Читать книгу Hannah's List - Debbie Macomber - Страница 8

Wednesday 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.