A Wedding on Lilac Lane by Hope Ramsay (best book clubs .txt) 📕

cake was supposed to be for everyone. But she had to face the fact that cooking for Micah had become a guilty pleasure.

So what now? Should she give up the guilt or the pleasure in order to become her best self? The doubt left a sour taste in her mouth. She needed to stop overthinking and get things back to their normal place. “No, I didn’t make this just for you, Reverend St. Pierre. I made the cake for fellowship hour.”

“Oh.” He took a bite. A little smile danced at the corner of his mouth.

Which gave her a lot of pleasure. Too much, really. She needed to put the minister back in his place with the rest of her community. She cooked for everyone.

“Look, I did want to apologize for last Thursday,” she said. “I’m sorry I got upset with you, and I hope that’s not the reason you’ve skipped breakfast the last few days.”

“No. I’ve been busy the last few days.”

“Oh, good.”

“And Ashley, there isn’t any reason for you to apologize,” he said between mouthfuls of her cake.

“But I was kind of…I don’t know…emotional.”

“Everyone gets emotional.”

She blew out a breath, suddenly annoyed at him. “Okay, I’m going to quit beating around the bush. Was today’s sermon inspired by our argument on Thursday? Was it all about me and the things I need to give up in order to find a more fulfilling life?”

He glanced down at the cake and then back at her. “No. It was about everyone here. We all have something we need to let go of. No one is perfect.”

“And you think, what? That I need to give up Adam? Or the Piece Makers? Or what, exactly?”

“Ashley, you need to figure that out for yourself. That’s for you to decide.”

“Oh, well, last Thursday I got the feeling you were telling me that I needed to let go of Adam. But I’m never going to do that, you know. I’m never going to stop loving him.” There, she’d spoken the words out loud. “And I don’t mean to be argumentative. I just need you to understand.”

He nodded. “I get it, Ashley. Now, if you don’t mind, I see Edith Carr over there waving at me. I need to go visit with her for a bit.” He walked away, leaving his unfinished cake behind.

Chapter Thirteen

On Monday morning, Dylan sat at his desk, studying Ginny Whittle’s lab report. He pulled at a lock of his hair as he mulled over the results, which confirmed that Ginny didn’t have type II diabetes.

He’d been all set to send her off to see an endocrinologist on the mainland, but now he hesitated. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe she was suffering from somatic illness. And yet…

No. He’d stake his career on the fact that Ginny Whittle wasn’t faking this illness. Besides, he hated the “it’s all in your head” diagnosis the way most patients did. No one wanted to be told that their symptoms weren’t real. He picked up his tablet and started searching medical journals for some new avenue to explore.

Dad interrupted him a few minutes later. His father was actually working today, dressed in his familiar white lab coat. His presence had become increasingly rare these days.  After years of working ten- and twelve-hour days, suddenly Dad had become a nine-to-five kind of guy, but only on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

The rest of the time, he’d been painting Cloud Nine, Brenda’s beach house. It was pitiful the way the man had lost his bearings. But then, a woman could do that to a man. Hadn’t Brenda’s daughter wormed her way into his brain? Thirty-six hours after that kiss, and he still hadn’t managed to excise the memory or assuage his guilt for kissing her back. Or, for that matter, cutting her off before the kiss had even happened.

“You got a minute?” Dad asked.

“Sure. In fact, maybe you can help me brainstorm what to do about Mrs. Whittle.”

Dad came into the room and sat in the side chair. “What’s there to do? You hold her hand and tell her she’s fine.”

“She’s not fine.”

“Oh? Did you get her labs?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“They’re normal. It’s not type II diabetes. But there’s something going on. She’s complaining of burning thirst.”

“Son, we’ve talked about this. Sometimes there just isn’t an answer, and it’s more about compassion than medicine.”

“So you think it’s compassionate to tell her it’s all in her head?”

Dad shifted in his chair. “That’s not exactly fair. That’s not—”

Dylan waved away Dad’s comment. “I’ve been doing some sleuthing. Her symptoms could be diabetes insipidus.”

Dad gave him a fatherly look. “Are you trying to be Marcus Welby?”

“Who the hell is Marcus Welby?”

Dad shook his head. “I am definitely getting old. Marcus Welby was a TV doctor back in the day. He was a GP, but every week, some patient would present with mysterious symptoms, and he’d figure it out. It became a disease-of-the-week show.”

“Oh, you mean like House?”

Dad chuckled. “A whole lot more PG than House. Son, diabetes insipidus is exceptionally rare.”

“I know. But her symptoms fit. I’m going to send her to an endocrinologist.”

“Have you thought about what all those tests are going to do to her finances? She doesn’t have good insurance.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“Of course you didn’t, because you leave all the billing to Lessie. But you should pay attention. Not everyone can afford every test. And the truth is, Ginny has been coming here every three months like clockwork. For five solid years, she’s complained about everything from headaches to muscle pain. I know about her finances because she often shows up downstairs at the free clinic. And I’ve tested her for all sorts of things, and they all come back normal. What’s ailing her is loneliness. She lost her husband in a car accident seven years ago, and she’s never gotten over it.”

“I’m sure you’re right about her loneliness. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t sick this time. She doesn’t look well.”

“Do not send her to an endocrinologist. It’s going to