Книга - Hannah’s List

Hannah's List
Debbie Macomber


Perfect for fans of Maeve Binchy' - CandisI want you to marry again. . . .On the anniversary of his beloved wife’s death, Dr. Michael Everett receives a letter Hannah had written him. In it she makes one final request. An impossible request: I want you to marry again – and she’s chosen three women he should consider.First is Winter Adams, a trained chef who owns a café on Blossom Street. The second is Leanne Lancaster, Hannah’s oncology nurse. Michael knows them both. But the third name is one he’s not familiar with – Macy Roth.Each of these three women has her own heartache, but during the months that follow, Michael spends time with Winter, Leanne and Macy, learning more about each of them… and about himself.









Make time for friends. Make time for Debbie Macomber


CEDAR COVE

16 LIGHTHOUSE ROAD

204 ROSEWOOD AVENUE

311 PELICAN COURT

44 CRANBERRY POINT

50 HARBOR WAY

6 RAINIER DRIVE



BLOSSOM STREET

THE SHOP ON BLOSSOM STREET

A GOOD YARN

OLD BOYFRIENDS

WEDNESDAYS AT FOUR

TWENTY WISHES

SUMMER ON BLOSSOM STREET

CHRISTMAS IN SEATTLE



THURSDAYS AT EIGHT




Dearest Friends,


My readers tell me they enjoy learning the genesis of a story. The idea for Hannah’s List came into being in September 2008, when I had the honour of dining with Paul and Maggie (Peale) Everett. Maggie told me about a friend of hers who knew she was dying. Like my character Hannah, she gave her husband a list of women she felt would make him a good second wife. I was deeply touched by what I’d heard and recognised immediately what an act of love such a letter would be. It wasn’t long before the premise took shape in my imagination. Soon after that, the central character of Michael, the young paediatrician, appeared. And the rest is…this story.

While this is peripherally a Blossom Street book, it’s more along the lines of Twenty Wishes in that it takes place away from A Good Yarn, Lydia Goetz’s store. If you’ve read the Blossom Street stories, you’ll remember Winter Adams, the owner of the French Café. And, naturally, you’ll be getting updates on some of your favourite characters. Still, this book belongs to Michael and in many ways to Hannah, whom I grew to love and admire in the process of writing the story.

When Hannah’s List begins, she’s been gone a year. She died of ovarian cancer, which is often called a silent killer. Ovarian cancer claimed my own friend, Stephanie Cordall, who was one of the original members of my Thursday morning breakfast group. I encourage you to check out the following website, which explains how to identify the symptoms: www.mayoclinic.com.

As always I’m eager to hear from my readers. Your feedback has guided my career all these years. You can reach me either through my website at www.DebbieMacomber.com or at PO Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366. USA.











Hannah’s List

Debbie Macomber











www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)



Maggie Peale Everett in appreciation of a wonderful idea




Chapter One


I am not a sentimental guy. I’ve been known to forget Mother’s Day and, once, when Hannah and I were dating, I even let Valentine’s go unnoticed. Fortunately she didn’t take my lapse too seriously or see it as any reflection of my feelings. As for anniversaries and birthdays, I’m a lost cause. In fact, I’d probably overlook Christmas if it wasn’t for all the hoopla. It’s not that I’m self-absorbed…Well, maybe I am, but aren’t we all to a certain extent?

To me, paying a lot of attention to people because it’s their birthday or some made-up holiday is ridiculous. When you love someone, you need to show that love each and every day. Why wait for a certain time of year to bring your wife flowers? Action really does speak louder than words, especially if it’s a loving deed, something you do for no particular reason. Except that you want to. Because you care.

Hannah taught me that. Hannah. A year ago today, May eighth, I lost her, my beautiful thirty-six-year-old wife. Even now, a whole year after her death, I can’t think of her without my gut twisting into knots.

A year. Three hundred and sixty-five lonely days and empty nights.

A few days after her death, I stood over Hannah’s casket and watched as it was lowered into the ground. I threw the first shovelful of dirt into her grave. I’ll never forget that sound. The hollow sound of earth hitting the coffin’s gleaming surface.

Not an hour passes that I don’t remember Hannah. Actually, that’s an improvement. In those first few months, I couldn’t keep her out of my head for more than a minute. Everything I saw or heard reminded me of Hannah.

To simply say I loved her would diminish the depth of my feelings. In every way she completed me. Without her, my world is bleak and colorless and a thousand other adjectives that don’t begin to describe the emptiness I’ve felt since she’s been gone.

I talk to her constantly. I suppose I shouldn’t tell people that. We’ve had this ongoing one-sided conversation from the moment she smiled up at me one last time and surrendered her spirit to God.

So, here I am a year later, pretending to enjoy the Seattle Mariners’ baseball game when all I can think about is my wife. My one-year-dead wife.

Ritchie, Hannah’s brother and my best friend, invited me to share box seats for this game. I’m not fooled. I’m well aware that my brother-in-law didn’t include me out of some mistaken belief that I’m an inveterate baseball fan. He knows exactly what anniversary this is.

I might not be sentimental, but this is one day I can’t forget.

As a physician, a pediatrician, I’m familiar with death. I’ve witnessed it far too often and it’s never easy, especially with children. Even when the end is peaceful and serene as it was with Hannah, I feel I’ve been cheated, that I’ve lost.

As a teenager I was involved in sports. I played football in the fall, basketball in winter and baseball in the spring, and worked as a lifeguard during the summers. The competitive spirit is a natural part of who I am. I don’t like to lose, and death, my adversary, doesn’t play fair. Death took Hannah from me, from all of us, too early. She was the most vibrant, joyful, loving woman I have ever known. I’ve been floundering ever since.

Although I’ve fought death, my enemy, from the day I became a doctor—it’s why I became a doctor—I learned to understand it in a different, more complex way. I learned death can be a friend even while it’s the enemy. As she lay dying, Hannah, who loved me so completely and knew me so well, showed me that ultimate truth.

A year’s time has given me the perspective to realize I did my wife a disservice. My biggest regret is that I refused to accept the fact that she was dying. As a result I held on to her far longer than I should have. I refused to relinquish her when she was ready to leave me. Selfishly, I couldn’t bear to let her go.

Even when she’d drifted into unconsciousness I sat by her bedside night and day, unable to believe that there wouldn’t be a miracle. It’s stupid; as a medical professional I certainly know better. Yet I clung to her. Now I realize that my stubbornness, my unwillingness to release her to God, held back her spirit. Tied her to earth. To me.

When I recognized the futility of it all, when I saw what I was doing to Hannah’s parents and to Ritchie, I knew I had to let her go. I left Hannah’s room and got hold of myself. I hadn’t slept in days, hadn’t eaten. Nor had I shaved, which means I probably looked even more pathetic than I felt. I went back to our home, showered, forced down a bowl of soup and slept for three uninterrupted hours. When I returned, the immediate family had gathered around her bedside. Hannah’s heart rate had slowed and it was only a matter of minutes. Then, just before she died, she opened her eyes, looked directly at me and smiled. I held her hand and raised it to my lips as she closed her eyes and was…gone.

That last smile will stay with me forever. Every night as I press my head against the pillow, the final image in my mind is Hannah’s farewell smile.

“Hey, Michael. A beer?” Ritchie asked. He doesn’t call me Mike; no one does. Even as a kid, I was never a Mike.

“Sure.” My concentration wasn’t on the game or on much of anything, really. Without glancing at the scoreboard I couldn’t have told you who was ahead. I went through the motions, jumped to my feet whenever Ritchie did. I shouted and made noise along with the rest of the crowd, but I didn’t care about the game. I hadn’t cared about anything for a long time—except my work. That had become my salvation.

