah, it might not be so bad.

“Better yet…” Ritchie looked pointedly in my direction.

“What?”

“Stop by her place.”

“Her house?” That seemed rather presumptuous.

“No…that restaurant she has. I can’t think of the name.”

“The French Café,” I told him.

“Right. I remember now. I don’t know why she called it that. Our background’s English, not French.”

My guess was that her reason had to do with the menu. “They serve great croissants.”

That got Ritchie’s notice. “You mean to say you’ve been there?”

“With Hannah. We checked it out a few times. It’s on Blossom Street.”

“Hey, man, that’s not far from here. You could stop by casually on your way to work. If you call her it becomes sort of a big deal. Going to the restaurant would be more natural.”

“You’re right,” I said, my decision made.

“Want me to walk over there with you?”

“No.” I didn’t need my brother-in-law holding my hand. If this worked out, fine—and if not, that was fine, too.

We showered and dressed for the office and headed out. Ritchie’s a chiropractor. His office is north of the downtown area, whereas mine’s just off Fifth. Blossom Street’s a few blocks from there, not that far from Pill Hill where Virginia Mason, Swedish Hospital and several other medical facilities were located.

I took off at a clipped pace. My office opens at eight, so I didn’t have a lot of time—and I wanted to get this over with. I saw the French Café as soon as I rounded the corner of Blossom Street. Two people entered the restaurant as three others came out. The place was doing a brisk morning business. I was happy to see that it was such a success; Hannah would be pleased for her cousin.

I liked the atmosphere with the striped awning and the tables set up outside. I was sure they hadn’t been there on my earlier visits with Hannah. The line was about ten people long when I joined it; I saw that we were being served by one clerk and one cashier. Impatiently, I glanced at my watch. I really didn’t have time and yet I couldn’t make myself walk away. My attention went to the glass case, which displayed a number of baked goods from croissants to doughnuts and sweet rolls. I decided on a latte, along with a croissant.

My mind, however, wasn’t on my order. When I finally reached the counter I felt light-headed and nauseous. “Can I help you?” the clerk asked.

“Coffee and a croissant,” I said quickly. A latte would take too long.

“What size coffee?”

“Uh, medium.”

“Do you want me to leave room for cream?”

“I drink it black,” I said and retrieved my wallet. With my pulse pounding, I asked, “I don’t suppose Winter’s here?” My throat was so dry I could barely speak.

The clerk looked up. “Just a minute and I’ll check for you.”

I could see that the other customers didn’t appreciate me holding everything up, so I stepped aside while the clerk went into the kitchen, taking the opportunity to pay. She returned half a minute later and shook her head. “She isn’t in yet.”

“Oh.” That response sounded incredibly stupid, even to me.

“Would you like to leave her a note?”

“Ah…sure.”

She grabbed a pen and pad and handed them to me. I took them, together with my coffee, and found an empty seat. My coffee was lukewarm before I gave up trying to write anything; I was already late for the office and a cold sweat dampened my brow. This was senseless. I had nothing to say to this woman. Wadded-up sheets of paper littered the tabletop, and I felt pathetic and angry with myself for listening to Ritchie. I should’ve known better.

Eventually I walked back to the counter and returned the empty pad. “Just tell Winter that Dr. Michael Everett stopped by this morning.”

“Will do,” the friendly clerk said.

“Thanks,” I mumbled as I shoved the crumpled sheets in a trash can, then made my way to the door, hoping I wouldn’t run into Winter on Blossom Street.

Feeling I’d wasted my time, I hurried to the office. In our partnership of three—Patrick O’Malley and Yvette Schauer are the other doctors—each of us has our own office and head nurse. Linda Barclay, my nurse, has been with me from the beginning. The rest of the staff is shared—a receptionist, one person who does transcriptions and two all-purpose clerks who also work on forms for insurance companies and government agencies.

Linda looked concerned when I dashed into the office several minutes later than usual. She didn’t ask where I’d been, for which I was grateful. I hadn’t arrived late in so long she must’ve known that whatever delayed me was important. I reached for my white jacket, jerking my arms
into the sleeves, and wordlessly headed down the hallway to the exam room, where my first patient waited. I made an effort to push all thoughts of Hannah’s cousin out of my mind and concentrate on my appointments. Nothing out of the ordinary—some vaccinations, checkups, a case of strep throat.

