A Wedding on Lilac Lane

by Hope Ramsay

“But I…” An unwanted memory of Dylan’s warm lips against hers invaded her thoughts, and she flushed hot. Was this lust, embarrassment, or some manifestation of dehydration brought on by binge drinking?

  “He’s cute. And a doctor. So enough said.”

  “What? No. He’s going to be my—”

  “Well, yes, he is going to become a member of your family,” Ashley said, pulling a sheet of biscuits from the oven. “That’s going to make things complicated, I suppose. That could get awkward, although he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who does affairs or summer flings. You know?”

  “No, wait. You don’t understand. It’s not like that. I mean we don’t like each other. I was just…celebrating my success or something, and I had too much to drink. And he brought me home like a good big brother would.”

  “Uh-huh.” Ashley nodded and pointed at the oatmeal. “Eat. Then you can put out the orange juice and the big self-serve coffeepot.”

  Oh boy. This wasn’t good. If Ashley talked, then Granny would find out, and if Granny found out…Her goose was cooked. Mom would be furious.

  Her deep unease hadn’t diminished later in the day when she took a seat in the pew next to Granny. But at least she wasn’t dizzy and nauseated anymore, and her headache had settled into a dull roar.

  Which was a good thing because, it being Palm Sunday, there was a big processional this morning with Myrna Solomons playing away on the newly restored pipe organ and Mom leading the newly formed Heavenly Rest choir singing Hymn 154 in their loudest and most joyous voices.

  All glory, laud and honor to thee, Redeemer, King!

  To whom the lips of children made sweet hosannas ring.

  By the time the last blast of organ music faded away, Ella was doubly glad for the Tylenol she’d gulped down right after breakfast.

  She settled in for the Palm Sunday service, complete with its retelling of how Jesus borrowed a colt and entered Jerusalem while the crowd waved palm branches in celebration. But Ella wasn’t quite prepared for Rev. St. Pierre’s sermon on the Gospel reading, because, as usual, he managed to turn the familiar story into some kind of new age, self-help message.

  “Now, in our reading today,” the minister said in his deep baritone, “we’re told that Jesus came into the city and went to the temple, but He left because it was getting late. Did that mean it was late in the day? Or was Jesus running behind schedule for something? He was a celebrity that day, so it’s fair to wonder if He had parties to attend.”

  Ella and several other parishioners stirred in their pews. The idea of Jesus attending a party wasn’t an image many of them had ever thought about.

  “You know what?” the preacher continued. “I have a theory about why He left. I think it’s because He promised to return the colt He’d borrowed. Which is kind of interesting because, you know, everyone who’d celebrated His arrival would have forgiven Him for failing to return the colt. But that wouldn’t have been Him. Jesus let go of that celebrity in order to be true to Himself and to keep His promise to the colt’s owner.

  “So what can we learn from this? Maybe it’s as simple as to be closer to God, we have to be true to our best selves, even on days that get busy or stressful. Even when there are roadblocks that keep us from being true to ourselves.

  “Jesus gave up His celebrity because it was a false face of who He truly was. What do you need to give up? Guilt? Perfectionism? A grudge? Grief? The need for approval? Envy? We all carry around a lot of baggage that delays us, and the time is getting late.”

  The preacher spoke for several more minutes, but Ella hardly heard another word he said because his sermon had penetrated to a place deep inside her. She stared up at the beautiful old stained-glass window behind the altar, and tears filled her eyes.

  She’d been so utterly selfish over the last few days, while Mom was trying her best to stitch together a family. First, she’d wanted Dylan and Jim to disappear, then she’d picked a fight over a simple misunderstanding, and then…

  Good god. She’d gotten drunk and kissed her soon-to-be brother. The guilt was enough to swallow her whole. But she couldn’t just jettison the guilt. To get rid of this burden, she would have to apologize.

  * * *

  Brenda stood in the church vestry, hanging her choir robes in the closet and trying not to chat about Rev. St. Pierre’s sermon. His talk today had evoked a lot of emotion that still sat heavy on her chest. Even now, her heart seemed to be jumping around in there.

