Hannah's List

When Winter announced that she was naming her new venture the French Café in honor of Pierre and his family, he’d let her know how pleased he was.

Then for reasons she never quite understood and couldn’t seem to change, their relationship had gone steadily downhill. They lived together briefly, but it just didn’t work. Her schedule often conflicted with his. Some days she’d go home after a long shift at the café and make his dinner. But Pierre showed little or no appreciation for her efforts, which annoyed her. She’d sulk or make some derogatory comment, and he’d react swiftly with one of his own.

Other times she’d talk about her day and Pierre would be so fixated on some incident or other in his own kitchen that he couldn’t or wouldn’t listen. Soon they’d be bickering, furious with each other, finding fault.

Then it’d all blown up and they’d separated. A year and three months had passed before they met again and admitted they’d both been wrong. They’d each had an opportunity to examine their roles in the breakup. Yet here it was, happening all over again.

The problem was that they were too much alike—both perfectionists, both volatile. Sooner or later, usually sooner, a clash was inevitable.

A few months after they reunited they’d slipped back into the old patterns. Nothing had changed, despite their determination to make the relationship work.

This time Winter had been the one to suggest they separate and Pierre had been all too eager to comply. Watching him walk away had nearly broken her heart. She couldn’t believe that two people who’d been so enraptured with each other could let it all fall apart.

They both hoped that during this separation they’d be able to figure out a way to fix what was wrong.

At the beginning of this second breakup, not having Pierre in her life had been a relief. The sudden lack of tension had lifted a gigantic weight from her shoulders. It felt good to get home at the end of the day and not worry about doing or saying something that would set him off. She could relax, listen to the music she enjoyed, watch her favorite TV programs without having to defend her choices. She cooked what she wanted to eat without being subjected to his complaints.

The honeymoon period without Pierre had carried her for nearly two weeks. Only in the past few days had Winter realized how empty her life was without him.

She’d heard that he’d changed jobs and wondered if some of their problems might have been related to the stress he was under as head chef at the seafood restaurant. She’d learned from a mutual acquaintance that Pierre had taken over as executive chef for the Hilton Hotel. The position entailed far greater responsibility, with a large staff, huge banquet facilities and less creative freedom. The trade-off must’ve been worth it if Pierre was willing to make such a drastic move. It hurt that he hadn’t talked to her about his decision. Still, she reminded herself, that was their agreement. No contact.

When Winter had suggested the terms of their pact, she’d fully expected Pierre to break it. He broke every other one they’d made. Oh, that wasn’t totally fair. When they’d shared a place, he did occasionally prepare dinner, but not on a reliable basis. Often he’d be too tired or he’d simply forget, so she did most of the cooking. Even when she left a notation on the calendar it hadn’t helped. And he hadn’t exactly done his allotment of household tasks, either. If Pierre couldn’t manage to pick up his dirty socks, she wondered how he’d ever deal with being a husband and eventually a father.

Despite their agreement, it bothered her that he hadn’t made a single effort to contact her. She hadn’t tried to reach him, either, but that was because he’d always been the one to make the first move, the one who sought peace after their quarrels. So, admit it or not, she’d expected to hear from him.

Pierre’s temper flared hot and erupted like a volcano, and when he was finished it was over. He was ready to kiss and make up. Not so with Winter. She blew like a factory whisde, and when she finished, it wasn’t over. She wanted Pierre to react, to change, to learn and grow. Instead, he just walked away until she became what he called “reasonable” again. He’d make overtures to see if that “reasonable” state had been achieved and when he decided it was safe, he’d act as if nothing had happened. Until the next time…

Now something unforeseen had turned up and she wasn’t sure how to handle it. Michael had come to visit and he’d made it plain that he was interested in her. At least that was what she’d assumed. While setting their rules, neither Pierre nor Winter had provided for such a contingency. The question remained. Did she want to go out with her cousin’s husband? Winter still didn’t know.

By midafternoon, she’d talked herself into breaking the agreement with Pierre and seeking him out. She had a valid excuse. While she wasn’t eager to acknowledge it, her real reason was that she was starved for the sight of him. These past few weeks had been a revelation.