At the end of the day, I stepped into my office to make the phone calls that tend to dominate the late afternoons. That’s when I generally review prescriptions that need to be refilled, read over lab reports and deal with any other messages that require my attention. I often spent two or three hours at my desk after the rest of the staff had left. Since I didn’t have a reason to rush home, it didn’t bother me. The quiet following the hectic pace of the day was a welcome respite.

Several pink message slips were neatly laid out on my desk. I set them aside to look at when everything else was done.

It was after six before I got to the last message. In Linda’s distinctive handwriting it read:
Winter Adams phoned. She said it was a private matter.
She’d written the phone number below.

M
acy Roth tore through the disorganized mess that was her bedroom. Her Mexican ruffle skirt had to be in here
somewhere.
She really had to get everything sorted out and she would, she promised herself—one of these days. She tossed discarded clothes aside in a frantic search for the white skirt, moving quickly around the room. Clean sheets, fresh from the dryer, resting on top of her bare mattress meant she’d have to make the bed later, only she wasn’t sure what time she’d be home. The chore she disliked more than any other was making the bed; it always seemed so pointless, since she’d be sleeping in it that night and messing it up all over again. Same went for dishes. Well, it couldn’t be helped. That was just the nature of housework.

“Snowball!” she yelled as her long-haired white cat bounced onto the mattress and snuggled into the mound
of clean sheets, luxuriating in their warmth. Waving her arms, Macy cried, “Scat! Get out of here.”

The cat paid no attention, which was fairly typical. The only time Snowball recognized her voice was when Macy called him into the kitchen to eat. “Fine, I’ll change your name.” She’d acquired Snowball as a fluffy white kitten, but he’d turned out to be a male and seemed to object to his name. “I’ll think on it, buddy, okay? Now get out of those sheets.”

Peace, hearing the commotion, raced into the bedroom and leaped onto the bed in a single bound. Lovie followed. Now all three of her cats romped in the dryer-warm sheets, rolling around in the tangled pillowcases. They appeared to be having great fun. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry, Macy would’ve taken time to play with them.

“Do any of you know where I put my skirt?” she asked.

The cats ignored her.

“Did one of you drag it off?” she demanded.

Again she was ignored. “Ungrateful beasts,” she muttered as the oven timer dinged. “The casserole.” Oh, my goodness, she’d forgotten all about it. Hurrying into the kitchen, Macy grabbed the oven mitts and took the dish from the oven. The recipe was a new one and the casserole smelled divine.

She switched off the oven and started toward the back porch, where several piles of laundry awaited her. She really did need to get a handle on her chores and she would—one day. But right now she had to find her white skirt, take the casserole dish over to Harvey and drive to
the recording studio. Most important of all, she had to arrive on time. Her job depended on it.

Digging through a pile of dirty clothes, she sighed with relief when she located the skirt. Looking it over, she decided it could stand one more wearing and stepped into it, adjusted the waistband and tucked in her multicolored blouse. All she needed now was her sandals.

On her way to the bedroom, she checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Frowning, she ran a brush through her curly red hair and used a clip to sweep one side above her left ear and secure it. She needed a haircut, too, but she couldn’t afford that until she was paid for recording the radio ad. She really, really couldn’t be late again.

The producer had warned her last week, when she was a few minutes late for another radio spot. She’d had a good excuse, but Don Sharman wasn’t interested. He kept saying that if she couldn’t show up when she was scheduled, they’d find someone who could. He was unwilling to listen to her explanation—that she’d been at the vet’s with Snowball, who’d had a bladder infection.

No, Macy absolutely could not lose this gig. It was perfect for her. She’d been told her voice had a melodious quality, and it must be true because she’d read several commercials for this agency. The money wasn’t bad, either. She always got a kick out of hearing her own voice on the radio touting the benefits of Preparation H, a hemorrhoid medication currently marked down by Elburn’s, a locally owned pharmacy.

Her grandmother had drilled into Macy the importance of never leaving the house without lipstick, so she added a bit of color to her lips. And while she was at the mirror she applied some coppery eye shadow that highlighted her green eyes. Satisfied that her grandmother would be pleased, she slipped her feet into her sandals.