  No question about it, she needed to make some changes. Otherwise, she’d never become her best self or live the life she’d always wanted. And there was no time like the present to start.

  She left the vestry and headed to the fellowship hall, where the ladies of the altar guild had coffee and snacks already laid out. She spied Momma and Ella standing together by one of the windows, and she made a beeline to them, bypassing Ashley Scott’s delicious coffee cake.

  “Hey,” she said, coming to a stop before her daughter.

  “Hi, Mom.” Ella met her gaze. “About yester—”

  “I wanted to—”

  They spoke at the same moment.

  “You go first,” Ella said.

  “Oh honey, I am so sorry about what I said yesterday. I don’t know what came over me. I could say it was stress, but…” She paused, letting her gaze drift to the windows. Outside, a heavy mist clung to the live oaks in the churchyard and left jewel-like beads of dew on the Spanish moss.

  “Well, the thing is,” Brenda finally continued, “I know I’ve been hard on you sometimes. I mean…” She paused and shifted her gaze back to her daughter. “Well, I’m sorry about trying to force you to live the dream I screwed up years ago. Judging you because you refused to practice violin every moment of the day was just wrongheaded on my part, and I’m sorry. I’m going to try to be better, okay?”

  Brenda didn’t know what to expect from Ella. But the smile that opened on her daughter’s face made the pressure in her chest ease a fraction. “You know,” Ella said, “I played for Ashley’s tea yesterday, and now I have a regular gig there. I played a lot of traditional Irish music, but the people really enjoyed the medley of Strauss waltzes I included in my set. I’d like to add a few more classical pieces to my repertoire. I was wondering if you could help me choose a few.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “I’ve decided to give up being afraid of making mistakes. Which is hilarious considering all the mistakes I’ve made in my life. I have no idea why I’m so afraid of a few wrong notes here and there.”

  “Because of me,” Brenda said. “And I don’t want you to feel that way anymore.”

  She opened her arms, and Ella stepped into them, giving her a fierce hug that opened her heart and made a different kind of future possible, if only for a moment.

  “I accept your apology,” Ella said. “And I offer one of my own. I’m so sorry I made a scene yesterday. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “I do. It was me blaming you, when in fact the problem is Dylan. I forgive you, sweetie.”

  Ella smiled. “There’s one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was wondering if I could play for your engagement party.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Momma said, grinning.

  Mother and daughter turned in her direction. “What?” they asked in near-unison.

  “I think y’all should play something together, the way you sometimes did when you came to visit,” Momma said.

  Brenda turned toward Ella to gauge her daughter’s reaction to this suggestion. She was relieved and delighted to find Ella smiling. “I think that would be great,” Ella said.

  “So at least that’s one detail of the party we’ve nailed down,” Brenda said.

  “Mom, I know this is stressful for you, but I’m trying my best.”

  “Oh, honey, I know you are.” Brenda gave her daughter another hug. “And when it’s over, we’ll all be one happy family.”

&nbs
p; “It’s just that I’m not sure what you want when it comes to the party.”

  “Well, to be honest, I’m not sure what I want either. I guess I know what I don’t want. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. So, besides the yacht club, anything else I should be aware of?”

  “Nothing that comes immediately to mind.” She paused a moment, thinking about the preacher’s words this morning. “I guess that puts you in a bad place, huh? I mean, you are working hard and coming up with ideas and I’m being difficult.”

  “Yes, honey, you are,” Momma said. “But you’re the bride. So it comes with the territory. I’m sure Ella will figure something out.”

  “I’m working on it. Dylan and I had dinner at that new Italian restaurant on the East Side, but we jettisoned that. Too expensive, and the food isn’t all that good.” Brenda could have sworn that Ella was blushing. What was that all about?

  “When did you have dinner there?”

  “Last night. Dylan came to tea at the inn.”

  “He did?”

  “Mom, stop frowning.”

