Hannah's List

by Debbie Macomber

  “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.

  “Do you want to give me a call before Saturday?” she asked as she held open the apartment door.

  Suddenly, I couldn’t remember why I’d need to call her. She obviously noticed my blank look. “For the movie.”

  “Oh, right.” I felt foolish, but Leanne put me at ease with her smile.

  Once I was home and sitting in front of the TV with my feet up, I reconsidered that invitation to the movies. Quite frankly I don’t know what had prompted me to suggest it. My plan had been to give myself a day or two to analyze the evening before I pursued the relationship any further. Instead, I’d arranged another date. Perhaps I felt obligated to repay her for the meal. I didn’t know. Not until I turned in for the night did it occur to me that I’d spent most of the evening talking about Macy.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Alix Turner stuck her head inside Winter’s tiny office at the French Café. “You have a visitor,” she said. Judging by her smile, Alix seemed pleased about something. She was noticeably pregnant now, and the whole staff was thrilled. Everyone had adopted Alix and, while Winter had never given birth herself, she couldn’t help offering dietary advice and concocting nutritious smoothies.
Jordan, who was the most attentive husband she’d ever seen, wanted Alix to stop working, but Alix had convinced him she could continue until she felt too uncomfortable to bake. She also served at the counter when Winter needed a substitute. There were only a few weeks left before her due date, and Winter suspected Alix would work right up until she went into labor. One thing was certain; this baby would have a number of doting godmothers, and she intended to be one of them. Alix’s previous pregnancy had ended in an early miscarriage last summer. That accounted for the extra care Jordan and all her friends lavished on her now.

  “A visitor?” Winter looked up from the food order she was about to complete. “Who is it?” she asked automatically. Even as she spoke, she wondered who’d feel a need to be announced. Michael or possibly—“It’s Pierre.”

  The pen Winter had been holding slipped from her fingers. “Pierre is here? ”

  “Should I send him in?” Alix asked, her smile widening. She’d always been a champion of his. At times Winter had actually been a little jealous of how well Pierre and Alix got along, of the easy camaraderie between them. Now Pierre was here, when she least expected him. Where she least expected him. She remembered his anger when she’d dropped in to see him, the distant way he’d treated her. In Winter’s opinion, he deserved the same treatment. She dared not let him see how glad she was, how happy his visit made her, how much she craved the sight of him. Contemplating her response, she leaned back in her chair. A moment later she decided he could wait.

  “Tell him I’m busy with an order. I’ll be out as soon as I’m done.”

  Alix frowned, her hands resting on her protruding stomach. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  Alix left and, smiling to herself, Winter chewed on the end of the pen. So Pierre had actually made the effort to seek her out. This was an interesting development. But seeing how rude and unwelcoming he’d been, a lukewarm reception on her part seemed fitting. Although she suffered a twinge of doubt, she held firm.

  She tried to concentrate on the order, but her mind kept drifting to Pierre. He’d never been a patient man and she guessed that after ten minutes he’d be furious. Good. Served him right.

  When she felt he’d probably reached the end of his patience, Winter sauntered out of her office. She paused in the kitchen long enough to pour herself a cup of coffee and then casually walked around the counter to the front of the café. Pierre sat at a table next to the window, gazing out at Blossom Street. No one else was seated nearby, although there was a short line at the counter. By ten-thirty, the morning crowd had dwindled to a handful who’d stopped in during their coffee breaks. In another hour, they’d get a rush of lunch orders. The soup du jour, baked potato sprinkled with grated cheddar cheese and fresh chives, was popular with her customers, so the café was bound to do brisk business.

  Pierre looked up as she approached, and it gave her a degree of satisfaction to see his eyes narrow. His coffee cup was empty and the croissant only half-eaten.

  “I hope you didn’t find anything wrong with my croissant,” she said as she slipped into the chair across from him.

  “Quite the opposite. It was excellent as always.” Pierre’s spine was as stiff as his compliment.

  Winter shrugged lightly. “I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

  His mouth tensed, and he shook his head as if he’d grown tired of the old games, the playacting they both indulged in. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

  “Like what?” She opened her eyes wide in exaggerated innocence.

  “That you regret keeping me waiting. You did that intentionally and we both know it. You wanted me to be aware that you had more important tasks requiring your attention.”

  Winter didn’t bother to deny it. She hadn’t fooled him in the slightest. She’d meant to punish him. But the pleasure of vengeance had already begun to recede.

  “What can I do for you?” Winter asked smoothly. He didn’t answer for a long time. “Rien du tout. Nothing at all.”

  He started to rise, and Winter stretched out her arm, placing her hand over his. “Surely you had a reason for coming here.”

  Pierre had half risen from the chair. He sat back down, his dark eyes holding hers. “I thought we should talk.”

