Hannah's List (Blossom Street #7)(95)

"I'm doing all right," he muttered when I checked his reflexes. "I've decided I'm not dying."

"Glad to hear it."

"Well, not yet, anyway. Those chest pains? They went away. Must've been indigestion from eating cat food." I couldn't suppress a grin.

"I'd like to run a couple of blood tests," I said. "Just to make sure your latest self-diagnosis is correct." I now suspected his fainting spells had been caused by hypoglycemia and I wanted to confirm that.

"No way."

"You afraid of giving me a little blood, Harvey? If you do it, you'll get a sticker for your forehead and a lollipop."

He didn't respond for a moment, then sighed in resignation. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"Good boy." As I said it, I had a clear memory of the time he'd called me "boy" and how I'd felt about it.

"I'm a long way from being a boy," he grumbled.

"Uh-huh." I patted him on the back and helped him off the examination table, aiding him with his balance. "Didn't you tell Macy you're in your second childhood? Just think of this as your annual checkup before you hit puberty."

He grumbled again, but I could tell he was amused. And he did let Linda take his blood.

The next morning when I met Ritchie at the gym, I knew it was a mistake to say anything about Macy. But I hadn't slept well, and when he prodded me about that, I blurted it out.

"She's back?" my brother-in-law said, half jogging, half running on the treadmill.

I pretended I hadn't heard him, running at my own pace. We were on machines that stood side by side.

"You talked to her?"

"No. I don't plan to, either."

Ritchie slowed his speed. "You honestly intend to stay away?"

"Yup."

To my surprise, he didn't have an automatic comeback. I glanced over at him and saw that he was studying me.

"I don't get it, man."

"What don't you get?" I was foolish enough to ask.

"You. Macy disappears and you moon after her for weeks. In case you aren't aware of it, you were miserable and you made everyone else miserable, too."

"I apologized for that." Unfortunately, Ritchie had been on the receiving end of my bad mood for much of that time. Fortunately, however, he's a good friend and he put up with me.

"Yeah, you apologized, but it wasn't enough."

"What more do you want?" I asked. This was probably going to cost me.

"One thing."

"Okay, name it."

"Ask yourself what Hannah would want you to do."

I stopped running and nearly lost my balance as the treadmill shot me backward. At least I had the presence of mind to grab the handlebars.

"That was below the belt," I muttered.

"Think about it," Ritchie said.

What would Hannah want me to do? Good question.

Well, she'd just have to tell me.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Winter and Pierre were sprawled at opposite ends of the leather sofa in her condo. Their feet met in the middle and they both had cookbooks propped on their laps.

Winter dropped her book on the floor with a thud. "What about a cold avocado soup for lunch?" It was early Sunday afternoon, a lazy summer Sunday with flawless August weather.

"Blended with buttermilk?" "And fresh lime juice," Winter suggested. "Add a little salt, and ooh-la-la!"

"Sounds delicieux. But--" he raised his eyebrows "--the soup might be too thick, depending on how much avocado you use."

"Ah." Winter nodded. "I have a secret ingredient."

Pierre's cell phone rang and he reached inside his pocket.

Winter could tell from the way he stiffened that it was bad news. He listened for a few minutes, then stood and walked over to the window. He started pacing, back and forth, back and forth.

She sat up and watched him.

Frowning, Pierre swore and snapped his cell phone shut before shoving it in his pocket.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I work with a group of imbeciles," he shouted. "Where do they find these people? I would assume I could have one day off, but, oh, no." He stormed into the kitchen. "Where is my book?" he demanded. "Mon cahier?"

"What book?"

"The one I had with me earlier, of course. My book."

Winter didn't think it was her responsibility to keep track of his book. Besides, it wasn't really a book, but a notebook, one he always carried with him.

"Pierre."

"Can't you see I'm in a rush?"

She inhaled and closed her eyes. This was a telling moment. She could respond with anger or she could remain calm. Her instinct was to return tit for tat, but experience told her that would only exacerbate the problem.

She walked into the kitchen, where he was tossing papers to and fro, searching for his "book."

"Let me help," she offered.

"Did you hide it from me?"

Normally she'd be infuriated by his ridiculous accusation. Instead, she laughed.

He turned and regarded her suspiciously.

"Is this what you're looking for?" she asked, holding up his notebook. He'd left it on the table in plain sight.