“I’ve got to get this casserole to Harvey,” she told the cats, who’d deserted the bed and gathered around her. “Watch the house for me.”

Lifting the glass dish with her tiger-striped oven mitts, Macy opened the screen door with her hip and started down the front steps, avoiding her bicycle at the bottom. She took a shortcut across the lawn and ran up the steps to Harvey’s place.

The World War II veteran had been her grandmother’s next-door neighbor for more than forty years. They’d been good friends and neighbors all that time, and although neither would’ve admitted it, Macy was convinced they were—as her grandmother might have said—“sweet” on each other.

The front door was open, so Macy called out. Normally she wouldn’t have bothered with formalities like announcing herself or ringing the doorbell, but it was difficult to open the screen while she was loaded down with a hot casserole dish.

“Go away.” Harvey’s voice came from inside the kitchen.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” he barked.

Macy had learned long ago that his gruff exterior dis
guised a generous, loving heart. Apparently, his mission in life was to hide it.

“I brought you dinner.”

“It’s not even noon,” he shouted.

“I know, but I won’t be home by dinnertime,” Macy shouted back. She made an effort to open the screen only to discover it was locked.

“Come on, Harvey, open the door.”

“I locked it for a reason.” Taking his time, he ambled into the living room and reluctantly unfastened the screen. He looked none too happy to see her. “I’ve got more important things to do than answer the door, you know.”

“Of course you do.” She glided past him and into the kitchen. The newspaper lay on the table, the crossword puzzle half-completed. Harvey read the paper from front to back every day.

Macy set the casserole on the stove, then pulled off her oven mitts and set them aside.

“What’s that?” he asked, nodding at the casserole and grimacing with exaggerated disgust.

“Food.”

“Don’t get smart with me, little girl.”

Macy grinned. “It’s a new recipe.”

“So I’m your guinea pig.”

“In a manner of speaking.” Harvey had lost weight in the past year. His clothes hung on him and she couldn’t help worrying. At eighty-six, his age had finally begun to show. He used to work in his yard year-round and had always taken great pride in his garden and flower beds.
Twice now, Macy had mowed his yard for him. If he noticed he didn’t say. She had an old push mower that had been her grandmother’s, and it was better exercise than working out at the gym. Less costly, too.

Macy avoided anything that required monthly payments, other than those that were unavoidable, like water and electricity. Since she didn’t have a steady job, she couldn’t count on a regular income. There were a lot of months when she had to resort to digging in the bottom of her purse for lost coins.

“It smells good,” Macy said, leaning over the casserole dish and giving an appreciative whiff.

“What’s in it?” he asked suspiciously.

“Meat and rice.”

“What kind of meat?”

“Chicken,” she said. “But when did you get so choosy?”

“I’ve got my standards,” he insisted.

She smiled; it was true—but those standards were starting to slip. She saw dirty dishes stacked in the kitchen sink. That wasn’t so unusual at her house, but it was for Harvey. He liked organization, thrived on it, while she was most comfortable in chaos. Perhaps
comfortable
was putting it too strongly. Saying she was accustomed to chaos would be more accurate. One day she really did intend to put everything in order; she’d have Harvey teach her.

“I don’t need you looking after me,” he said. “Haven’t you got better things to do than feed an old man?”

“Not really,” she told him. Granted, she had to get to the studio, but Harvey was a priority. Even if her grand
mother hadn’t asked Macy to keep an eye on him, she would’ve done it anyway. “Besides,
I’m
the one who needs
you.
”

He snorted and sat back down at the table, picking up his pen. “I don’t intend to argue with you all afternoon.”

“Fine.” She tucked the oven mitts under her arm. “Now promise me you’ll eat dinner.”

He glared at her and shook his head.

Macy sank into the chair across from him with a deep sigh.

“By the way, what’s the name of that singer your grandmother liked? It’s seven letters.”

“Barry Manilow?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” He filled in the squares, then immediately started working on the area around that answer.

Macy exhaled again, just to remind him she was still there.

“What are you doing
now?
” he grumbled, briefly glancing in her direction.

“I’m staying here until you promise me you’re going to test my new recipe.”

“Well, you’ll have a long wait. I haven’t been hungry in five years.”

“I’ve got time,” she lied.

“Thought you had a job today.”

“I do.”

“You’re going to be late.”

