Hannah's List. Debbie Macomber
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But I already had a feeling that Winter and I would never find happiness together.
Chapter Seven
Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised, but it’d been good to see Michael again.
Winter Adams wasn’t sure how to react when she got the message that her cousin’s husband had stopped by. She hadn’t called him right away; she’d had no idea what to say once she did. She’d always liked Michael and missed Hannah terribly. Her relationship had been with Hannah, though, and because she was usually working the dinner shift, she hadn’t socialized with them as a couple all that much. Which made the whole situation a bit uncomfortable. Nevertheless, she felt she had to return his call.
“Did he ask you out?” Alix asked when Winter carried the plate and two empty coffee mugs to the dishwasher.
She nodded.
“Are you going?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. Still mulling over the conversation, she went into her office and closed the door.
Michael might be interested, but Winter belonged with the man she loved. Pierre Dubois. The past three weeks without him had been painful. Bleak. Her life was complicated and she’d probably done Michael a disservice by not explaining the situation better. She was involved with Pierre and had been for a long while, although they’d decided to take a three-month break from each other.
As she’d told Michael, this wasn’t the first time they’d split up. Technically, this wasn’t a split; it was more of a breather while they analyzed what was wrong with their relationship. Two years earlier Pierre and Winter had broken it off for good. At the time it had seemed for the best, since they were constantly arguing, constantly at odds. They spent fifteen months apart. Winter had been miserable without him.
During those months, she’d visited Hannah often, both at the hospital and at home. When Michael was busy, Winter sat with her cousin and poured out her heart. Hannah had been such a sympathetic listener. She’d assured Winter over and over that one day she’d meet a man who would make her happy.
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