Hannah's List. Debbie Macomber
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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