Hannah's List (Blossom Street #7)

Hannah's List (Blossom Street #7) Page 35

She knew it.

So did I.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

"Have I ever asked anything of you before?" Ritchie asked, his breath coming in gasps as he kept pace with the treadmill. Usually he had his ears plugged with his iPod, but this morning he'd decided to hound me into rejoining the weekly poker match.

I pretended not to hear him.

"Michael." He tried again.

I glanced in his direction. "To answer your question, yes, you have. In fact, you seem to constantly be asking me to do one thing or another."

"It's a poker game. You used to love poker."

"I was young and foolish."

"So, what changed?" Ritchie asked, cocking one thick eyebrow.

I sighed. Okay, so Ritchie wanted me to sit in for Bill, whose wife had recently given birth to twins. Bill had taken my spot in the weekly game two years earlier, and now, with the demands of a young family, he felt he needed to bow out.

Ritchie was right; I really had liked my time with the guys. One night a week we set aside the concerns of our offices, our patients, taxes, malpractice insurance and everything else. One night a week we simply had fun, enjoying one another and our game of Texas Hold'em.

I don't mean to brag, but I'm fairly good at cards. However, I cared far more about the camaraderie I had with the guys than taking their quarters.

I might not be a tournament-quality player, but I could generally count on beating my friends and feeling superior for a couple of minutes. Patrick, Steve and Ritchie used to say I was lucky.

I didn't feel so lucky when Hannah learned she had cancer.

I quit playing after she was diagnosed. I didn't feel I could leave her for even one night. Because the cancer hadn't been detected until she was at stage four, I knew we had a struggle ahead of us. Hannah knew it, too; otherwise, she would've protested me giving up my poker night.

I'm not going to say it wasn't hard to abandon the game and my time with these friends. They were my buddies, who knew me better than anyone, other than Hannah. Other than family. I wasn't sure why I hadn't gone back. Well, for one thing, Ritchie had found a replacement and it didn't seem fair to show up a year later and announce that I'd returned and Bill would have to leave. On the other hand, we could've played with five, and Ritchie had invited me more than once. I'd always declined; I had no real desire to play. After a few times, Ritchie had stopped asking. Until this morning.

"Will you come?" Ritchie pressed. "We need you, man."

"I don't know." The same reluctance filled me, even if I couldn't explain why I was avoiding something I'd once enjoyed so much.

"When will you know?" Ritchie demanded.

This sounded like a schoolyard conversation. "Soon," I said.

"Call me before two--otherwise, I'll get someone else."

Ritchie was upset, and that was rare for him. Hannah and her brother had the same easygoing disposition. My indecision irritated him and he had no qualms about letting me know that. If I could've told him why I felt so reluctant, I would have.

When I got to the office, the first thing I did was look at the mural. Macy hadn't been back since the accident, which meant she was still laid up. I'd checked in with Harvey a couple of times to see how she was doing. According to her neighbor, Macy was up and about, but still sore and miserable.

"When's Macy coming in?" Linda asked.

"I don't know," I snapped.

Linda's eyes widened and she glared at me. "There's no need to be rude," she snapped back.

"I'm sorry." I apologized rather than allow any dissension between us. "I haven't been in touch with Macy. When we spoke, I told her she could finish the mural as soon as she's up to it."

"You mean you haven't talked to her since the accident?"

"No. Not since Saturday, anyhow." My source had been her cantankerous neighbor, who seemed to take great delight in my interest.

"It's already Wednesday--I expected her back by now," Linda murmured. She shook her head and cast me a look similar to one my mother had used when I was a kid-- the one that said she was disappointed in me.

I'd assumed Macy would want to finish the mural right away. I missed seeing her at the office, although I was only now admitting it. "She'll return as soon as she's ready," I told Linda.

"By the way, Dr. O'Malley phoned," Linda said. "I left the message on your desk."

"Thanks."

I entered my office, then sat down and reached for the pink slip. But it wasn't Patrick I was thinking about. Macy was front and center in my thoughts. I didn't like it, but I couldn't ignore this curiosity.

Before I had time to reconsider, I grabbed the phone and called Harvey. I'd already talked to him twice in the past four days, and both conversations had annoyed me. Still, that wasn't enough to dissuade me from phoning a third time. I needed to know that Macy was getting better, but I was determined not to call her.

"Yes?" Harvey barked into the receiver.

"This is Dr. Everett."

"I know who it is," he returned in the same bad mood he usually displayed.

"I'm calling to see how Macy is."

"Why don't you bother her instead of me? I'm not her nurse."

"I realize that," I said, clenching my teeth, "but you're her neighbor and her friend."

"I wouldn't be if I had a choice."

"How's she healing?"

He hesitated. "Not sure."

"Why not?" It sounded as if Harvey was in pain again. I wished he'd let me help him, the stubborn old fool.

"It isn't like I'm keeping tabs on her."

