Hannah's List

Once again, Hannah was right; I hadn’t laughed much in the past two years. The fact is, I couldn’t remember the last good belly laugh I’d had. Life was serious. I’d lost my wife and, frankly, I didn’t have much reason to smile, let alone laugh.

I didn’t remember this Macy, although no doubt she’d featured in some of Hannah’s stories. As for those gifts—the sketches and socks—they’d be among Hannah’s things, the stuff I’d brought home from the hospital. I’d thrown everything into a box and shoved it in the back of a closet. And I’d never looked at it again.

I’ve given you three names, Michael. Each is someone I know and trust. Any of them would make you a good wife and companion; with any one you could have the children you were meant to father.

I’ll be watching and waiting from heaven’s gate, looking down at you. Choose well.

Your loving wife,Hannah

I folded the sheets and set them on the coffee table while I tried to absorb what I’d read. That Hannah had written this letter when she did was shocking enough. Then for her to suggest I remarry—and go so far as to name three women—was almost more than I could take in.

If she was watching over me, then she had to know what hell this first year without her had been.

I’m not much of a drinking man. A few beers with the guys at a sporting event is generally my limit. All at once I felt a need for something stronger.

I remembered a bottle of Scotch stashed in a cupboard somewhere in the kitchen. My father gave it to me when I graduated, claiming it was for “medicinal” purposes. If ever there was an occasion for a medicinal drink, it was now.

I spent nearly fifteen minutes searching for it. Hannah had stored it in the pantry, the last place I thought to look. Not surprisingly, it turned out to be single malt, since that was what my father drank. His favorite brand, too—The Glenlivet.

Reading the label, I saw that it had been aged eighteen years and I’d had it for at least a decade. None of that ten-year stuff for dear ol’ Dad.

I got a clean glass out of the dishwasher, added ice cubes and poured two fingers of my twenty-eight-year-old Scotch before I settled back down on the sofa. Kicking off my shoes, I rested my feet on the coffee table and reached for Hannah’s letter. I would read it again with an open mind and see if I could possibly respond to her last request. I didn’t think so. Hannah was all the woman I’d ever need. The only woman I’d ever love. I already knew I’d find anyone else sadly lacking—even the three women my wife had so carefully selected for me.

Chapter Three

Wednesday morning I was at the gym by six. Ritchie was on the treadmill, his iPod plugged into his ears, when I stepped onto the machine beside his.

He looked over, saw it was me and stared expectantly. I knew I was in for an inquisition as soon as we entered the locker room. I hadn’t shown up on Monday morning and ignored his phone calls for the past two days. I wasn’t ready to talk about Hannah’s letter, not even to my best friend.

Ritchie finished his routine first. Just as I’d suspected, he was waiting for me in the locker room, sitting on the bench with a towel draped around his neck. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. When I appeared, he glanced up.

“You didn’t return my phone calls,” he said, as if I needed to be reminded.

“I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

I was reluctant to tell him, although I knew that he of all people would understand. “I got drunk on Sunday after I got home,” I admitted. The hangover on Monday had been a killer. From this point forward I was sticking to beer. Maybe my father could handle the strong stuff, but not me.

“Because of Hannah’s letter?”

I nodded and lowered myself onto the bench. I leaned forward, sitting in the same position as my brother-in-law. “Hannah wants me to remarry.”

Ritchie’s eyes widened. “Get outta here.”

My sentiments exactly. “She went so far as to give me a list.”

Ritchie’s mouth sagged open. “A list? You mean of women?”

I nodded again.

“Why would she do that?”

Explaining Hannah’s reason was beyond me. I didn’t understand it, although I’d read the letter a dozen times.

“Hannah seems to think I won’t do well on my own and that I need a wife.” I avoided mentioning that she wanted me to be a father, too.

“She actually gave you a list?” He seemed as shocked as I’d been when I first read the letter.

I didn’t respond.

“Who’s on it? Anyone I know?”

I looked away. “Your cousin, Winter.”

“My cousin?” he repeated.

“Do you know someone else named Winter?” I snapped, sorry now that I’d said anything.

“No,” he said sheepishly. “Who else?”

“Leanne Lancaster. She was Hannah’s oncology nurse.”

“Don’t remember her. What’s she like?”

I wasn’t sure what to tell him. “Quiet. Gentle. A good nurse. Hannah really liked her.”

“No kidding.”

I ignored that.

“Anyone else?”

“Someone I’ve never met. A model she worked with by the name of Macy Roth.”

Ritchie released a low whistle. “A model, you say?”

“Hannah says Macy will give me a reason to laugh again,” I told him, unable to disguise my sarcasm. “And that’s practically a quote.”

My brother-in-law chuckled. “I bet Steph wouldn’t tell me to marry a model if anything happened to her.”

I knew Ritchie was joking; still, I couldn’t let the comment pass. “Just pray to God nothing does.”

My brother-in-law frowned. “It was a joke, Michael. Lighten up, would you?”

He was right; I didn’t need to take every little comment so seriously. “Sorry,” I muttered.

Ritchie nudged me. “You going to do it?”