She missed Pierre. She loved him and, in the weeks apart, that hadn’t changed. Closing her eyes, she heard the lilt of his accent and her heartbeat accelerated at the memory. She missed his touch, his whisper when he woke early in the morning and kissed her. In a crazy kind of way, she even missed the excitement, if that was the appropriate word, of their quarrels. What it came down to was that nothing seemed right without him.

Now Michael had offered her the perfect excuse to see Pierre. Her pride would stay intact and she could present Pierre with this new situation and gauge his feelings. If he truly loved her, he’d move heaven and earth to join her in solving their problems. The possibility of another man’s interest should galvanize him into declaring his own. Her goal wasn’t to make him jealous, but to get him to recognize his feelings. The more she thought about it, the more hopeful Winter became.

Sitting at her desk, she called his cell phone, let it ring once, then abruptly disconnected. She wanted to do more than speak to Pierre. She wanted—needed—to see him. One look would tell her if he missed her half as much as she missed him.

Decision made, Winter waited until later that afternoon, in the lull between lunch and dinner. She contacted the Hilton and confirmed that Pierre was indeed working that day. She pictured walking into the kitchen, pictured Pierre raising his head, meeting her eyes. He’d stop whatever he was doing and come toward her as though drawn by an invisible rope. Then she’d rush into his arms and he’d tell her how unhappy he’d been without her.

Figuring she had time, Winter went shopping at a fancy little boutique off Blossom Street owned by Barbie Foster, whom she’d met through Anne Marie Roche. Anne Marie had the bookstore diagonally across from the café and was also a friend of Alix’s. On a whim she purchased a new outfit. The classic “little black dress.” Elegant yet sexy, it was ultraexpensive and worth every penny because of the way it made her feel. She was going to give Pierre an eyeful of what he was missing, just in case he’d forgotten.

When she’d changed clothes, she took a cab to the Hilton. She announced herself to one of the dining-room staff.

“I’m Winter Adams, a friend of Pierre Dubois,” she explained. “If you tell him I’m here, I’m sure he’ll see me.”

She wasn’t left to wait more than a few minutes. In that time she reviewed what she wanted to say. The staff member returned, smiling, and said, “Chef Dubois will see you in his office.”

“Thank you.” Winter followed the other woman into the kitchen.

Its size made her own small café look insignificant by comparison. Winter lost count of how many people she saw working at various stations. Everyone was busy with meal preparation. One thing was obvious; Pierre had his hands full. If nothing else, this experience would teach him some organizational skills, which in her opinion were sadly lacking.

It took about two seconds to realize that her assumptions about her reception—and his improved organization—were off base. His desk was in a state of chaos.

He stood when she entered the room, but he didn’t advance toward her. Worse, he showed no signs of being happy to see her. He wore his chef’s toque and white uniform and appeared all business. Nothing in his expression revealed any curiosity about her visit after all these weeks.

Winter blinked. “Hello, Pierre,” she said softly, letting her voice betray her feelings.

He ignored her greeting and gestured for her to sit down, then seemed to notice that the chair was stacked with papers, catalogs and menus. He scooped up the whole pile and set it on the corner of his desk, where it promptly slid off and tumbled to the floor.

Winter bent down to help him retrieve the assorted pieces of paper.

“Leave it,” he snapped. He hated it when she felt the need to tidy up a room.

Swallowing, she straightened, then sat in the chair while Pierre dealt with the fallen papers.

He didn’t say anything the entire time he was reassembling the stack. Neither did she.

When he’d finished, Pierre threw himself into his own chair. The room wasn’t big, but it was much more spacious than her tiny office at the café.

“How are you?” she asked with a small, tentative smile.

“Busy.”

In other words, he was telling her to get to the point and be on her way.

“I hadn’t heard from you,” she said, hoping the comment sounded casual and carefree.

“We agreed there’d be no contact. It was your suggestion, as I recall.”

“We did say that,” she said, nodding. If he wanted this to be strictly business, fine. “So you understand I wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t important.”

His gaze narrowed. “Are you pregnant?”

