A Wedding on Lilac Lane

by Hope Ramsay

  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 be a dead end, and she can’t afford it.”

  Dylan ground his teeth in frustration. Dad meant well. He was always concerned about the whole patient, not just their symptoms but their finances and their job status and whatnot. He had a knack for knowing everything that was going on in a patient’s life.

  Dylan not so much.

  But this time Dad’s compassion was blinding him to the truth. Besides, Dad had handed him this patient presumably to teach him a lesson. He didn’t have the right to second-guess him now, did he? He tried to tamp down on the anger that flared, but he failed, lashing out at his father.

  “You know, Dad,” he said in a hard voice, “maybe if you weren’t spending your time painting Brenda’s beach house, you’d realize that Mrs. Whittle has been losing weight rather precipitously. I’d suspect cancer were it not for her reported symptoms. So maybe, if you were paying more attention to the patients you are forever telling me to get chummy with, you’d recognize an illness when you see one.”

  Dad stood up and leaned on Dylan’s desk. “That was a low blow.”

  “Was it? Dad, you need to get your head on straight. I’m sure you came in here to read me the riot act about something Brenda is unhappy about. But now that’s morphed into you second-guessing my opinion about Mrs. Whittle.”

  “One thing has nothing to do with the other,” Dad said, straightening and folding his arms over his chest. Wow, he and Dad were having a rare fight. But then, maybe this was exactly what Dad needed in order to come to grips with reality.

  “Have you ever considered the fact that you might be stressed out?” Dylan asked. “Maybe you’ve been burning the candle at both ends trying to please that woman. You should hear the stuff Ella has to say about her.”

  “Oh really, and what does Ella have to say?”

  “Evidently Brenda is never happy. Ever. And Ella had to bear the brunt of that growing up. It’s messed with her mind.”

  “So it’s true, then. You two had dinner at Cibo Dell’anima.”

  Who had told him that? Did Dad know the rest of what happened on Saturday? Crap.

  “We did. We were checking the place out for the party. It’s a no go. Too dark. Too expensive. Too East End.”

  “And she spilled all this stuff about Brenda at dinner? Or did you pry it out of her?”

  Oh boy. Dad was ticked off. “I didn’t pry anything,” Dylan said. But he had willingly refilled her wineglass. Did that count as prying? Maybe.

  “I’ve had it with you, okay?” Dad’s voice got low and soft, which was a surefire indication that Dad wasn’t just annoyed, he was furious. “First, you will not send Ginny Whittle to an endocrinologist for tests she doesn’t need and can’t afford,” he continued, counting points on his fingers. “And second, you will stop trying to mess with Brenda by bullying her daughter. So step away.”

  “Bullying? I haven’t bullied her. I’ve paid attention to her. Maybe Brenda should do the same thing.”

  “Dylan, the whole idea is for us to make one big, happy family. So stop trying to screw things up and get with the damn program. Is that clear?”

  Dylan said nothing as Dad turned and strode from his office. But the moment the door shut behind his father, Dylan picked up the phone and called Ginny Whittle. He told her about her lab work, as well as his long-shot hunch, and then he advised her to make an appointment with the endocrinology practice affiliated with the hospital in Georgetown. He was honest with her about the costs and the rarity of the condition known as diabetes insipidus.

  Dad wasn’t in his right mind if he thought Dylan would keep something from one of his patients. In fact, he was going to follow his instincts from now on. He respected Dad’s opinion, but he had to stop living by it as if it were the holy word of God. Doctors often disagreed about things. This was why people got second opinions. Science could be cut-and-dry, but patient care was a whole different thing entirely.

  So he defied his father for the first time in his life. He did it even though some of what Dad had to say came perilously close to the truth. Dylan hadn’t bullied Ella on Saturday night, but he had manipulated her in order to get dirt on Brenda. And that wasn’t right.

  But then Ella had turned the tables on him, hadn’t she? He’d certainly kissed her back when she’d thrown her arms around his neck. Even worse, he’d thoroughly enjoyed every moment.

  * * *

  On Wednesday afternoon, Ella strolled up the curving path to Grace Methodist Church under a canopy of live oaks, which filtered the surprisingly warm March sunlight. The rain earlier in the week had departed, leaving behind enough humidity to wilt her cotton dress.

  Sweat was beginning to dampen her back between her shoulder blades. She should have worn a tank top or something cooler than the dark-blue India-print dress that sucked up the sun’s heat. But the dress seemed more appropriate for a meeting at a church than shorts and a tank top.

  She was here to take a tour of the reception hall with Dylan. Over the last few days, they had eliminated at least five possible venues for the engagement party, including a couple on the mainland, mostly because of availability. Grace Church was available.

  She headed toward the church’s front doors as the sweat poured down her skin. In truth, she couldn’t blame the perspiration entirely on the sun. Some of this heat came from her insides, driven by embarrassment, or worse yet, desire.

