Hannah's List. Debbie Macomber
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?