She stared, hardly able to believe what he’d said. “You know better than to ask such a thing.”

“Do I?”

“Yes,” she flared. She was the responsible one. After the first week, it became abundantly clear that she’d have to be in charge of birth control. As a matter of fact, she’d continued with the pill, which was ridiculous since they hadn’t even touched in weeks.

“If you aren’t pregnant, what’s so important that you have to interrupt me in the middle of the day—on a Saturday, no less?”

Winter hadn’t stopped to consider that he might have two or three different banquets scheduled during a weekend.

Nonetheless, she forged ahead. “An interesting situation has come up that I felt I should discuss with you.”

“By all means,” he murmured with more than a hint of sarcasm.

“My cousin Hannah’s husband—”

“Your cousin who died?”

“Yes. Hannah’s husband’s name is Michael. He came to see me.”

“And?” Pierre prompted, obviously in a hurry to be rid of her.

“He wants to go out with me.” There, she’d said it. If she was looking for a reaction from Pierre, she didn’t get one; his expression didn’t so much as flicker. It was as if she’d pointed out that this spring was cooler than normal for the Pacific Northwest.

Pierre held her gaze. “We never discussed anything like this,” she felt obliged to remind him.

“How foolish of us,” he returned, his words heavy with scorn.

She didn’t respond to his unpleasant tone. “Well?” she pressed.

He shrugged. “I don’t see the problem.”

“You don’t mind?” she blurted out, unable to hide the hurt she felt.

“Why should I?”

“But…” Pain and disillusionment gathered in her chest. Rather than explain, rather than reveal how deeply his total disregard and lack of concern had cut her, Winter bounded to her feet and headed out the door.

“Winter…”

“I thought we could have a decent conversation for once,” she said, struggling to hold back her own anger.

“You come to me after weeks of silence because you want my permission to date another man?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“As a matter of fact, you did.”

“Are we going to argue about semantics?” she asked. How quickly they’d fallen back into the same old patterns. A few minutes earlier, Winter had been nearly breathless with anticipation. Now she was close to tears.

“If you want to date this other man, don’t let me stand in your way.”

“I won’t,” she said and smiled sweetly. “He’s a doctor, you know.”

“Who cares?”

“Oh, that was mature.”

“About as mature as telling me you’re dating a doctor. Just leave, Winter, before I say something I regret.”

“I’m the one with regrets, Pierre. I never should’ve come here, never should’ve assumed that being apart would make any difference. I can see nothing’s changed. I thought I loved you…I thought you loved me, too, but I can see how wrong I was.” She rushed through the kitchen, blinded by anger and sorrow, and almost ran to the exit.

Pierre didn’t follow, and that was just as well. She’d learned the answer to her unspoken question. Pierre was completely and utterly indifferent to her. His one concern was whether she might be pregnant. He was no more ready to be a husband and father than…than the man in the moon.

Hurrying into the street, Winter paused, her pulse beating in her ear like a sledgehammer. Breathless, she leaned against the building and placed both hands over her heart.

The meeting had gone so much worse than she’d expected. Pierre didn’t need three months to decide about their relationship. Apparently, he didn’t even need three weeks. His decision had been made. Which meant hers was, too.

It was over.

Her life with Pierre had come to an end.

If Dr. Michael Everett was interested in pursuing a relationship, then Winter needed to open her heart to the possibility.

Chapter Eight

Monday morning I met Ritchie at the gym. The Saturday afternoon we’d spent together had lifted my spirits. Max’s softball game had gone well—his team had won—and it felt good to sit in the bleachers with the other parents and cheer on my nephew. Max, at almost nine, was a terrific kid. Afterward, the two of us played Xbox until Steph called us down for dinner. As soon as we’d finished, we both went upstairs again, eager to get back to our game. Ritchie eventually joined us, but his expertise was on a level with mine. Max beat us both.

