Hannah's List

  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 whistle, 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 pas
t 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 complete
ly 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.