  She remembered far too much about last Saturday night and that moment when she’d thrown her arms around Dylan’s shoulders. If only she’d been just a little more buzzed, maybe she could have excised the memory. But no. She remembered it all.

  So far, in their brief phone conversations, Dylan hadn’t mentioned the kiss at all. Would he continue to pretend it hadn’t happened? If only her conscience (or maybe her somewhat starved libido) could do the same.

  Ella pushed through the doors that led into the church’s vestibule. The sanctuary was to the left, and the meeting rooms, Sunday school, and day care center were to the right. Grace Methodist was by far the biggest church in town. Its facilities dwarfed Heavenly Rest.

  The air-conditioned foyer made her damp dress feel clammy against her skin. She paced and tried to stay warm while she considered several rehearsed apologies. She had to apologize, right? The kiss had been totally out of bounds. And she needed to let it go in order to become her best self. She paced and fretted until she could almost hear the blood rushing through her veins.

  But all the rehearsed words left her b
rain when Dylan came striding up the walkway five minutes later. And when their gazes locked, her runaway pulse also settled back into her chest as if he’d reached out and told her heart to calm down. And it struck her: apologizing to him wouldn’t be that hard at all.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I had to make a phone call to a patient that took longer than I thought it would.”

  “No worries,” she said, then lost her nerve. Maybe she didn’t need to apologize at all. Maybe she should wait for him to bring up Saturday night.

  But he didn’t, which was disappointing on some level even though it provided her an escape hatch from her own bad behavior.

  “So, let’s go talk to the church secretary,” he said, turning and striding down the hallway like a man with a purpose. He’d probably been attending services here since he was a little kid, so he knew his way around. Heck, he’d probably been an altar boy here. She could imagine a younger version of him, maybe with freckles across his nose and a wayward curl falling over his forehead, wearing robes and lighting altar candles. He’d probably been a model child, a Boy Scout who helped little old ladies across the street. And now he was Doctor Dependable. He might have been five minutes late, but he’d had an excellent excuse. He’d been taking care of someone.

  Damn. When had her opinion of him altered so dramatically? She couldn’t quite say for sure, but maybe it had been that moment last Saturday when he’d come after her and let her cry on his shoulder.

  Cody would never have done a thing like that.

  The unwanted comparison startled her. She pushed it away firmly and followed him into the church office, which was empty.

  “Mrs. Walsh?” Dylan called out.

  A second later, Rev. Pasidena came through the door. “Hey, Dylan. I’m afraid Mrs. Walsh had a family emergency. Her momma is in the hospital, so I’m covering for her. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. You know Ella McMillan?”

  “No, but I certainly know your mom,” the minister said, offering his hand.

  Rev. Pasidena had a strong grip, a ready smile, and a shiny bald head. He winked at her as he let go of her hand. “In fact,” he said, “I’m trying to woo your momma away from Heavenly Rest.”

  Something about the way he said the words annoyed Ella. Was Jim trying to convince Mom to switch churches? Probably.

  “Come on, I’ll give y’all a tour of the reception facilities.” The minister led them down the hall to a room big enough to accommodate a wedding reception or an engagement party. The room had no windows, a utilitarian floor, and dark paneling. Even worse, the place reeked of scorched coffee and old doughnuts. No doubt about it, this was where the Methodists held their fellowship hours.

  “Y’all should know that it’s our busy season coming up,” Rev. Pasidena said. “Lots of May and June weddings. Dylan, I mentioned this to your daddy on Sunday. Jim went ahead and booked the room for April sixteenth, which is a Friday. It was the only time we had available.”

  “April sixteenth?” Ella said. “That’s less than three weeks away, and—” She stopped speaking before she said something unkind about Jim or the minister. If she made the wrong move, Jim would hear about it from Dylan, and then Mom would hear about it from Jim. And then…

  “Well, I’m glad he jumped on the date,” Dylan said.

  Forget everything nice she’d been thinking about Dylan Killough. He and his father were ganging up on her and Mom in a subtle power play.

  “Great,” Rev. Pasidena said. “Y’all can give Mrs. Walsh a call to work out the details. Have you picked a caterer? If you haven’t, we have a list.”

  “We’re thinking about having Annie Robinson do it,” Dylan said.

  The minister nodded. “A good choice. She’s done a lot of receptions and parties here.”

  As they left the room and strolled down the hallway, the minister cleared his throat and said, “You know, Ella, we would love to make a home for you and your mother here.”

  Ella clamped her mouth shut on a bunch of words that didn’t need to be said out loud. After last Sunday, she wasn’t going to leave Heavenly Rest. She liked Rev. St. Pierre’s sermons because they made a person think and provided a road map for self-improvement—something she needed in her life right at the moment. Rev. Pasidena was undoubtedly a good clergyman, but Granny would never go over to the Methodists, and Mom would never walk away from the choir she’d just formed.