The boy had been a great favorite of Hannah’s. She’d loved spending time with him; she used to buy him books, take him to movies and attend his Little League games whenever she could. Losing his adored aunt was hard for Max, and he hardly ever mentioned Hannah anymore. That didn’t bother me. I knew Max treasured his memories of Hannah the same as I did. I saw her picture in his bedroom when he showed me the latest addition to his baseball card collection. My gaze fell on the photograph, and Max, ever sensitive and kind, had simply walked over and hugged me. I hugged him back. We didn’t need to talk; his gentle embrace said far more than words.

“Did you hear from Winter?” Ritchie asked as we walked out of the gym.

I’d wondered when he’d get around to asking me that. I’d just about made a clean escape, but I should’ve known my brother-in-law wouldn’t let it pass.

“She left a message on Sunday afternoon.”

“You weren’t going to tell me, were you?” Ritchie chastised.

“Nope.” No point in lying.

“That’s what I thought.” We walked toward the parking garage, and I hoped that would be the end of the subject. Wishful thinking on my part.

“You didn’t pick up, did you?” Ritchie said when I didn’t elaborate.

I was continually surprised by how well Ritchie could predict my behavior. It was almost as if he’d been sitting in the same room with me. “No,” I admitted reluctantly.

“What did she say?”

I shrugged. “Nothing much. She asked me to return the call when it was convenient.”

“How long do you suppose it’ll be before you find it convenient?”

My delaying tactic wasn’t working as successfully as I’d hoped. “I thought I’d give her a call later this afternoon.” Maybe. I wasn’t convinced Winter and I were a good match, despite what Hannah seemed to believe.

“Don’t disappoint me,” Ritchie warned.

I was grateful when I reached my car, eager to bring this awkward conversation to a close.

“How about poker on Thursday night?” Ritchie asked.

Sometimes I swore he had radar and knew exactly how hard to push before backing off.

“Steve’s got a meeting,” he went on, “and can’t make it.”

I shook my head. I used to play with Ritchie and the other guys every Thursday. In fact, I’d been the one to instigate the poker game. Patrick O’Malley, one of my partners, Steve Ciletti, an internal-medicine specialist, Ritchie and I used to get together for poker every week. At first we took turns hosting and then we settled on Ritchie and Steph’s place because it’s centrally located and easily accessible to all of us. We never played past midnight and the wagers were friendly. I’d given up poker and all other unnecessary distractions after Hannah was diagnosed with cancer.

“I don’t think so,” I said automatically.

“Bill’s been substituting for you for two years now. Isn’t it time you rejoined the group?”

“Maybe I will,” I said. I wasn’t sure why I hesitated. I used to enjoy our poker nights, and I didn’t understand my own reluctance.

I had hospital rounds that morning. We did it on a rotation basis and this was my week. Because Hannah had spent so much time in this hospital, I’d had the opportunity to see the situation from two different perspectives—first, as a physician, and secondly, as the spouse of a patient. I could write a book on what I’d learned.

When I arrived at the hospital, I noticed signs everywhere for the annual picnic. The children’s ward put on a huge charity function each year, one specially designed for children with cancer. This wasn’t a fund-raising event. The sole purpose was to let them be kids and forget about chemo and surgery for an afternoon. Hannah and I had volunteered at the picnic for several years and since I often had a patient or two in the pediatric oncology ward, it was very personal for us.

“Michael.” Patrick O’Malley called my name as he walked down the wide corridor to meet me. I hadn’t expected to see him; he must’ve been there for one of his patients. “What’s this I hear about you?” he asked.

“What?” I didn’t know anyone had much of anything to discuss about me. I’d pretty much stayed under the radar, especially when it came to social activities.

“Friday night at the clinic.”

“Oh, that.” Actually, I was embarrassed by the altercation and wished I’d kept my cool. I’d just…snapped. I didn’t know what had brought it on and had regretted it ever since.

“I hear you threatened some guy within an inch of his life.”

I didn’t want to talk about it. “His wife fell down the stairs—” I made quotation marks with my fingers “—three times in three months. I figured someone should do something.”

“She wouldn’t press charges?”

“Apparently not. She wouldn’t admit the guy even touched her.” I might have maintained my professional attitude, but her chart confirmed that her injuries had become more extensive with each assault. Shamika didn’t seem to realize she was risking her life if she stayed with the creep. Still, I was appalled by my own behavior; the audacity of it was completely unlike anything I’d ever done.