I was beginning to feel concerned. "You've seen her in the past twenty-four hours, haven't you?"

"Yeah," he muttered.

"How does she look?"

"All right, I guess. Black-and-blue. She's limping a bit, but that seems to be improving. I don't understand why you keep bugging me when she's got her own phone."

"I figured you'd be honest with me," I said, and while there was some truth to that, it wasn't the real reason I'd called him. I knew if I spoke to Macy directly, I'd find an excuse to visit--and if I went to see her, I'd end up kissing her again. That was not going to happen.

"You don't want to talk to Macy because you're falling for her."

Rather than address that comment, I chose to overlook it entirely. I wasn't arguing with Harvey. "If Macy needs anything, let me know."

"She won't, and even if she did I wouldn't call you."

The line was abruptly disconnected and I sat back in my leather chair, mulling over the conversation. I agreed with Harvey; I needed to call Macy myself, although I was reluctant to do so. My reasons were too complicated to explain to anyone else, especially a cranky old man who seemed increasingly scornful of me.

My next call was to Patrick who, besides being my friend and partner, was one of the poker group. I had a patient waiting, but with Patrick I knew I'd be on and off the phone in under a minute.

"I got your message," I said.

"You going to the game tonight?"

"I haven't decided."

"What's wrong with you, Michael? Are you afraid Hannah wouldn't want you to have fun?"

"Ah..." The comment felt like a slug in the gut.

"I've got to go. Listen," Patrick continued, "you have to be there tonight. No excuses, understand?"

"Okay, okay."

The line went dead. A tingling feeling raced down my spine. Had Patrick hit on something I hadn't considered? Ritchie and Patrick were telling me essentially the same thing. It went without saying that if Hannah were alive, she'd be the first one to encourage me to rejoin my friends.

At noon, I told Ritchie I'd be at his house by six-thirty. I could tell he was pleased. The more I thought about it, the more I looked forward to being with the guys again. It would be like old times--we'd laugh, exchange stories, eat pizza and drink beer. Then we'd play cards until we ran out of quarters--or I walked away, my pockets jingling with change.

I showed up fifteen minutes early.

"Glad you're here," Ritchie said. Max came downstairs and gave me a high five before racing back up. Without asking, Ritchie handed me a beer. "Pizza's on the way."

"With anchovies?"

"Would I order one without?"

"That's what I was hoping you'd say."

Hannah and Steph detested anchovies, and whenever the four of us ordered pizza, Ritchie and I made sure we shared one with double anchovies, just to prove that we were real men. We told little Max that the fish put hair on our chests, which was why the women refused to eat them. The joke was inane, but it always made us laugh.

Patrick got there next, and when he saw me he grinned. "About time," he said.

Steve was the last to arrive. He pulled into the driveway and the pizza delivery kid pulled in right behind him. Five minutes later, we each had a cold beer and a slice of pizza. The stories started and before long I was laughing so hard my sides hurt.

I felt almost as if I'd never been away. It'd been nearly two years since I'd played poker. Two years. That seemed impossible now that I realized how much I'd missed it.

We played until eleven. Steve won, and all I could say was that I'd gotten rusty and I'd get my money back the following week.

Just before we were ready to call it quits, Steve said, "I brought a welcome-back gift for Michael." He spoke in formal tones, and everyone looked in his direction.

My friend, an internal medicine specialist, was smiling from ear to ear.

"For me?" I asked in a falsetto voice, hoping it wasn't a practical joke.

"I was at a medical conference in Miami last weekend," Steve said, "and I picked these up while I was there." He opened a plain brown paper bag and with considerable ceremony laid out four fat cigars. "They're Cuban," he said proudly.

"You sure about that?" Patrick had always been the skeptic of the group.

"Smoke one and then you tell me," was Steve's comeback.

"Cuban?" I repeated. "Aren't they illegal?"

"Don't ask, brother, just enjoy."

"Yeah, Everett, don't look a gift horse in the mouth." This came from Ritchie, who already had the cigar clamped between his teeth.

I agreed. Who was I to question when and how Steve had procured these cigars? I bit off the end and lit up, too. The aroma from Ritchie's cigar wafted toward me. I closed my eyes as the sheer pleasure of it overtook me.

"Even if this isn't Cuban, it's still the best cigar I've ever had," Ritchie said appreciatively.

The four of us sat back, and although none of us smoked, once or twice a year we indulged in a cigar. Apparently, the tradition had continued without me.

"It's good to have you back," Steve said. He held out the cigar as if toasting me with the finest whiskey.

"Hear, hear," Patrick said.

"I'll second that," Ritchie added.

I looked around the room at my friends and felt their welcome. "It's good to be back," I told them and I meant it.

We sat there talking for another thirty minutes and then, because we all had to be at the office or hospital early the next morning, we called it a night.

On the drive home, I turned up the radio and sang golden oldies at the top of my voice. Once I got to the house, I was too keyed up and happy to sleep.