“How about dinner after the game?” Ritchie asked as he handed me a cold beer a few minutes later.

I hesitated. All that awaited me was an empty house and my memories of Hannah.

“Sure.” I didn’t have much of an appetite, though. I rarely did these days.

“Great.” He took a long swig of beer and turned back to the field.

I hadn’t done my brother-in-law any favors by agreeing to attend this game. These weren’t cheap seats, either. Ritchie had paid big bucks for box seats behind home plate, and I’d basically ignored the entire game. I should’ve made an excuse and let him take someone else. But I didn’t want to be alone. Not today. Every other day of the year I was perfectly content with my own company. But not today.

The game must have been over because, almost before I was aware of it, people were leaving.

“Great game,” I said, making the effort.

“We lost,” Ritchie muttered.

I hadn’t been paying enough attention to notice.

Ritchie slapped me on the back and headed out of the stadium. That was his way of telling me he understood.

Half an hour later we sat in a friendly sports bar not far from Safeco Field. I stared at the menu, wishing I could conjure up an appetite. Over the past year I’d lost nearly twenty pounds. Food was a necessity, and that was the only reason I bothered. I usually ate on the run, without interest or forethought. I needed something in my belly so I grabbed a protein bar or a vegetable drink. It served the purpose, although I derived no pleasure from it.

Hannah had been exceptionally talented in the kitchen, just like her cousin Winter Adams, who owned the French Café on Blossom Street. She loved experimenting with recipes and took pride in preparing meals. Hannah’s dinner parties were legendary among our friends. As a hostess, she was a natural—charming and gracious.

“What are you thinking about?” Ritchie asked.

His question startled me until I saw that he was gazing at the menu. “Grilled salmon,” I replied.

“I’m leaning toward the T-bone,” he said.

I’ve always associated steaks with celebration, and this wasn’t a day I’d consider celebrating. Long before I was willing to accept that Hannah had lost her battle with cancer, she’d told me that when she was gone, she didn’t want me to grieve. She said her wake should be as much fun as her parties. At the time I didn’t want to hear her talk about death. By then she’d resigned herself to the outcome; I hadn’t found the courage to do so.

The waitress took our order, brought us each a beer and left. I held the amber bottle between my fingers and frowned at the table. I wished I was better company for Ritchie.

“It’s been a year,” my brother-in-law murmured.

I nodded, acknowledging the comment, but not elaborating on it.

“I miss her.”

Again I nodded. As painful as it was to talk about Hannah, I had the burning desire to do exactly that. I wanted—no, needed—to hold on to her, if not physically, then emotionally.

“Hard to believe it’s been twelve months.” I heard the pain in my own voice but didn’t try to hide it.

“You doing okay?” Ritchie asked.

I shrugged rather than tell the truth—I wasn’t okay. I was damn mad. Still. How dared this happen to a woman as wonderful as Hannah. How dared it happen to me!

Hannah and I were married as soon as I graduated from medical school. We decided that my internship and residency would be too demanding to allow us to start a family right away. Hannah worked for a regional department-store chain as a buyer and loved her job. When I’d get home too exhausted to think, she’d entertain me with stories of the people she’d met. People whose names I soon forgot but whose foibles lived on. The smallest incident became a full-fledged anecdote, complete with wickedly funny observations. She had a way of making the most mundane details fascinating. If I close my eyes I can still hear her laugh. I can smile just recalling the early years of our marriage and the struggles we endured, the things we enjoyed. Memories sustained me that first year without Hannah.

The day I finished my residency and specialized training and was able to join a Seattle practice was the day Hannah threw away her birth control pills. We talked endlessly about our family. I love children and so did Hannah. She wanted three kids; I would’ve been satisfied with two. Hannah felt an odd number would be best, so I said yes to three.

But Hannah didn’t get pregnant. We’d assumed it would be so easy. She worried constantly, and I was convinced the stress she felt was the real problem. After eighteen months she wanted to see a fertility specialist and I agreed. That was when we learned that getting Hannah pregnant was the very least of our concerns. Within a week of our first visit to the specialist, Hannah was diagnosed with stage-four ovarian cancer. By the time the discovery was made, it was too late to save her.

I couldn’t help feeling I should have known, should have suspected that something wasn’t right. As a medical professional, I blamed myself for the fact that Hannah went undiagnosed as long as she did. If I’d paid closer attention, I told myself, I might have picked up on the clues. I’d been busy, preoccupied with work. I had other things on my mind.

Friends have argued with me, friends like Patrick O’Malley, who’s another pediatrician and one of my partners. They frequently reminded me—as did Hannah herself—that ovarian cancer is notoriously lacking in symptoms until it’s too late. I knew all that. What I realized was that I needed to feel guilty, to punish myself; I think I felt better if I could blame myself for not noticing.

“Remember the night Steph and I had you and Hannah over for dinner?” Ritchie asked, breaking into my thoughts. “The last night?”

I nodded. It’d been a Friday evening, the final time we’d gone out as a couple. We’d received news that afternoon that had rocked our world. The latest test results had come in—and they showed that the chemo had done little to slow the progression of the disease.

Devastated, I’d wanted to cancel dinner, but Hannah insisted we go. She’d put on a bright smile and walked into her brother and sister-in-law’s home as though nothing was wrong. I was an emotional mess and barely made it through the evening. Not Hannah. If I hadn’t known, I would never have guessed.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“She asked me to do something for her that night,” Ritchie went on to say.

“Hannah did?” Unable to hide my surprise, I looked up from my beer.

Now Ritchie glanced away. “While you were playing a video game with Max, Hannah spoke with me privately.”

I moved to the edge of my seat. The noise from the television blaring above the bar seemed to fade into the background. Every muscle in my body tensed, almost as if I knew what Ritchie was about to tell me.

“She said the doctors had delivered bad news.”

I focused on an empty bar stool on the other side of the room. “I wanted to cancel dinner. Hannah wouldn’t let me.”

“She had a good reason for wanting to come that night,” Ritchie explained. “She told me there wasn’t any hope left and she’d accepted that she was going to die.”

I wasn’t in the mood to hear this.

Ritchie exhaled loudly. “She wasn’t afraid of dying, you know.”

“Why should she be? Heaven was made for people like Hannah.”

Ritchie nodded, agreeing with me. “She’d made her peace with God long before that night. She never had a fatalistic attitude. She wanted to live. More than anything, she wanted to live.”

At one time I’d doubted that. “I begged her to let me take her to Europe because I’d read about an experimental treatment there. She wouldn’t go.”

“It was too late,” Ritchie said simply. His hand tightened around the beer bottle. “She knew it even if we didn’t.”

That was Hannah—not only was she wise, but forever practical. While she was willing to accept the inevitable, I clung to every shred of hope. I spent hours studying medical journals, calling specialists, doing online research. But my crazed efforts to cure her didn’t make any difference. In the end Hannah had been right; she’d reached the point of no return. She died less than two months later.

Even now I was shocked by how quickly she slipped away. It was the only time in our marriage that I became truly angry with her. I wanted Hannah to fight the cancer. I shouted and paced and slammed my fist against the wall. Gently she took my bleeding knuckles between her own hands and kissed away the pain. What she didn’t seem to understand was that no amount of tenderness would ease the ache of her leaving me.

The waitress brought our meals, but I couldn’t have swallowed a single bite had my life depended on it. Ritchie apparently felt the same because his steak remained untouched for several minutes.

“Hannah asked me to give you this,” my brother-in-law finally said. He pulled an envelope from his jacket.

“A letter?”

“She asked me to wait until she’d been gone a year. Then and only then was I to hand this over to you. It was the last thing my sister asked of me.”

I stared up at Ritchie, hardly able to believe he’d kept this from me. We worked out at the gym three mornings a week and had for years. In all these months he’d never let on that he had this letter in his possession.