  “And you know,” the minister continued, oblivious to Ella’s unspoken annoyance, “our choir director, Simon Paredes, has had to retire. He had a stroke a few months back, and while he’s made a good recovery, he doesn’t need the stress of the choir. We have thirty members in our choir, you know. And many of them have recommended your mother as a replacement for Simon. They know her from last Christmas, when she stepped up to direct the Christmas Chorale when Simon couldn’t do it.”

  Ella couldn’t let this pass without some pushback. She didn’t want to be unpleasant though. “Have you asked my mother directly?” she asked, hoping that this question didn’t open a big, nasty can of worms.

  “Well, no. But Jim and I talked about it on Sunday.”

  “When Jim reserved the room?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  She nodded. “Well, I’ll certainly mention it to her,” Ella said in her most polite voice. Wow. Jim and the pastor were getting ready to blindside Mom, in a low-down and dirty maneuver, in Ella’s opinion. Who needed Dylan messing things up when Jim was doing a fine job of it all by himself?

  The minister said goodbye, and Ella stalked out of the church, ready to stand in the yard and let go of a primal scream. But that was impossible. Not only would the minister hear it, but Dylan was right there and she wasn’t going to give him any ammunition. Even if she kind of liked him and had shared a memorable kiss with him.

  “I want you to know that I had nothing to do with what just happened,” Dylan said before Ella could even formulate a coherent sentence.

  She blew out a long breath, but it failed to cool her anger. “I’m going now before I say something nasty.” She headed down the path to the sidewalk.

  He followed, keeping pace with her. “No. Don’t go. Stay. Talk to me.”

  She stopped and turned. “I don’t want my mother to abandon the choir at Heavenly Rest just to make your dad happy.”

  “Fair enough. And Dad shouldn’t have booked the room without consulting us. I’m annoyed at that.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah. He’s been doing stuff like that recently. He’ll put me in charge of something, and then he goes off and does it for himself anyway. It’s really ticking me off.” He paused a moment, glancing at the big shade trees on the church’s grounds as if he was carefully choosing his words. “I had a fight with him this morning about this exact thing. I accused him of trying to please your mother.”

  She blinked. “And I’m angry because Mom might do something dumb, like leave the Episcopalians, just to please your father.”

  He nodded. “I guess maybe they’re trying to make each other happy.”

  “Yeah. And even though I’m annoyed at the little game Jim is playing, I’m not about to launch a program to break them up. Just sayin’.”

  He nodded and jammed his hands into his pockets. “I know. But I’m worried about him.”

  “And I’m worried about her. But you know, I think it’s all going to work out,” she said.

  “Is it?”

  “Actually, I have no idea, but I’m hoping.” She paused, glancing at the church with its brick facade and pristine spire. Grace Church was like something on an old-time postcard. A perfect picture of small-town American faith.

  “Do you want to have the party at Grace Church?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s not as nice as the yacht club, but it might be the only room available. Maybe Dad was onto something when he made the reservation.”

  “Maybe,” she said on a long sigh.


  “Why don’t we run Grace Church past them this coming Sunday? Since the room is booked. It could be our fallback position.”

  She nodded. “Okay,” Ella said. Suddenly she had no words, except the ones she’d rehearsed. It was now or never. No more putting it off. “About Saturday, I—”

  “Don’t apologize,” he interrupted.

  “But I—”

  “No apologies. You’d had a rough day, and I should have cut you off.”

  “It wasn’t your responsibility to cut me off.”

  His lips broadened into that smile—the one that lit up his face and everything around him. “Wasn’t it?”

  “No. You’re not responsible for me. I’m actually responsible for myself.”

  “Maybe, but since I’m a few months older than you, I have a responsibility to look after you. Cutting off little sisters before they get toasted is part of big-brother territory.”

  He wanted to be her brother? After he’d kissed her back? No way. He didn’t want her as his sister. And she didn’t want him as her brother. Which was a ginormous problem, but not one she could ever admit to anyone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  On Sunday afternoon, Dylan had to circle Redbud Street looking for a parking spot. Evidently, all the active adults living at Bayview Vistas were hosting Easter dinners for their loved ones. There wasn’t a vacant visitor’s spot to be found.

  Having Easter dinner at his soon-to-be step-grandmother’s wasn’t high on Dylan’s agenda because it would require him to be on his best behavior. And he wasn’t interested in being a good boy.

  For one thing, he was ticked off at Dad. He’d intervened again, this time with Coreen Martel, one of his geriatric patients. Coreen was in her late eighties and suffering congestive heart failure. She needed to be in a nursing home, getting hospice care. But she was sharp of mind and resistant to the idea of leaving the home she’d lived in most of her life. She was getting home care a few days a week, but Dylan didn’t think it was enough.