by Hope Ramsay
As much as he wanted to shout to the world that he was falling in love, he couldn’t do it. Not just because of who Ella was, but because he and Ella weren’t a forever thing. Three nights between the sheets did not a relationship make.
So he pushed the entire situation out of his mind as best he could and spent a crazy day at the clinic that kept him busy until five when he finally retreated to his office to review emails.
The emails were routine, requiring not much in the way of responses until he got to the one from the endocrinologist in Georgetown. The doc was following up with a copy of Ginny Whittle’s test results.
He stared at the report for a full minute as it dawned on him that he’d been right. Ginny’s symptoms were not all in her head. She had diabetes insipidus.
Dad had been wrong about Mrs. Whittle.
The idea of Dad making mistakes sent cold prickling across his skin. What if this was a pattern? What if Dad was losing it?
Should he keep these lab results from his father?
No. He was overreacting. He printed the email and test results and headed down the hall to Dad’s office with the intention of leaving the printout on his desk.
But Dad was at work still.
“Hey, you got a minute?” he asked.
“Sure.” Dad gestured toward his side chair.
“I got back Ginny Whittle’s results,” Dylan said, settling into the chair.
Dad looked up from his tablet out of a pair of tired eyes. Whoa. What was up with that? He looked bone weary.
“Are you okay?” Dylan asked.
Dad leaned back in his ancient office chair, the springs squealing as he rubbed his eyes. “I’m fine. Why?”
“You don’t look fine. When was the last time you had a physical?”
Dad chuckled. “Six months ago. I’m fine. I just stayed up too late last night binge-watching Breaking Bad.”
“We watched that together years ago.”
“I know, but Brenda had never seen it. She hasn’t had a television in ages. Now that we have cable at Cloud Nine, I’m helping her catch up on popular culture.” He cocked his head. “You look a little tired yourself.”
“I’m fine,” he shot back, waving the printed email. “I have news.” He slid the paper across his father’s desk. “Turns out Ginny Whittle has diabetes insipidus. It’s not all in her head.”
Dad picked up the email and read, his eyebrows arching. “So you sent her to an endocrinologist despite my views on the matter?”
Dylan looked down, unable to meet his father’s eyes. He wasn’t ashamed of sending Ginny off to the specialist, but he was uneasy about Dad’s reaction. Dad had been a little bit unreliable the last few months.
“I’m not angry,” Dad said into his silence.
Dylan looked up. “I know. And I’m not trying to win a point. I just thought you should know.”
“I didn’t think you were here to crow, son. Thanks for letting me know. The good news is that Ginny’s condition is treatable. She should have a great quality of life. I’m proud of you.”
“And I’m worried about you.” There, he’d said the words out loud.
Dad’s lips twitched. “Because we argued about this?”
“Among other things. We’ve disagreed about a lot of stuff recently. Not just Mrs. Whittle, but Mrs. Martel as well.”
“Well, I hope we argue about cases more frequently. I’m not perfect, and one of the best things about having you back home is that you’re going to make me a better doc.”
That stunned him. How many mistakes had Dad made over the years?
“Don’t look so shocked,” Dad said. “We’re all human. And having two doctors to collaborate is a good thing for our patients. Along those lines, I think we need to get on the ball and hire that nurse practitioner. Maybe while I’m on my honeymoon, you could take the lead on that.”
“You want me to handle a staffing issue?” What the hell? Was Dad worried about being able to manage the practice? Was there something wrong with him?
“You can shut your mouth before you swallow a fly,” Dad said, his blue eyes as bright and as sharp as ever. “I’m not losing my mind. I just want to back off a little. I’ve been busting my butt for years building this practice and keeping the free clinic going, and I’d like to take some time to enjoy life a little before it’s my time.”
“You’re only fifty-one. Good grief, stop talking like you’re going to die tomorrow.” Dylan’s voice rose with his concern.
Dad cocked his head. “I don’t intend to die tomorrow. But I do intend to retire someday. Maybe sooner rather than later now that you’re here and are proving yourself with every passing day. I’ve earned the chance to kick back and enjoy.”
“With Brenda.”
“Of course.”
Dylan stood up, his emotions suddenly adrift in a raging sea. “I need to get going.”
“You have a hot date tonight?” Dad asked.
He whirled around. “No.” It was a lie. When he’d left Ella this morning, they’d known they would find a way to hook up later.
“Oh. Too bad. You need to find yourself a nice wife and settle down.”
“Dad. Come on.”
“What? You’re almost thirty-two. Time’s a-wasting. Besides, you might come on in. The water’s nice.”
He sighed and rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous. I’m going now.”
He turned, but Dad called to his back, just as he reached the door.
“Dylan. Come on. I know you and Brenda haven’t warmed up to each other much. But I have every confidence that one day we’ll look back on this time and laugh about it. Brenda’s very stressed right at the moment. You know, about the wedding and Ella and all that. It would be nice if you gave her a chance.”
He turned to face his father. “She’s stressed about Ella?”