“The night of the dinner party I promised Hannah I’d give you this,” Ritchie said. “I put the letter in our safety-deposit box and waited, just like she wanted me to.”

Not knowing what to say or how to react, I took the letter.

We left the sports bar soon after. I don’t remember driving home. One minute I was in the parking garage in downtown Seattle and the next time I was aware of anything I’d reached the house and was sitting in my driveway.

Once I’d gone inside, I dropped my keys on the kitchen counter and walked into the living room. I sat on the edge of the sofa and stared at the envelope. Hannah had written one word on the front of it.

Michael.

I looked at my name, mesmerized as grief rippled through me. Unbelievable though it seemed, it felt as if her love for me vibrated off the paper.

My hand shook as I turned over the envelope and carefully opened it.




Chapter Two


Idon’t know how long I stared at the letter before I found the courage to unfold it. It consisted of four sheets.

The first thing I noticed was the date. March 13. This was another date that had been burned in my memory—the Friday of our appointment with the medical team, when we’d received the devastating news.

Hannah had written the letter that day? That was impossible. I’d been with her every minute from the appointment until dinner with Ritchie and Steph. That meant…

I fell back against the sofa cushion and closed my eyes. Hannah must have written the letter before the appointment. She knew even before we got the final word. She’d always known. In some way I think I did, too, only I couldn’t face it. I’d refused to accept what should have been evident.

I returned my attention to the letter. She’d written it by hand, her cursive elegant and flowing. I felt a visceral reaction to seeing her handwriting, which had once been so familiar. I tensed as if I’d just taken a punch to the gut.

My darling Michael,

I know this letter will come as a shock to you and I apologize for that. It’s been a year now and I imagine it’s been a difficult one for you, as well as our parents and Ritchie. I would’ve given anything to have spared you this grief.

Even on the verge of death, Hannah didn’t think of herself. Instead, she was thinking of me, our parents and her brother and how terribly we missed her and how deeply we’d loved her.

For the past few weeks I’ve been giving serious thought to what I wanted to say and what my last words to you would be. Please bear with me as I have quite a lot on my mind.

I know people laugh when they hear about love at first sight. I was only eighteen when we met, and young as I was, I knew instantly that you were the man I was going to love…and I have, from that moment forward. I will love you until the day I die and beyond. And in my heart I know you’ll love me, too. I want to thank you for loving me. Your devotion to me through everything I’ve undergone since the cancer was diagnosed has been the greatest gift of my life. You have made me so happy, Michael.

I closed my eyes again, fearing I didn’t have the emotional strength to continue. I knew when Ritchie handed me this letter that reading it would be hard, but I didn’t know how hard it was going to be. I dragged in a deep breath and went on.

The early years of our marriage were some of the most wonderful days of my life. We had so little, and yet all we needed was each other. I loved you so much and was…am so proud of you, of the caring pediatrician you’ve become. You were born to be a physician, Michael. And I was born to love you. Thank you for loving me back, for giving so much of yourself to me, especially during these past few months. You made them the very best months of my life.

I don’t want to die, Michael. I fought this, I honestly did. I gave it everything in me. Nothing would have made me happier than to grow old with you. I’m so sorry that, for me, the end has to come so soon.

Please don’t ever believe I had a defeatist attitude. When we first got the diagnosis, I was determined to fight this and win. It’s just in the past week that I’ve come to realize that this cancer is bigger than I am. There’s no use pretending otherwise.

I had to stop reading a second time, regretting once more my insistence that Hannah travel to Europe for the experimental treatment I’d wanted her to receive. It’d been far too late by then. I took a moment to compose myself, then went back to her letter.

I’ve asked Ritchie to give you this a year after my death. Knowing you as well as I do, I suspect you’ve buried yourself in work. My guess is that you spend twelve hours a day at the office, eating on the run. That isn’t a healthy lifestyle, my darling. I do hope you’re still meeting Ritchie at the gym three times a week.

I smiled. Yes, Hannah knew everything about me. Right down to the long hours and skipped meals. I’d tried to quit my exercise regime, too, just like I’d dropped Thursday-night poker with the guys. But Ritchie wouldn’t let me. It became easier to show up than to find an excuse.

Two weeks after Hannah’s funeral he arrived on my doorstep in his workout clothes and dragged me back to the gym. A couple of early-morning calls from my brother-in-law, and I decided I couldn’t fend him off anymore, so our workout became part of my routine once again.

This next section of my letter is the most painful for me to write. Although it hurts, I have to accept that there’s no hope now. I suppose it’s only natural when facing one’s mortality that regrets surface, along with the knowledge that the end is close. The greatest of those regrets is my inability to have children. This is harder for me than even the discovery that my cancer is terminal. I so badlywanted your baby, Michael. A child for my sake, yes, but yours, too. You should be a father. You will be a wonderful father. Oh, Michael, I so wanted a child.

Once more I was forced to stop reading as a lump formed in my throat. “I wanted a child, too,” I whispered. I rested the letter on my knee and wondered if I could finish without giving in to the weakness of tears. And yet I had to read on. I had to know Hannah’s last words to me.

I have one final request of you, my darling, and I hope you will honor it.

“Anything.” I would do anything for Hannah.

What I want, what I need from you, is this, my dearest love. I want you to marry again.

I gasped. No way! I’d already thought about this, and I couldn’t do it. I’d had the love of my life and I’d be foolish to believe it could happen twice. If I did remarry, I’d be cheating the new woman I pledged to love. I’d be cheating us both because my heart would always belong to Hannah and only to Hannah.

I can see you shaking your head, insisting it isn’t possible. Michael, I know you. I can almost hear your protests. But this is important, so please, please listen. Lovinganother woman won’t diminish the love we had. Nor does it mean you’ll love me any less. I will always be a part of you and you will remain a part of me.

The thing you must remember is that my life’s journey is over.

Yours isn’t.

You have a lot of living left to do and I don’t want you to waste another moment grieving for me. You made me completely happy, and you’ll make another woman equally so.

I wasn’t sure I agreed with Hannah, wasn’t sure I was capable of loving another woman, not with the same intensity, the same depth. She didn’t understand what she was asking of me. I had no desire for another woman, no desire to share my life with anyone else ever again.

Knowing how stubborn you are, I realize you’re going to require a bit of help, so I’ve compiled a short list of candidates for you to consider.

What? A list? Hannah had supplied me with a list of possible replacements? If it wasn’t so shocking I would’ve laughed. Still, curiosity got the better of me.

Remember Winter Adams, my cousin? She was a bridesmaid in our wedding. Winter has a big heart and she loves children. She’d make you an excellent wife. She’s also a chef and will cook you incredible meals. In addition to being my cousin, she’s been a good friend. I want you to seriously consider her.

Of course I remembered Winter. She and Hannah had been close. We hadn’t seen as much of Winter after she opened her restaurant, the French Café on Blossom Street, not far from my office. Hannah and I had visited the café a few times and enjoyed coffee and croissants. I recalled her keeping in touch with Hannah, mostly by phone. If I remembered correctly, Winter had been going through some relationship crisis shortly before Hannah was diagnosed, and, Hannah, being Hannah, had offered her comfort and encouragement.

Winter had been at the funeral and had doubled over in tears at the cemetery. I hadn’t heard from her since, although I vaguely recalled a sympathy card she’d sent me after we buried Hannah.

I liked Winter, but I wasn’t interested. Despite Hannah’s confidence in her cousin as a potential wife, I had no intention of remarrying. Besides, all Winter and I had in common was our memories of Hannah.

The second woman I want you to consider is Leanne Lancaster.

The name was somewhat familiar, but I couldn’t immediately figure out why. She wasn’t a friend of Hannah’s that I could remember.