  Brenda relaxed her facial muscles. She had been frowning. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m not sure I trust Dylan after what you said about him yesterday.”

  “I don’t really trust him either. But you know, you have to give him points for being honest about his feelings. I made him promise me that he wouldn’t screw up the party planning. That’s progress, right?”

  “I guess. Thank you for trying to work things out with him.”

  “Sure.” Ella tossed off that word in a weird way that sent up warning flares. Had Ella worked things out with Dylan, or was Jim’s son bullying her? Dylan could be so unpleasant at times.

  “So anyway,” Ella rushed on. “We talked about some other places.”

  “Good, because time’s a-wasting,” Momma said.

  Ella turned toward her grandmother. “I know, Granny. I’m doing the best I can.”

  “Momma, you don’t think Dylan is trying to delay things, do you?” Brenda asked.

  “I have no idea. I’m just stating the obvious. But if y’all want my opinion, I think you should invite some friends over and grill out on the beach. Don’t you remember how much your daddy loved that sort of thing?”

  Momma’s wistful tone carried Brenda back to her childhood memories of Daddy grilling shrimp out on the beach. Those had been such happy times. Maybe Momma was right. “It would be nice to have a small, informal thing on the beach at sunset,” Brenda said.

  “I like that idea. I’ll put that on the list,” Ella said. “But if it rains, it could be a disaster.”

  “True,” Momma said. “But that’s why God invented tents.”

  “Good point, Granny.”

  Momma nodded. “Y’all really need to get on it and decide one way or another.”

  “By Easter if possible,” Brenda said. “Actually, that brings up another thing. Momma has invited all of us to Easter dinner at her condo.”

  “Great,” Ella said with false enthusiasm.

  And Brenda’s heart wrenched one more time. Was it ever going to be possible to make a family out of Jim’s son and her daughter?

  Increasingly it seemed like an impossible task.

  * * *

  Ashley was on call to supervise the fellowship-hour this week. She’d organized most of the refreshments before services began, but she’d still ducked out of the back of the church before the recessional, using her responsibilities as an excuse to avoid the usual after-services meet and greet.

  She wasn’t in a mood for socializing with anyone, least of all Micah St. Pierre. She checked the coffee, straightened the paper napkins and plastic forks, and tried not to cry. What had he done? Used her as some kind of inspiration for that sermon?

  That whole bit at the end where he’d started talking about letting things go, like grief. She didn’t have to be a genius to know that he was sending messages.

  She just wanted things to go back to the way they had been. She didn’t want him prying into her feelings. She didn’t want him using her as some sort of inspiration for sermons. Who did?

  But she didn’t mind feeding him every morning. In fact, she liked feeding him. His preference for oatmeal had changed her menu offerings. But he hadn’t been to the inn for breakfast since Thursday. And he rarely missed the continental breakfasts on Sunday morning.

  And here she’d made oatmeal for him every day and no one had eaten any of it, except for Ella, who had been forced to eat it. So her efforts hadn’t been entirely wasted. If only oatmeal could set Ella back on course. But it couldn’t, and she was skating on some seriously thin ice with Dylan.

  The congregation was finally making its way to the fellowship hall. She poured herself a cup of coffee and chatted with Sandra and Karen about the sermon and the quality of the choir’s performance. The atmosphere changed the moment Micah entered the room, divested of his priestly robes and back in his workaday suit and Roman collar.

  A lot of people had liked his sermon today, so it took him a while to make it across the room. But at least one thing hadn’t changed. Micah had a sweet tooth. He might give her grief about baking for the Piece Makers, but he’d never turned down leftover cake.

  And she’d made his favorite coffee cake today as a peace offering.

  “Coffee cake,” he said when he finally reached the refreshment table. “Did you make this for me?” He seemed so pleased.

  And for some unfathomable reason, his enthusiasm for the cake didn’t please her at all. Maybe because she had to face the truth: she’d baked this coffee cake for him. And that seemed…wrong or selfish or something. Because the 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 hai
r 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.”