“In that case, they might not ask me to work for them again.” Actually, that was more of a guarantee. In Sharman’s world, as he’d repeatedly pointed out, time was money.

Harvey snorted once more. “I suppose you’re going to blame me if you lose this job.”

“I’ll probably lose everything,” she said dramatically.

“You could always sell your art. That is, if you ever finished a project.”

Macy shrugged. “Not much of a market for it in this economy.”

He muttered something under his breath. “If I agreed—and I do mean
if—
would I have to eat the whole thing in one sitting?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“You’re the silly one,” he said. “Don’t know why you can’t leave an old man alone.”

“But, Harvey, you’re my best friend.”

“Me and all those cats you’re constantly feeding. What you need is a dog.”

“I prefer cats.” It was really the other way around; the cats seemed to prefer her. She had Snowball, Peace and Lovie, who were her inside friends, and there were an additional four or five who showed up at irregular intervals, expecting a handout. They’d sort of adopted her. She’d never gone looking for pets; they just seemed to find her.

“Get,” Harvey said, waving both hands at her. “Go on. Get out of here.”

“Sorry, can’t do it until you give me your word.”

“You’re as bad as your grandmother.”

“Worse,” she returned. “Or so you’ve told me dozens of times.”

“Okay, worse. No need to quibble about it. I’ll have you
know this was a nice, peaceful neighborhood until your grandmother moved in. Just my luck that she willed
you
the place. Between the two of you, I haven’t had a moment’s rest in over forty years.”

“You love me.” He’d deny it to his dying day, but Macy knew otherwise. He’d loved her grandmother, too—more than he’d ever admit.

“No, I don’t,” he stated emphatically. “I tolerate you. Your grandmother turned out to be a good friend, but you need someone to keep an eye on you and it’s not going to be me.”

“We need each other,” she said and meant it. Harvey was her last link to her beloved grandmother. Lotty Roth had adored Macy and her curly red hair and her quirky personality. Macy had always been…different. While other children got involved in sports and music and dance, Macy had been what her grandmother referred to as a free spirit. She’d never had any interest in organized activities, and her artistic abilities were developed on her own. She’d rather stand in front of a painting at a museum or a gallery, absorbing its beauty and skill, than analyze the artist’s techniques in a classroom.

She could remember once, in sixth grade, being called upon to answer a history question about the Civil War. She’d stood quietly next to her desk, and the teacher had repeated the question. Macy knew the answer, but she’d been thinking about something else that seemed far more important at the time—her plans to draw one of her cats and how much fun it would be once she got out of class to sit down with Princess and a pencil and pad. When her
teacher demanded an answer, Macy started talking about Princess and her antics, and soon everyone was laughing—except Mrs. Moser, who’d sent her to the principal’s office for disrupting the class. As her father used to ruefully say, Macy was a few French fries short of a Happy Meal.

Her grandmother had been her one ally when it seemed Macy didn’t have a friend in the world. Grandma Lotty’s home was her refuge. Like Macy, Lotty Roth had possessed an artist’s soul, and that was something they’d had in common. They’d seen the world in a similar way, from their passionate love of animals to their delight in unconventional people and places. When her grandmother died two years earlier, to everyone’s surprise she’d left Macy her house.

Macy had loved this old home with its gingerbread trim and immediately painted it yellow with bright red shutters. The white picket fence was still white but only because she’d run out of paint. Harvey frequently complained that the house looked as if someone from Candy Land had moved in next door.

“You’re gonna be late,” Harvey said now.

“Guess so,” she said with an exaggerated yawn.

“Didn’t you just tell me that if you showed up late one more time they wouldn’t use you again?”

“Yup. That’s what Mr. Sharman said.”

Harvey closed his eyes and threw back his head. “So when you lose the house, you’ll tell me I should let you live in one of my spare bedrooms.”

“Could I?” she asked cheerfully.

“No,” he snapped.

“All it’ll take to avoid a complete upheaval of your life is a simple promise.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“But it’s for your own good.” She glanced pointedly at her watch. “It’d be a real shame to lose this job, not to mention a potential career in radio commercials.”

“For crying out loud,” Harvey said and slammed down his pen. “All right, I’ll eat some of the casserole.”

Relieved, Macy grinned, leaped up from the chair and kissed his leathery cheek. “Thank you, Harvey.”