Leanne was my oncology nurse. She was always kind to me and so caring. As a nurse she’d have a special understanding of the stresses you face as a physician. Leanne and I talked quite a bit and if I’d…if I’d had the chance, I feel Leanne and I would’ve become good friends. I admire her emotional strength. She’s divorced and had a rough time of it. I don’t know her as well as I do Winter, but my heart tells me she’d suit you. Meet with her, Michael, get to know her. That’s all I ask.

Meet with Leanne…get to know her. I doubt Hannah had an inkling of what she was really asking. I had no interest whatsoever in seeking out this woman. As I thought about it, I realized I did remember the oncology nurse. And Hannah was right. Leanne was a kind and caring person—but that didn’t mean I had any desire to know her better!

The third person on my list is Macy Roth. I don’t think you’ve met her. She’s a part-time model I became friends with while I was still able to work. We met because of some fashion shows I was involved in and some catalog work she did for the store. When Macy learned I was in the hospital she sent me notes of encouragement—cards she made herself with adorable sketches of her cats. Remember? And she knit me socks and a shawl I wore during my chemo. She’s funny and clever and multitalented; she models and paints murals and has two or three other jobs. As I was thinking over this list, her name came to me because I know she’ll make you smile. She’ll bring balance to your life, Michael. I’m afraid that when I’m gone, you’ll become far too serious. I want you to laugh and enjoy life. The same unrestrained way Macy does.

Once again, Hannah was right; I hadn’t laughed much in the past two years. The fact is, I couldn’t remember the last good belly laugh I’d had. Life was serious. I’d lost my wife and, frankly, I didn’t have much reason to smile, let alone laugh.

I didn’t remember this Macy, although no doubt she’d featured in some of Hannah’s stories. As for those gifts—the sketches and socks—they’d be among Hannah’s things, the stuff I’d brought home from the hospital. I’d thrown everything into a box and shoved it in the back of a closet. And I’d never looked at it again.

I’ve given you three names, Michael. Each is someone I know and trust. Any of them would make you a good wife and companion; with any one you could have the children you were meant to father.

I’ll be watching and waiting from heaven’s gate, looking down at you. Choose well.

Your loving wife,Hannah

I folded the sheets and set them on the coffee table while I tried to absorb what I’d read. That Hannah had written this letter when she did was shocking enough. Then for her to suggest I remarry—and go so far as to name three women—was almost more than I could take in.

If she was watching over me, then she had to know what hell this first year without her had been.

I’m not much of a drinking man. A few beers with the guys at a sporting event is generally my limit. All at once I felt a need for something stronger.

I remembered a bottle of Scotch stashed in a cupboard somewhere in the kitchen. My father gave it to me when I graduated, claiming it was for “medicinal” purposes. If ever there was an occasion for a medicinal drink, it was now.

I spent nearly fifteen minutes searching for it. Hannah had stored it in the pantry, the last place I thought to look. Not surprisingly, it turned out to be single malt, since that was what my father drank. His favorite brand, too—The Glenlivet.

Reading the label, I saw that it had been aged eighteen years and I’d had it for at least a decade. None of that ten-year stuff for dear ol’ Dad.

I got a clean glass out of the dishwasher, added ice cubes and poured two fingers of my twenty-eight-year-old Scotch before I settled back down on the sofa. Kicking off my shoes, I rested my feet on the coffee table and reached for Hannah’s letter. I would read it again with an open mind and see if I could possibly respond to her last request. I didn’t think so. Hannah was all the woman I’d ever need. The only woman I’d ever love. I already knew I’d find anyone else sadly lacking—even the three women my wife had so carefully selected for me.




Chapter Three


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.




Chapter Four


Macy 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 disguised 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 grandmother 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.”

The old man rubbed the side of his face, as if to wipe away her kiss. He frowned in her direction.

Macy, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more delighted.

“Gotta scoot,” she said as she bounded out the door. “See you later.”

“Don’t hurry back,” he shouted after her.

Macy grinned. Harvey loved her the same as he had her grandmother. She’d figured out years ago that the louder he fussed, the deeper his affection.

Home again, Macy grabbed her purse and car keys and hurried outside. If she made every green light, she wouldn’t be more than five minutes late.

Mr. Sharman might not even notice.




Chapter Five


Ididn’t call Winter and she didn’t try to reach me again, either. The truth is, I’ve never been much good at this dating thing. When I first met Hannah, she made everything so easy. I was attracted to her; she was attracted to me. I like that kind of honesty and straightforwardness. You so often find it in children, less often in adults, which is one reason I chose pediatrics. I’d make more money in another specialty, but I’ve only ever wanted to work with kids.

Frankly, I regretted going to the French Café. I wasn’t ready to go out into the world; life was complicated enough. Still, Winter’s phone number sat on the corner of my office desk and seemed to taunt me. I lost track of time while I looked at it. Then indecision would overcome me once again and I’d glance away.

Friday nights were always the worst for me. Hannah and I had made a practice of doing something special on Fridays. She called it our date night. That didn’t mean we went out for fancy dinners and dancing or stuff like that. We couldn’t have afforded it in the early years. But on Friday nights we spent time together, no matter what. Our “date” could be cuddling on the sofa, watching a rented movie and ordering pizza, or—especially later on—it might be a full-blown dinner party with three or four other couples.

Hannah loved to host parties. She enjoyed cooking and having friends over. She made everything look effortless and possessed a gift for making others feel comfortable. I’d come to enjoy these occasions far more than I’d ever expected.

Now, without Hannah, Friday nights seemed especially bleak and lonely. That was the reason I’d started volunteering Friday evenings at a health clinic in Seattle’s Central District. I usually arrived around six and stayed until eight or nine and went home exhausted. Not only did working those long hours help me get through what had once been a special night for my wife and me, but afterward I could almost guarantee that I’d be able to sleep.

Aside from the benefits I received, deep down I knew Hannah would approve of my volunteering.

I sat at my desk and it seemed that pink message slip with Winter’s phone number wouldn’t let me be. It might as well have been a flashing neon light the way my gaze kept returning to it. I felt as though Hannah herself was reminding me that calling these three women was the last thing she’d ever ask me to do.

“Oh, all right,” I muttered. I grabbed the slip and glanced at the ceiling. “I hope you’re happy.”

As I may have mentioned, I often spoke to Hannah. That was our secret, mine and hers. I didn’t admit this to other people, even Ritchie, because I was afraid they’d suggest I stop conversing with my dead wife. They’d say it was time I got on with my life and accepted the fact that Hannah was dead. Well, I did accept it, but I wasn’t about to give up talking to her when I found such comfort in it. In more ways than I could count, I felt she was still with me.

Sighing, I picked up the phone. I didn’t know what I’d say when Winter answered. Apparently, she had the same problem because she hadn’t contacted me again, either. I wondered if she felt as ill at ease as I did and assumed that was probably the case.

I exhaled when the call connected, and closed my eyes, praying for inspiration.

“The French Café,” a pleasant-sounding woman announced.

“Oh, hi,” I managed to say. “This is Dr. Michael Everett. May I speak to Winter Adams?”

“Hi, I’m Alix. Winter said you’d be phoning.”

That was encouraging.

“Unfortunately she isn’t here at the moment.”

“Oh.” So I was to receive a second reprieve. I smiled. I’d done my duty; Hannah couldn’t fault me for not making the effort.

“Winter left instructions that if you called I was to give you her cell number.”

I clenched my teeth. No reprieve, after all. It’d taken me three days to respond to her message and now the situation was going to drag on even longer. “Okay,” I said. “Give me the number.”

Alix recited it, I wrote it down and then repeated it. “Correct?” I asked.

