Debbie Macomber - Hannah's List

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.

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.