  She smiled and nodded, wanting to encourage him, wanting him to acknowledge that he missed her as much as she missed him. Nothing seemed truly right without Pierre and yet she wasn’t sure how to make their relationship work. Spending time with Michael Everett had been pleasant, but while she enjoyed his company, it was Pierre she loved, Pierre who was her soul mate, Pierre who was always on her mind.

  After a lengthy hesitation, he said, “I came because I felt bad about the last time we spoke.”

  She frowned at the memory. “You were rude.”

  “I was busy,” he snapped. “I had three banquets that evening, and two of the kitchen staff phoned in sick. What would you have me do? You could have checked with me first, could have given me some warning. You know what it’s like in the kitchen.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this at the time?” If he could snap at her, she could snap back. Then, because she did know how crazy life could get in a large hotel kitchen, she added, “Okay, I should’ve phoned first. But I didn’t deserve to have my head bitten off. Besides, if I had called, you wouldn’t have answered and then I would’ve come anyway, so it’s irrelevant.”

  “How do you know whether I would have answered or not?” he demanded. “To say I would ignore a call from you is an insult.”

  “Then consider yourself insulted.” Winter drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. It always ended like this. She’d be so happy to see Pierre, and then they’d start sniping at each other, and before she could figure out why, they’d be in the middle of an argument.

  One look at Pierre told her he was as frustrated as she was.

  “Why do we always fight?” she asked, sick at heart. No one else affected her this way. Only Pierre was capable of twisting her emotions into such an impossible knot. Pierre was silent for a few seconds. “Why do we fight?”

  he repeated, as if he, too, had lost any hope of finding a solution. “If I had the answer to that, you and I would be married by now and starting our own family.” His eyes went to the counter, where Alix was serving coffee and croissants.

  They’d talked of marriage and children. That, at least, was a subject on which they could easily agree. It was everything else that ended in argument. Neither of them wanted this constant bickering and yet they seemed unable to avoid it.

  “I suppose you expect an apology for what I said that afternoon,” he muttered, returning to their earlier conversation. “Getting me to admit I was wrong seems inordinately important to you.”

  “You should apologize.”

  “What about you? ” he blazed.

  “What did I do that was so wrong?”

  “Do you actually need me to tell you?”

  “Yes, I do,” Winter said.

  “First of all, we both agreed upon no contact for three months. N’est-ce pas? ”

  Okay, she’d broken their agreement. So what? She’d had something to tell him and it seemed best to do it in person.

  “I had a reason.”

  “Sure you did. You wanted to shove the fact that you were dating some other man in my face.”

  “That is not true.” She clenched her hands involuntarily. Pierre turned everything back on her, made everything her fault. He had no idea how unfair he was being, how unreasonable.

  “Don’t deceive yourself, Winter.” He wagged his index finger as if he’d caught her in a lie. “That is exactly why you showed up on the most hectic day I’ve had all year.”

  “We’d never discussed it, and I felt you should know.”

  “Why? So I would miss you more? So I would beg you not to go out with this doctor? To remain faithful to me?

  If you’re waiting for me to plead with you, you’ll have a long wait.”
/>   “Fine, whatever.”

  “Fine with me, too.” Pierre crossed his arms and scowled at her.

  This was getting them nowhere. It felt as though they performed the same roles, recited the same lines, every time they were together. She’d grown so weary of it; Pierre had, too.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” she said, “you should know I’ve always been faithful to you.”

  He arched a brow, implying that was no concern of his. His nonchalant attitude irritated her even more. “Don’t you care if I date another man?” she asked. He shrugged. “Why should I?”

  “At one time we seriously considered getting married!”

  “Thank God we didn’t make that mistake.”

  His words were like a knife he’d sunk into her heart. Pierre knew how badly she’d wanted to marry him. Swallowing painfully, she asked, “Why do you have to say such ugly things to me?” She hated the small quaver in her voice.

  “Ma chérie, be reasonable. If we’d married we’d have killed each other by now.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Look at us,” he said, gesturing toward her with one hand, then bringing it back to his chest. “We can’t even have a conversation without aiming for each other’s throat. Something is very wrong with us. I don’t know what it is…I wish I did. I thought…I hoped that when we got back together the last time our problems had been resolved, but nothing’s changed.”

  The sadness in his voice echoed her own feelings, although pride wouldn’t allow her to show it.

  “This three-month separation idea of yours is for the best.”

  Winter disagreed, but it was hard to admit that; as he’d pointed out, it had been her suggestion. She’d regretted it almost every day since. At the time she’d been so sure Pierre would fight to keep their relationship intact. Three months apart had felt like an eternity then. It still felt like one now. She’d been the first to break their agreement. That should’ve told him something about her feelings. She didn’t know why it was like this with them. How she longed for the early days of their relationship, before they’d fallen into this pattern of destructive behavior, of belittling each other in this crazy reflexive way.