“Yes,” Alix confirmed. “I know Winter’s anxious to speak to you.”

Oh, good, now pressure had been added to the mix. Winter expected to hear from me. “I’ll call her right away,” I said and disconnected.

I knew I should follow through immediately, or else I’d leave the number sitting on my desk over the weekend. Another three or four days would pass, making it harder than ever. I hung up the phone and leaned back in my chair.

Folding my hands behind my head I analyzed my options. I could call Winter now, as I’d said I would, but I’d have to be quick, since I needed to leave for the clinic in ten minutes. Still, a lot could be said in that length of time.

The exchange of chitchat wouldn’t take more than a minute, two at the most. I’d ask how she was and she’d say fine, and then she’d ask how I was getting along and I’d lie and tell her everything was going well. She’d express her condolences and then—what? Silence?

I wasn’t going to mention Hannah’s letter. I supposed I could ask about the café. That might take another minute or so. Eventually I’d need to get around to the reason I’d phoned her. It’d been almost a week since Ritchie had given me the letter and I felt as much at a loss now as when I’d first read it. The down-and-dirty truth was that I had no desire to remarry and resented being forced into confronting something I didn’t even want to consider. Hannah was the only woman on earth for whom I’d do anything as crazy as this.

I stared at Winter’s cell number so long that when I happened to look at my watch I realized I’d wasted my remaining ten minutes debating what I’d say. It was too late to call now. A sense of relief settled over me as I headed out of the office to the clinic.

The clinic provided free parking behind the five-story brick structure. A couple of the doctors’ vehicles had been broken into so I preferred to take my chances on the street. Low income and high crime seemed to go hand in hand. Never mind that I was volunteering my time; I was putting my safety and my vehicle at risk.

The Central District Health Clinic waiting area was filled to capacity when I stepped inside. The volunteer staff sorted the order in which cases were to be seen based on the severity of need. As much as possible, they steered the children to me, although I saw my fair share of adults.

My first patient was a young woman named Shamika Wilson, who had a badly swollen right eye. She’d come to the clinic because she thought her arm was broken. I read over the chart and saw that she claimed her injuries had occurred as a result of falling down the stairs. An instant red flag went up. Apparently, Shamika Wilson made a habit of “falling down the stairs” because this was her third visit to the clinic with possible fractures in as many months.

The young woman refused to look my way as I started asking her questions.

“You fell down the stairs?” I pressed.

She nodded.

I refrained from mentioning the number of times this had happened. “When was the…accident?”

“Wednesday night.”

Two days earlier. “Why did you wait so long to come to the clinic?” I asked, noting the pain she was in.

Shamika stared at the floor. “I thought it would get better on its own…but the pain just seemed to get worse.”

Seeing that her arm was badly swollen and how she screamed at the mere touch of my fingers, I could only imagine the agony she’d endured for the past two days. “I’m ordering an X-ray,” I said.

She bit her lip and nodded. Shamika knew as well as I did that the technician would need to move her arm to do the X-ray. It would cause her excruciating pain, but I had to know what I was dealing with before we could progress any further.

“Did someone bring you to the clinic?” I asked.

“My…husband.”

“Is he in the waiting room now?” I asked. My anger was close to the surface and I struggled to hold it back. I wasn’t entirely sure who was the object of this fury. The young woman must’ve seen that she wasn’t fooling me with this tale of tripping on the stairs. She’d avoided eye contact when she referred to her husband, another telltale sign. The husband was some loser who used his wife as a punching bag to take out his own frustrations.

“Yeah, Kenny’s waiting for me,” Shamika said, again without meeting my gaze.

“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” I told her and left the room. I asked for a volunteer to escort Shamika to X-ray. Once she was out of earshot, I went to the waiting area. I asked to speak to Kenny.

A skinny, wiry man stepped forward. “How’s Shamika?” he asked.

I stood in the doorway and looked him in the eye. “I’ve ordered an X-ray, but I’m fairly sure the arm’s broken. It’ll need to be set.”

He sighed. “How long is that going to take?”

“I won’t know until I see the X-rays.” I glanced out at the crowded waiting room. “Shamika insists she fell down the stairs. I find that interesting because she’s fallen down the stairs three times in the past few months.”

Her husband shrugged. “What can I tell you? The bitch is clumsy.”

I might’ve let the matter go if he’d referred to Shamika as anything but a bitch. “Clumsy? Now listen up, Kenny. You and I both know this accident on the stairs is pretty much a lie. Don’t you realize how lucky you are to have a wife?” Whether they were legally husband and wife—I suspected they weren’t—was irrelevant.

He looked up, and his eyes narrowed with challenge. He almost dared me to continue, and I was happy to defy his warning.

“You have a good woman, and you treat her like this?” I said from between gritted teeth. “Do you enjoy hitting a woman?”

He didn’t answer.

I had the attention of everyone in the waiting area, which was what I wanted.

“She deserved it. The bitch’s got a mouth on her.”

“And I’ve got a temper,” I said and shocked myself by grabbing his collar and lifting him off the ground so that he stood on the tips of his toes. I knew I might be asked to leave the clinic for pulling this stunt, but at the moment I didn’t care. He had a wife and chose to mistreat her, while I would’ve given anything to have Hannah back.

“You’re a little man,” I spat out. “You hit your wife again and I will personally see to it that you’re sorry. Do I make myself clear?” I carefully enunciated each word so there’d be no doubt in his mind that I was serious.

He fought to break my hold, but I had a firm grasp on his collar.

“Do we understand each other?” I asked, shoving him against the wall.

He managed to nod, which wasn’t easy, seeing that I had his shirt wadded up to the point that he could hardly breathe.

“Good.” I glared at him, our faces so close our noses practically touched.

“Dr. Everett.” Mimi Johnson, who ran the clinic, had her hand on my arm. She repeated my name again and then a third time.

I didn’t know how long she’d been standing there or what else she’d said.

Reluctantly, I released Kenny, but maintained my stance, glaring at the other man, letting him know I wasn’t backing down. He, on the other hand, couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

The piece of scum brought his hand to his throat as if he’d been in mortal danger of being choked to death. If he hurt Shamika again, I’d have no qualms about making sure he suffered. I doubted Shamika would press charges against him. I’d seen this type of situation far too often; bullies and abusers rarely got the punishment they deserved.

Under normal circumstances, I’m not a violent man, but my limit had been reached. I wanted Kenny to feel embarrassed and humiliated and at the same time I was fairly confident that he understood there’d be consequences if I ever heard of him hitting this woman again. I’d make sure a police report was filed, but it wouldn’t do much good unless Shamika pressed charges.

We scowled at each other and then he turned and fled the room, slamming the door behind him.

Mimi asked me to come into her office, which I did. Needless to say, the lecture that followed was completely justified. I listened and nodded at the appropriate times. My job wasn’t to judge, but to treat the sick and injured to the best of my ability. It was up to the authorities to handle cases of domestic violence. And it definitely wasn’t my place to take matters into my own hands.

“Do you understand?” Mimi asked.

“Yes.” Although I couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t happen again.

“If this aggressive behavior is repeated,” Mimi warned, “I’m going to have to suggest that you might not be an appropriate fit for our clinic.”

I said nothing.

“Do you need to leave? Shall I call for a replacement?”

“I’ll behave,” I assured her like a repentant youngster.

“Good.” She sighed with relief.

We both knew it would be difficult to find a replacement, especially at the last minute like this.

I finished the shift without incident and left with barely a word to Mimi and the others. As I pulled into the driveway, I was shocked anew by my own behavior. In all my years in the medical field, I’d never once stepped over the line the way I had that evening. It was time to bow out. Mimi realized it and I did, too. I’d send a letter of resignation on Monday.

