Hannah's List (Blossom Street #7)

Hannah's List (Blossom Street #7) Page 4

"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 Cafe," 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 Cafe 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."