“Of course she is. Even more today than she was yesterday, I’m afraid.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know she lost meaningful contact with Ella for more than a decade when Ella ran off to perform with a country music band. Brenda has been worried since last December that Ella is going to find another band and leave again. She isn’t living up to her best potential here in Magnolia Harbor.
“And then I just heard this afternoon that her ex-boyfriend is going to be here on tour in early May.”
“Ella’s ex is coming to town?”
“Yeah. And Brenda is terrified that he’s going to convince Ella to go on the road with him. And she’s sure that, if that happens, she’ll lose contact with her again for years. That would break Brenda’s heart, Dylan. God, I can’t imagine being out of touch with you for more than a day or so. So I’m asking you to be nice to Ella. Please. Don’t become the reason she decides to move away. Understand?”
“Yeah, I do,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Harley rumbled with a satisfying, deep-throated growl as Dylan rode it up the long hill to Howland House. The roar of the bike was like a soundtrack to his emotions. Another day of sneaking around, which was kind of thrilling. And yet fraught with so many risks.
Was it the danger that had him coming back night after night? Or was it Ella, messing with his brain? Dylan didn’t know, but it hardly mattered.
All day on Friday, he’d been anticipating this evening’s tasting at A Night to Remember, the caterer that Jude St. Pierre had recommended. He was waiting to see what Ella thought about her ride this evening.
He was hoping the caterer’s name was prophetic. He planned a night to remember. Like their date on the mainland had been last night. And the night before. Funny how he was dragging around from lack of sleep during the day, but when quitting time rolled around, he was ready and raring to go again.
He killed the bike’s engine and set the kickstand. He was about to go knock on the door when Ella came strolling out wearing a pair of blue jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt with the words NEVER UNDERESTIMATE A GIRL WITH A FIDDLE across her
breasts. She wore her Doc Martens and carried a jean jacket over her arm. Like always, her red hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, tendrils escaping to fall around her ears, neck, and eyes.
He’d been explicit about how he wanted her to dress tonight because they were riding the bike. She’d complied with his request that she wear long pants and a jacket for safety reasons.
She strode up to him, taking in his riding leathers and the Harley as if she might be seeing him in an entirely new light. “So you’re going to take me for a ride?”
“I am,” he said, grinning. Really, when you boiled life down to the essentials, nothing could beat a Harley and a redheaded girl.
He reached behind him and unhooked the second riding helmet. “This is for you. Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle?”
She gave him that sultry smile and shook her head. “I probably shouldn’t admit that out loud. I mean, I was a member of an outlaw country music band for years. We regularly played at biker bars.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. But honestly, you don’t look like a common, run-of-the-mill biker. You don’t have a beer belly and a beard down to there.” Her smile widened. “But you know, that’s a stereotype.”
“Good for me. So. We need to get going. We have an appointment at six.”
She mounted the bike, her warm body snuggling up against him. His riding leathers were designed to protect his skin from pavement burn, but right now he wished he was riding naked.
Boy, that would turn some heads on Harbor Drive, wouldn’t it?
“How do I stay on this thing?” she asked.
“There are handles, but if you want, you can hold on to me.”
“And where is this caterer?”
“On Harbor Drive. Down on the East End.”
“Are we tempting the fates by riding right through the middle of town?” she asked.
“Uh, well. No. Maybe. But you can hold on to the handles if you want.”
She didn’t. Instead, she wrapped both arms around his middle and snuggled even tighter against his back. It was perfect. He wished they were taking a long drive up the coast to find a deserted beach. Although making love in the sand wasn’t all that much fun, really.
He fired up the bike and looked over his shoulder. “Lean through the turns like you would if you were on a bicycle.”
“Right,” she said in a breathless tone, her hands a little restless where they gripped his chest.
He took off at a moderate speed. He’d intended to give her a different kind of thrill this evening, but unfortunately, an accident snarled downtown traffic, and they inched along. Some idiotic tourist hadn’t been paying attention and made a turn into oncoming traffic at the intersection of Harbor Drive and Magnolia Boulevard. No one was hurt, thank goodness, but every few feet he had to stop and put his foot on the pavement.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t having a few thrills though. Ella had developed a death wish or something. Or maybe she had gotten tired of hanging on tight when they were going slower than a pedal bike. She quit clutching his chest, and her hands strayed down to his inner thigh. His riding leathers suddenly felt hotter than normal.
“So,” he said half turning, unable to see her because of the helmet. “Are you trying to get caught with your hands in the cookie jar?”
She moved her hand back to his chest. “Uh, well, um. Sorry. I guess my mind started wandering.”
“I wasn’t complaining,” he said.
“No?”
She moved her hand down slowly across his abs on its way back to other places when, out of nowhere, they were hailed.
“Ella, is that you?”
She straightened as if she’d been hit with a taser. Her sudden move, withdrawing her hands from his body, upset their balance. Good thing they were going only two miles an hour. Dylan was able to stop the bike and rest his foot on the ground before they toppled.
“Granny?” she said in a strangled tone that carried even through the muffling helmet.
Dylan glanced toward the sidewalk in front of A Stitch in Time. Sure enough, there stood Ella’s grandmother, shading her eyes against the late-afternoon sunlight. “My word, Dylan, I had no idea you had a motorcycle,” she said in a voice that was surprisingly loud for Nancy Jacobs.