Inside the house, I tossed my car keys on the counter and then sat on the edge of the sofa. “I lost it,” I told Hannah. “I just lost it.” Kenny deserved everything I’d said and done, and in that sense I didn’t regret it. However, I’d been called upon to treat the sick and injured—nothing less and certainly nothing more.

Generally, I picked up something to eat on my way home from the clinic. But I hadn’t thought of food all evening, although I hadn’t eaten since noon. My stomach growled.

I located a can of soup, heated that and ate it over the kitchen sink. When I finished I set down the bowl and just stood there. I was still angry. My hands became clenched fists.

“I can’t do it anymore,” I told Hannah.

How I missed her. How I needed her. She would’ve been horrified by the regular attacks on Shamika and concerned about my uncharacteristic loss of control. Undoubtedly she would’ve found the perfect words to comfort me and ease my mind.

But Hannah wasn’t here. She never would be again and I’d need to deal with instances like this on my own. I’d acted foolishly. But while I regretted cracking, I didn’t regret threatening that wife-beater.

It was midnight before I’d calmed down enough to go to bed, but sleep didn’t come. After tangling the sheets, rolling one way and then the other, I decided to sit up and read. That didn’t help, and in an act of pure desperation, I reached for the photo of Hannah. It was one of my favorites—she was walking in an open field, carpeted with blooming wildflowers. I’d taken it on a day trip to Hurricane Ridge several years before. I kept the framed photograph by my bedside and now I set it on the pillow next to mine.

As I suspected it would, having Hannah’s picture close soothed me and I finally fell asleep.

I woke to the bright light of morning and lay on my back, gazing up at the ceiling as I replayed the events of the previous night. I turned my head to one side to look for Hannah’s photograph, planning to replace it on my nightstand. I was surprised to find it missing.

I sat up and looked around. It took me a few minutes to discover that at some point I must have thrashed around and caused the photograph to fall to the floor.

I leaned over to retrieve it and found the glass shattered and the frame broken.




Chapter Six


I work out at the gym three days a week, but on Saturday mornings, I usually run. After my five-mile jog, I stepped into the shower and let the spray beat down on my back while my thoughts churned. I couldn’t get the vision of Hannah’s broken photograph out of my mind. It felt almost as if she was telling me how upset she was that I hadn’t done what she’d asked, which I realized was ridiculous. And yet…the glass had shattered. Why now, I wanted to know, after the countless times I’d placed it on the empty pillow next to mine?

I’m not a superstitious man; I believe in science and rational behavior. But I couldn’t help wondering if Hannah was the reason I instantly recalled Winter’s phone number. Of course, the fact that I’d stared at it for ten minutes yesterday evening might have something to do with it.

I waited until nine-thirty, then called. Winter answered on the second ring.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Winter. It’s Michael,” I said. Actually, I’d been hoping the call would go to voice mail and I could escape talking to her. No such luck.

“Michael! It’s so good to hear your voice. How are you? No, don’t answer that, I know how you are.”

“You do?”

“You miss Hannah. Oh, Michael, I do, too.”

So I’d been right. Hannah would be the primary focus of our conversation.

“I can’t believe it’s been a year.”

“Me, neither,” I muttered. In some ways, though, it felt much longer.

“I heard you stopped by the café,” Winter continued. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I hope you’ll come again.”

“Sure.”

“How about now?”

“Now?” I repeated.

“Unless you’ve got other plans. We can have coffee, spend a few minutes catching up.”

Perhaps it would be best to get this over with quickly. I’d fulfill my duty and then go back to missing Hannah. She wouldn’t be able to fault me once I’d made the effort. “It’ll take me fifteen minutes to get there.”

“That’s perfect. How do you like your coffee?”

“Black,” I told her.

“I’ll start a fresh pot. It’ll be ready by the time you arrive. Would you like a croissant?”

I wasn’t turning one down. “That would be wonderful.”

“Great. I’ll see you soon.”

“Bye.” I hung up and paused while I considered what had just taken place. All week I’d worried about what I’d say, but so far, dialogue on my part had hardly been necessary. Winter seemed pleased, even excited, to hear from me, although I hadn’t seen her in more than a year.

All at once an idea struck me. Was it possible that Hannah had written letters to the three women on the list, as well? This hadn’t occurred to me before, and it paralyzed me.

After a few minutes, the pounding of my heart subsided as I decided on a plan of action. I’d sound Winter out. Naturally I’d broach the question carefully. If the letter to me was the only one Hannah had written, then I didn’t want Winter—or anyone else—to know about it. Ritchie knew, of course, but I could trust him to keep his mouth shut.

I left the house and made the short drive to Blossom Street in less than ten minutes. The downtown area was starting to show signs of life as business owners opened for the day. I noticed the yarn store across from the French Café and pulled into an empty slot in front of it. Cody Goetz was a patient of mine and I’d met Lydia, his mother and the shop’s owner, on a number of occasions. The family had recently adopted a twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl. Hannah had always wanted to learn how to knit. She’d intended to knit our baby a blanket and had signed up for classes at A Good Yarn just before we learned she had cancer. The classes were forgotten, although Hannah had been so eager to knit that baby blanket…

A baby blanket!

I turned my thoughts away. No need to depress myself more than I already was.

I jaywalked across the street and entered the restaurant. I saw Winter right away.

“Michael!” She stepped out from behind the counter, extending her arms toward me, hugging me as I drew close.

“Hello, Winter.”

She held me as I stood there limply, my arms dangling awkwardly by my sides. After a moment I hugged her back.

She smiled up at me. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

“You, too.” I forced a bit of enthusiasm into my voice.

She was lovely, and although I looked hard for a resemblance to Hannah, I didn’t see any. Winter was blonde with blue eyes. Hannah had dark hair and dark brown eyes. They were about the same height, but the similarity ended there. As I studied her, I recognized the expressive, mobile face Hannah had liked so much. A face that was very different from her own.

“Come sit over here.” Winter led me to a table by the window. The day was overcast; otherwise, I would’ve preferred to sit outside. The entire café had an inviting ambience, however, with flowered tablecloths, comfortable chairs and warm lighting.

While I pulled out a chair and sat down, Winter motioned to a young pregnant woman at the counter who efficiently delivered two mugs of steaming coffee and a plate of croissants. “You have a nice place,” I commented as I reached for the coffee. “I was here the other day and it was busy.”

“We do a good business,” she said. “I didn’t know what to expect with the downturn in the economy, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised.”

I noticed that her prices were reasonable. For those fortunate enough to have a job nearby, it would be convenient to stop in for coffee on the way to the office.

“What are your hours?” I asked.

“We open early,” she replied. “Alix, our baker—” she gestured at the woman who’d served us “—comes in around five and does the baking, including the croissants. Then Mary arrives at six and takes care of the morning crowd. We have a steady flow of regulars.”

I nodded.

“Business quiets down around midmorning and then picks up again with the lunch crowd. We serve soup, salads and sandwiches.”

The specials for the day were listed on the blackboard out front. The soup was beet with ginger and the salad was spinach with blue cheese and dried cranberries. Colorful and creative, I thought.

“We stay open until nine-thirty.”

“So you serve dinner, too.”

“The menu’s the same for lunch and dinner,” she explained. “I wasn’t sure evenings would work, but I was wrong. There are enough people living in the neighborhood to make the longer hours worth my while.”

“That’s great.” I glanced around appreciatively. Pictures of the Eiffel Tower, the Seine and other distinctive French scenes decorated the walls.

“I’ve worked hard to make this café a success,” Winter told me, her voice ringing with pride. “Hannah used to encourage me…” Her voice trailed off.

I stared down into my coffee. “Like you said, it’s hard to believe Hannah’s been gone a year.”