“You only did what all of us have felt like doing a dozen times.”

No matter, I’d been out of line. “I don’t think the clinic wants me back.”

“Are you kidding?” Patrick said. “It’s hard enough for them to get volunteers. They’ll look the other way, at least this once.”

I thought so, too, but my decision was made. I’d resigned. My uncharacteristic act of violence simply disturbed me too much. A replacement doctor had already been found, according to Mimi, but I didn’t tell Patrick any of this. He’d find out soon enough.

“Speaking of volunteers,” Patrick said, glancing pointedly at the posters decorating the hallway. “The picnic’s on Saturday.”

“It’s a little early this year, isn’t it?” I asked, stalling for time.

“Not really. It’s always in May.”

I hadn’t attended last year’s. Hannah’s funeral had been only a couple of weeks before that and I was barely coping.

“We could use a few more volunteers.”

“I’ve got plans,” I said, although it wasn’t true. Again, my own reluctance baffled me. Until Hannah’s illness and death, I’d enjoyed being part of the event.

“Can you change your plans?” Patrick asked. “We’re really shorthanded. We need someone to help with the games.”

I sighed.

“We need a volunteer to flip burgers, too, if that’s more to your liking.”

I could see Patrick wasn’t going to make this easy. “I might be able to come.”

“We need every worker we can get.”

“How long would I need to be there?” I asked, hedging. If I could find a way out of this I’d gladly take it.

Patrick shrugged. “A couple of hours should do it.”

“Okay, I’ll rearrange my plans,” I said, continuing the farce. The only thing I had scheduled for Saturday was my routine five-mile run.

“Thanks, buddy.” He slapped me on the back and hurried off.

The word that I’d signed up as a volunteer at the Kids with Cancer event spread faster than a California brushfire. Clearly Patrick hadn’t wasted any time.

A couple of other physicians stopped me during my rounds to say how pleased they were that I was socializing again. In my opinion, the news that I was volunteering at a charity function shouldn’t be treated like a public announcement.

Besides, I wasn’t socializing. I’d been pressured into helping what I considered a good cause. I wouldn’t be doing this at all if Patrick hadn’t cornered me and practically blackmailed me into it. Naturally, I couldn’t say that. I smiled at the two physicians and quickly extricated myself from the conversation so I could go about my business.

I hadn’t taken more than a few steps when I noticed a couple of the nurses with their heads together, whispering. They looked up a bit guiltily as I approached them, and I realized they were probably talking about me.

“Morning, Dr. Everett,” the first one said. She seemed impossibly young and energetic.

“Morning,” I responded and picked up my pace. Over the course of the past year I’d received quite a bit of attention from certain women in the medical field. I was fairly young and presentable…and I was available, at least in theory.

Emotionally, I was worlds away from being ready for another relationship. The fact that I’d even talked to Winter on the subject of dating confused me.

I resented the way some people thought that because a year had passed, my time to grieve was over. They seemed to think I should’ve awakened a year after Hannah’s death, prepared to “move on” with my life—an expression I’d come to hate. I also hated people’s assumption that all I’d need to get over her loss was three hundred and sixty-five days. On day three hundred and sixty-six, I should be running around acting all bright and cheery as if—sigh of relief—I’d completely recovered from my wife’s death.

“I hear you’re going to be at the picnic,” the same young nurse said. She nearly had to trot to keep up with me.

I nodded, not wanting to encourage conversation.

“Our whole shift has volunteered. It’s such a wonderful idea, isn’t it?”

Again I nodded.

“I’ll see you there,” she said, sounding breathless. Before I could speak, she veered off, making a sharp turn into a patient’s room.

I made the rounds, filled out the paperwork and left the hospital with my head spinning. First Hannah, then Ritchie and now Patrick. It seemed everyone wanted to help me, and while I appreciated their efforts, I wasn’t prepared for any of this. From the hospital I drove to the office. Linda Barclay looked up from her desk when I entered through the private door reserved for staff.

“Good morning, Michael.”