In fact, several other people turned and glanced their way, including Milo Parker, one of Dylan’s patients, who was walking down the street carrying a bag from Annie’s Kitchen—precisely the kind of eatery the man should have been avoiding. Milo grinned at him sheepishly.
“Isn’t it fun?” Ella said to her grandmother.
“Well, that’s debatable. Where are y’all off to?”
“A Night to Remember,” Ella hollered.
“What?” Nancy’s mouth almost fell open just as the traffic moved forward several feet, taking them farther down Harbor Drive.
“It’s a catering place, Granny,” Ella yelled, but Nancy didn’t hear her. The woman cupped her hand around her ear and frowned at them. There was a certain resemblance between that frown and the one Ella referred to as her mother’s frown-of-death.
Before Ella could explain the caterer’s name again, Ethan Cuthbert, a deputy with the Magnolia Harbor Police Force, who was on the scene directing traffic, waved them forward past the smashed-up Chevy in the middle of the road.
“Hey, Dylan,” the deputy called, “y’all out for a little evening ride?” Ethan squinted. “Is that you, Ella?”
“Yes, it’s me. And no, we’re off to A Night to Remember.”
Ethan’s mouth dropped.
“Hang on, Ella,” Dylan shouted, right before he hit the gas. Her arms came around his middle again as they shot forward past the accident.
“I hope you do have a night to remember,” Ethan hollered after them.
Five minutes later, they arrived at the caterer and divested themselves of their helmets. They stared at each other for a long, serious moment. People were going to gossip about them. Of course, they could explain the confusion, given the name of the caterer.
So maybe that explained why they both cracked up laughing so hard that tears fell from their eyes.
“You know,” she finally said as they walked toward the caterer’s office, “my grandmother is going to grill me about what she thinks she just heard. Which was innocent enough, but not really.”
He stopped at the caterer’s door. “We could always tell the truth.”
“And what is the truth?” she asked, her face sobering.
Good question. Was this a fling that would be over in a week or two when she got ready to move on? Or was it something more?
Or maybe it didn’t matter what it was.
* * *
After church on Sunday, Ella rode back to Granny’s house with Mom. She’d brought her fiddle with her because they intended to practice the Mozart duet and get the engagement party invitations addressed.
The mailed invitations were unnecessary since Dylan had set up an Evite and had already gotten half a dozen RSVPs online.
But Mom didn’t trust the internet, or Dylan for that matter. So to keep the peace, Ella had borrowed her mother’s car yesterday and gotten cards with matching envelopes printed up at one of those quick-print places in Georgetown. Granny had volunteered to address envelopes because her handwriting was so much better than Brenda’s or Ella’s. And since they’d cut the invite list down to forty guests, it wasn’t a big deal.
Ella was just a tiny bit nervous about rehearsals with Mom. Many years ago, they had played this piece together. She’d been fifteen, and it had been a difficult piece for her then. She was a better violinist now. But she was still rusty when it came to reading notes on a page. For years she’d been playing fiddle by ear or making up arrangements on the fly. That was the beauty of fiddling with a band.
Today she’d have to be perfect. So she’d been spending a lot of time out by the tree practicing this piece. She had no idea if the questionable ghost liked Mozart as much as her jigs and r
eels. At least the ghost kept his critiques to himself. Mom was unlikely to do that.
They set up their music stands in the condo’s living room while Granny settled at her kitchen island with the cards and envelopes. The Mozart piece was a fast-paced allegro with lots of arpeggios. The lead melodic line jumped from one violin to the other and back again. And if ever there was a “fun” piece of classical music, this was it.
“I’ll take first violin,” Ella said, because she’d been practicing that part. Years ago, she’d played second fiddle, but not today. Of course, the second violin part wasn’t any easier, but Mom had always played first violin.
Ella braced for an argument, but Mom only nodded and rearranged her music. They started playing on Ella’s count. She set a quick tempo because that’s how she’d practiced it. The duet was typical chamber music, full of fast notes, and didn’t require a lot of emotion to play. Speed was the thing. Which made baroque music more like jigs and a reels than the Borodin she’d been messing around with.
They played it with few mistakes, although Ella had the upper hand because she’d practiced the first violin part and Mom was probably sight-reading the second violin. So kudos to Mom for her music-reading chops.
But when the four-minute piece came to an end, Mom was seriously out of breath. “Well,” she said, “you just gave my fingers a workout.” She grinned.
“I’m sorry. That was kind of unfair because I’ve been practicing.”
“I know. You never did have any faith in your sight-reading. Shall we play it again? This time we can switch parts. And I haven’t been practicing.” Was that a passive-aggressive dig or a challenge?
Ella wiped a little perspiration from her fingertips. “Okay,” she said. Game on.
They played it a second time, but since the second violin part wasn’t all that dissimilar to the first violin, Ella was able to keep up even though she was sight-reading the music. And, of course, Mom set a much slower pace the second time through. Neither of them played it error-free, so there was that.
“You played that slower. Were you trying to give me a break?” she asked.