“It is,” Winter agreed quietly.

I held my breath. “I’m starting to clear out her things.” A bold-faced lie if there ever was one. “I wondered if there was anything of hers you’d like to have.”

Winter’s eyes misted and she brought her hand to her heart. “Oh, Michael, that’s so thoughtful of you.”

“Hannah loved you. You were her favorite cousin.”

Winter looked as if she might cry. Other than Hannah’s, I never could deal with other people’s emotions. Since her death, I often find myself in the role of comforter. It’s difficult to ease someone else’s pain, especially when my own is so debilitating.

“Is there anything of special significance? Anything you’d treasure?” I asked.

Winter shook her head. “I treasured my cousin. I didn’t realize how much until she was gone.”

I understood the feeling. I took a croissant, ripped off a piece, but didn’t eat it. I was afraid if we headed down this path of memories it would depress us both.

“I can’t think of anything I’d want. Whatever you’d like to give me is fine.”

“What’s the connection with France?” I asked, changing the subject.

Winter regarded me for a long moment. “I went there with Pierre.”

“Pierre?”

“Pierre Dubois. We…we used to be involved.”

“You met in France?” I was trying to remember if Hannah had mentioned any of this. The name sounded familiar.

“No, we met here in the States. At one time we worked together, but that was ages ago now,” she said, lowering her voice slightly. “I flew over to meet Pierre’s family and loved every minute—the food, the culture, the people. Being there inspired me. When I decided to open my own café I wanted to duplicate those memories.”

I smiled, caught up in her words. Then I remembered Hannah telling me about Winter and some Frenchman she’d been dating. A guy she’d worked with at a classy restaurant. The same guy who’d caused her grief.

“I suppose you’re wondering about me and Pierre?” Winter asked. “I’m sorry we were never able to attend the dinner parties you and Hannah had. With our work schedules, it was impossible. But maybe that was just as well.”

“Ah…” I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“He and I are taking a break from each other,” Winter said.

I didn’t know exactly what that meant. “A break?”

“A few months,” she elaborated. “We split up once before and then got back together, but the same old problems cropped up again. All we seemed to do was argue.” A look of sadness came over her. “Some people are meant to be together, I guess, and others aren’t, no matter how strong the attraction is.” She shook her head as if she wasn’t sure how any of this had happened.

If I understood her correctly, Winter had reunited with Pierre after a long break and recently split up again. Hannah had obviously written her letter after the first separation. “What about dating others during this…break?” I asked without any subtlety or finesse.

“Well, that hasn’t really come up, but I don’t think it would be a problem.”

“I see. If someone encouraged you to date…say, someone like me, would you be inclined to do so?” I asked. What I really wanted to find out was whether Hannah had written her a letter condoning—or even suggesting—a relationship between the two of us.

“If someone encouraged me?” She watched me curiously. “Like who?”

“You know. Someone like a friend or—” I hesitated “—or perhaps a relative.”

“You mean Ritchie?”

“Not specifically.” Obtaining the information was harder than I’d expected.

“I wouldn’t need anyone to encourage me, Michael,” she said, smiling across the table at me. “I’ve always thought the world of you.”

I smiled back, thanking her, but I had no idea what else to say. I hadn’t actually asked her out—not intentionally, anyway—but she’d assumed I was trying to initiate a relationship. This was embarrassing. I wasn’t sure how to extricate myself now that I’d brought it up.

We left it open-ended, so that she’d get in touch with me. A short time later I walked away, confused and bewildered.

With no better alternative, I drove to Ritchie’s house. My brother-in-law was in his garage; the door was open and I could see him puttering around inside.

He went out to the driveway to greet me. “Hey, this is a surprise. What’s up?”

“I just had coffee with Winter.”

“So you two finally connected.” I followed him back to the garage and leaned against his workbench.

“Where are Steph and Max?” I asked.

“Shopping. Max has a baseball game later this afternoon. I’m taking him to that. Wanna tag along?”

I didn’t need an excuse to see Max. I was fond of my nephew. He loved his Xbox and, because of that, I’d cultivated the skill; we spent hours battling each other. He had top score and it wasn’t because I wasn’t trying. The kid was a natural. “Glad to,” I told Ritchie.

We were silent for a moment. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” Ritchie said, crossing his arms. “How did the meeting with my cousin go?”

I shrugged. “All right, I guess.” Before I could say anything more, Ritchie started talking.

“I’ve been thinking over what you told me about Hannah’s letter.”

“What about it?”

“My sister put Winter’s name first for a reason.”

“Which is?” I was only coming to terms with this whole letter thing now, but I wasn’t convinced that I could do what Hannah had asked.

“Hannah knew Winter the best and—”

“Winter’s involved with some Frenchman,” I said, cutting him off. “They’ve been seeing each other for quite a while. It makes me wonder why Hannah would even include her. Pierre and Winter must’ve been on their first, uh, hiatus, but still…” In any event, I wasn’t up to hearing what a perfect match the other woman was for me. Not from Ritchie and not from Hannah, either.

“She’s involved with someone else?” This quickly flattened Ritchie’s enthusiasm. “You ever heard of this guy?”

“Maybe. I’m pretty sure Hannah told me about him. Also that he and Winter split up—but then they got back together. After Hannah died, I guess.”

He stared at me blankly and I felt compelled to continue. “Now they’re taking a break from each other. They haven’t broken up, they’re taking a break,” I repeated, trying to emphasize the difference.

“What’s that mean?” he asked.

“Hell if I know. Sounds like something a woman would think up.”

“How long is this break?”

“A few months, she said.”

“Did she mention how far they were into this…temporary break-up?” he asked.

I hadn’t thought to ask. “No. But,” I added, “she’s going to call me.”

Ritchie nodded. “What she’s telling you is that there are problems in that relationship,” Ritchie explained knowledgeably, as if he had a post-graduate degree in Understanding Women.

“That would be my guess,” I agreed amiably enough.

“So you’re free to step in.”

“No,” I said automatically. “I don’t think so.”

“How come?”

“Problems or not, she’s in love with Pierre.” At least the two of us could talk about the people we loved. And it wouldn’t be each other.

“Don’t be so willing to give up. Ask her out.”

I chortled, reluctant to admit what a mess I’d made of our meeting. “Winter more or less assumed I’d contacted her for exactly that reason. But I didn’t ask her out.”

Ritchie cocked his head to one side. “She’s interested, though, if she said she’ll get back to you. Isn’t that obvious?”

Nothing was obvious to me at the moment. “Do you think Hannah might have written more than one letter?” I needed Ritchie’s opinion on this. I suspected she hadn’t, but her brother knew her well, almost as well as I did…had.

My question apparently gave him pause. Then he shook his head. “Who would’ve delivered them?”

“Good point.” That settled it in my mind. There was only the one letter.

“Hannah might suggest dating these other women to you, but I doubt she’d discuss it with them.” Ritchie rubbed the side of his jaw. “No,” he added. “I’m fairly confident Hannah just wrote one letter. Yours.”

I nodded slowly, reassured on that count. My encounters with Winter and the other two women—if I called them—would be awkward enough without more letters from Hannah.

“If Winter’s interested, then I say go out with her,” Ritchie urged.

“No,” I said adamantly. “It’d be a waste of time for both of us.”

“Don’t be so sure. Remember, Hannah put her name first on the list, and there was a reason for that.”

I sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

“It’s what she wanted, Michael. You aren’t going to ignore my sister’s last wish, are you?”

Leave it to Ritchie to hit below the belt. “I’ll think about it,” I muttered. But I already had a feeling that Winter and I would never find happiness together.




Chapter Seven


Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised, but it’d been good to see Michael again.

