Speaking of Ritchie... I'd made the mistake of mentioning dinner with Leanne at the gym that morning. Naturally, my brother-in-law felt obliged to give me a list of dos and don'ts. This dinner was a much bigger deal than our first date. Tonight I'd been invited to Leanne's home and she was cooking for me.
According to Ritchie--when did he become so knowledgeable about dating etiquette?--this was a significant gesture on Leanne's part. In his view, making me dinner was a clear sign that she was willing to move forward with the relationship. I wasn't sure, despite Ritchie's insistence that I take her invitation seriously.
I poured us each a glass of Drappier and we sat down in her small living room. She had appetizer plates out with olives and roasted red peppers and two kinds of cheese. I leaned forward and speared an olive.
"I suppose you're wondering why I didn't arrange this dinner for the weekend," she said, "since that's when I originally invited you."
I hadn't given it much thought; I'd surmised that she had other plans. Monday worked fine for me--regardless of Macy's assumptions. Like I said earlier, I didn't have what you'd call a busy social calendar.
"My mother-in-law phoned to tell me they were planning to visit Mark this weekend and that she'd get in touch with me while she was in town."
I didn't know if that required a response or not.
Leanne stared down at her champagne. "I...I didn't want her to call--or worse, drop by--in the middle of our dinner."
"I understand." It would've been awkward for us both. "Did she contact you?"
Leanne nodded. "She phoned me early Sunday evening."
Just about the time we would've been sitting down to eat.
"Muriel was terribly upset. Apparently, Mark's accepted a job that'll take him to Afghanistan."
"He joined the military?"
"No, this is a company the army's contracted with. Mark was rather vague on the details. All he'd tell his family is that the money will enable him to pay back what he...took and help with the fines. His sister tries to contribute, but she's having financial troubles of her own."
I could see the worry etched on her face. It was more than obvious that she still had feelings for her ex-husband.
"He didn't want his mother to tell anyone, especially his sister and me, but she refused to make that promise."
"You're very concerned, aren't you?"
She lowered her head, and I noticed the way her hand tightened around the stem of her glass. "Yes. Muriel doesn't really know what Mark will be doing there, but we both suspect it doesn't have anything to do with accounting."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said, hoping I sounded sympathetic. Discussing her ex-husband was uncomfortable, but I wasn't opposed to it. If she brought up the subject of Mark, then I could introduce Hannah into the conversation, too. That degree of honesty would probably be good for both of us.
The oven timer went off and Leanne leaped to her feet as if she welcomed the intrusion.
I stood, too. "Do you need any help?"
"No, but thanks." She was away for a short while. When she returned, she reached for her glass and sat back down. "The lasagna will have to wait for a few minutes. We're also having a salad."
I nodded. "Hannah used to love cooking, too," I said, and remembered the wonderful meals my wife had put together. She always felt it was important for me to follow a regular eating schedule, even during my residency, when the hours were crazy and days melded into one another until time lost all meaning. Often I had no idea what day of the week it was. Hannah brought meals to me at the hospital and cooked for the other residents, too. Everyone loved her. How could they not?
"This recipe is one I got from her."
"From Hannah," I breathed, abruptly drawn away from my musings.
"We were talking about our favorite dishes and she told me about this one. The next day, she handed me the recipe."
I was touched that Leanne had made it for me. At an earlier stage of my grief I might have found that presumptuous--or distressing. Now it warmed me with memories of Hannah and with gratitude toward Leanne.
While I ate another olive, Leanne set the salad bowl on the table. I rejoined her in the kitchen and we sat down at the small dinette table together.
She'd gone to considerable effort to make this meal as pleasant as possible. The salad, which included several leafy greens, was full of green peppers, red onions and radishes, plus pine nuts and goat cheese. The poppy-seed dressing tasted homemade.
"Another of Hannah's recipes?" I asked as I poured a small amount over the salad.
Leanne shook her head. "This one comes from my mother."
I licked some dressing off the end of my finger. "It's delicious."
"Thanks."
All at once we seemed to run out of things to say. Potential topics raced through my mind. If I was more interested in baseball, I could've discussed the Mariners, who'd played on both Saturday and Sunday. I couldn't recall who'd won either game, although Ritchie had gone on about it for several minutes that morning.
"Do you like baseball?" I asked, a bit desperately.
She looked up as if the question had startled her. "No, sorry. Do you?"
"Not really." We both fell silent.
"Most women seem to enjoy cooking," I said, trying again. "Hannah's cousin--" I stopped abruptly, realizing I'd sounded like an idiot. It wasn't a good idea to mention that Winter had made me dinner the week before.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
One of Ritchie's cardinal rules of dating was not to talk about other women. It wasn't as though I considered Winter a real date, though. I was glad I hadn't said anything about her cooking for me to my brother-in-law. The less he knew the better.
Leanne seemed to be all out of conversation, too.