Winter Adams wasn’t sure how to react when she got the message that her cousin’s husband had stopped by. She hadn’t called him right away; she’d had no idea what to say once she did. She’d always liked Michael and missed Hannah terribly. Her relationship had been with Hannah, though, and because she was usually working the dinner shift, she hadn’t socialized with them as a couple all that much. Which made the whole situation a bit uncomfortable. Nevertheless, she felt she had to return his call.

“Did he ask you out?” Alix asked when Winter carried the plate and two empty coffee mugs to the dishwasher.

She nodded.

“Are you going?”

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. Still mulling over the conversation, she went into her office and closed the door.

Michael might be interested, but Winter belonged with the man she loved. Pierre Dubois. The past three weeks without him had been painful. Bleak. Her life was complicated and she’d probably done Michael a disservice by not explaining the situation better. She was involved with Pierre and had been for a long while, although they’d decided to take a three-month break from each other.

As she’d told Michael, this wasn’t the first time they’d split up. Technically, this wasn’t a split; it was more of a breather while they analyzed what was wrong with their relationship. Two years earlier Pierre and Winter had broken it off for good. At the time it had seemed for the best, since they were constantly arguing, constantly at odds. They spent fifteen months apart. Winter had been miserable without him.

During those months, she’d visited Hannah often, both at the hospital and at home. When Michael was busy, Winter sat with her cousin and poured out her heart. Hannah had been such a sympathetic listener. She’d assured Winter over and over that one day she’d meet a man who would make her happy.

Then, shortly after Hannah’s death, she’d run into Pierre in downtown Seattle. Winter’s heart had started beating furiously at the sight of him. She’d missed Pierre each and every day, but had worked hard to convince herself that she’d gotten along fine without him. At first their meeting had been awkward. They’d exchanged the briefest of pleasantries and gone their separate ways.

Then they’d met again, a few minutes later in a department store. They’d laughed, a bit nervously, Pierre had made a joke about it and they’d headed in opposite directions—only to meet a third time outside the store. Pierre had laughed and suggested they have coffee at a nearby Starbucks. They’d talked for three hours. He said he’d never stopped thinking about her. Winter admitted how much she’d missed their quiet, intimate evenings together. The nights they cuddled in front of the television and discussed menus and cooking techniques while the program aired with barely a notice. They were two of a kind in their perfectionism and their passion for food and cooking; that shared interest had drawn them together in the first place. Unfortunately, they were both stubborn and so sure of their own visions—about food, life and everything else—that they tended to clash. Winter had come to recognize that she could be uncompromising. But no more than Pierre!

At the end of that day, they’d decided to give it one more try, determined to make their relationship work. They felt that if they made a sincere effort, and it succeeded, they should consider marriage. They left the coffee shop with their arms tightly around each other.

Nine months later they were at odds again. Winter didn’t know how it’d happened. All she knew was that they were miserable—miserable together and miserable apart.

In view of their history, they’d agreed to take a three-month “sabbatical” from each other. Pierre had gone so far as to set the date they’d meet to make a final decision. Winter had marked it on her calendar and circled the day. Until then, they were to have no contact at all. July 1, they would either go forward or end the relationship once and for all. This time there’d be no going back. They were in love, but what they needed now was a way to make their love work—a way that brought them happiness and fulfillment.

When they’d first met, Winter had recently graduated from cooking school and Pierre had been her boss at a seafood restaurant—part of an upscale chain—that catered primarily to tourists. He’d been recruited by the chain after receiving his training in France. His parents were chefs, too, and the family had moved to the States for a few years when he was in his teens. They’d eventually gone back to France. Pierre, however, considered Seattle home.

One night at the waterfront restaurant, he and Winter had sat and talked for hours after closing. Talked and kissed…Winter had shared her dream of starting her own restaurant.

Pierre had encouraged her. He’d helped her with the business plan and filling out the loan documents. After weeks of working on the project, they’d been practically inseparable. While they were waiting to hear from the bank, Pierre had taken her to France for what he called a “culinary vacation,” which included meeting his family, who’d charmed her completely. Although her French was terrible, she felt welcomed and loved. Thankfully they all spoke excellent English. She’d had one spectacular meal after another, some in bistros and restaurants, others prepared by his parents.

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.”

Linda’s the only person at work who uses my first name. She’s nurse, surrogate mother and friend all rolled into one middle-aged woman.

“Good morning, Linda.” I walked past her, then turned back. “Why is it,” I asked, still perplexed over what had taken place at the hospital, “that everyone seems to have this opinion that I’ve grieved long enough? What unwritten decree is there that I only have one year?”

“Ah…” Her eyes widened, and I could see that my question had startled her.

“Apparently, I’m volunteering at the children’s picnic on Saturday,” I explained, inhaling a calming breath.

“Good for you. It’s about time.”

“Et tu, Brute?” I muttered, and Linda laughed.

“My family’s after me to date again,” I said, growing serious. Linda would understand. “I’m not ready.”

“Of course you aren’t.”

Her soothing voice took the edge off my irritation.

“I’ve basically been manipulated into going out with Hannah’s cousin.”

“The one who owns that restaurant?”

I nodded, surprised Linda would remember.

“Are you going to do it?”

“No.” There, I’d said it. My mind was made up. I refused to be controlled by another person’s wishes, even if that person happened to be my dead wife.

I loved Hannah—I would always love her—but that didn’t mean I was willing to get involved with Winter or anyone else just because Hannah felt I should. Like I’d told Linda, I wasn’t ready and I didn’t know when I would be.

Perhaps because the morning had started off wrong with Ritchie interrogating me about Winter’s message, I felt out of sorts all day. I didn’t intend to call her back. She was obviously in love with her Frenchman, and I clung to my memories of Hannah.

By the time I got home, I was cranky and tired and hungry. The fridge and cupboards revealed a depressing lack of anything quick or easy. I knew I should avoid processed foods whenever possible, but there were many times, such as tonight, when I would gladly have pulled a frozen pizza from the freezer and popped it in the oven.

A trip to the grocery store was definitely in order. I ended up eating a cheese sandwich and a bowl of cold cereal without milk. It wasn’t the most appetizing dinner of my life, but it filled my stomach. When I’d finished, I sat down in front of the computer, logged on and answered e-mail.

I was just beginning to feel human again when the phone rang. The sound jarred me. It seemed to have an urgent tone as if something bad had happened, or was about to.

Caller ID informed me it was Winter Adams. I stared at the readout but couldn’t make myself pick up.

Winter didn’t leave a message, which was actually a relief. I didn’t want to be rude; all I wanted was peace and quiet. Okay, so maybe I was being a jerk, but this was a matter of self-preservation. The refrain I’m not ready clamored in my head and I couldn’t ignore it.




Chapter Nine


“What is that noise?” Macy Roth asked Snowball, who’d planted himself on the closed toilet seat and studied her as she brushed her teeth. It was late and Macy was tired. She had a photo shoot in the morning; she planned to work on her knitting for half an hour or so and then go to sleep.

A car horn blared not far away, followed by the sound of screeching tires.

Macy turned off the water and then it happened again—a driver repeatedly hitting the horn.

Walking barefoot through her living room, the toothbrush clenched between her teeth, Macy decided to investigate. Peeking through the front window, she saw the lights of an oncoming car illuminate a large dog who stood, paralyzed by fear, in the middle of the street. Although Jackson Avenue was in a residential neighborhood, there was quite a lot of traffic, even at night. If the animal remained where it was, sooner or later it would be hit. Someone had to do something and, despite the noise, she didn’t think anyone else had noticed.

Opening her door, Macy hurried outside, disregarding the fact that all she had on were her cotton pajamas. Her toothbrush was still in her mouth. She grabbed the trembling dog by the scruff of his neck and urged him onto the sidewalk.





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