She looked away, her voice barely above a whisper. “You know as well as I do that she’s a hypochondriac, Gus. She’s tried every medication under the sun for illnesses that weren’t even real.” She glanced at him, seeing his expression soften instantly, concern replacing the frustration in his eyes.
“Annie, you’re not her.” The sound of his voice, so full of comfort and tenderness, nearly undid her, and she had to blink back tears. “You’re nothing like her. Just because that’s her path doesn’t mean it’s yours. You get to make your own choices.”
“But it starts somewhere, doesn’t it?” Her voice wavered, the fear slipping through. “Whether it’s genetic or just circumstances, the results are the same. First, it’s one pill for this, then another to fix that. And before you know it, you’re juggling a dozen prescriptions just to get through the day. I don’t want that, Gus. I can’t let that be my future. The only way I know how to avoid it is to not start relying on medication just so I can work.” She paused, swallowing the lump in her throat, her heart aching. Even if it cost her a dream job. Even if it cost her a dream man.
Gus stayed quiet for a long, long time, the tension between them thick enough to slice through. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “But don’t you want us to work together? Isn’t it worth a shot?”
Annie’s throat tightened. She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. When she opened them again it was to face him, the words coming out in a painful whisper. “Of course I do.” She felt the weight of her decision settle deeper on her shoulders. “But not if it means relying on medication. I’ve prayed about this, Gus. Prayed and prayed. And I think this is the answer—the Lord’s answer to me. I have no peace about taking any drugs, not even over-the-counter ones.”
“There’s no changing your mind about this?” His expression said it all—disappointment, hurt, defeat.
Annie gave him a small, bittersweet smile, even though her heart felt like it was breaking—no, shattering.
“I’m sure.”
Gus reached up to straighten her prayer cap, and he let his fingers slide softly down her cheek. “I was really looking forward to a time when we would do everything together.”
So was she.
Late Sunday afternoon, the sky had finally given up its relentless heat, trading it for the promise of rain as gray clouds rolled in. The kitchen at Windmill Farm felt a little cooler, but Evie barely noticed. She sat at the kitchen table, half-heartedly jabbing at her supper with her fork. The food was fine; she just wasn’t in the mood to eat.
“Charlie hasn’t joined us in a few days,” Fern said, breaking the silence.
“Back to his peanut butter and jelly diet, I suppose.”
“I haven’t seen much of him.” Fern cast a curious glance in Evie’s direction. “Where’s he been hiding?”
Evie shrugged. “Probably holed up studying for his boards. He seems pretty worried about them.”
That much was true. Medical boards weren’t exactly a walk in the park, and Charlie had said his test-taking skills were pretty nonexistent. Then again, he’d just started studying for them recently. Heavy-duty cramming. It was his own fault if he didn’t pass.
She frowned. That was mean. It wasn’t like Evie to be unkind. She didn’t like herself this way. Even if Charlie didn’t feel the same way about her as she did for him, she should want the best for him.
That mean little voice inside her head reared up again:Evenif the best for him means Wren?
As if on cue, Wren came bouncing down the stairs, a whirlwind of energy wrapped in Lululemon shorts and a T-shirt that looked as fresh as her mood. Her running shoes made arhythmic tapping sound on the linoleum floor as she breezed past the kitchen table.
“I’m off for a run before the rain arrives,” she said, giving them a five-finger wave. “Toodles.”
Fern raised an eyebrow as Wren disappeared outside. “Well, she’s in bright spirits.”
Now that Fern mentioned it, Wren had been unusually cheerful this weekend, even offering to give Evie a makeover, which she’d politely dodged. She could already picture the outcome. An Evie-shaped version of Wren. An imitation Wren. A Wren wannabe.
Way too weird.
But it wasn’t like Wren to be so ... well, friendly. She usually had a bit more of an edge, a prickliness that Evie had grown accustomed to. These last few days, she’d been all smiles and sunshine, which only meant one thing. Evie stabbed her fork into a piece of lettuce a little harder than necessary as the realization settled in. Wren’s good mood likely sprang from that chat with Charlie—the one Evie couldn’t resist overhearing. Of course it did. Wren had plans for Charlie—who was neatly wrapped up in her grasp, with a big bow on top.
And where did that leave Evie? Off to the side, a spectator in someone else’s happily ever after.
Fern, who seemed to know everything without being told, reached out and put a hand on her forearm. “Don’t lose hope.”
Tears pricked Evie’s eyes. “Holding out hope for too long is one thing...”
And then, with her signature wisdom, Fern finished the thought in her Fern-like way. “Giving up too soon is quite another.”
Dok sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by those three patient files left behind by Dr. Finegold. The house smelled toogood for her to think straight—garlic, herbs, something roasting in the oven—and it was all thanks to Matt. Sunday was his day to shine in the kitchen, and oh, did he ever take it seriously. Matt’s Sunday cooking wasn’t just a meal; it was an event, a ritual, a kitchen takeover.
Every Sunday, after church, lunch, and a nap—in that order—he’d roll up his sleeves, pull out every pot, pan, and utensil, and get to work. It didn’t matter that a single dish might take two bowls, a whisk, three knives, and four sauté pans—Matt would use them all, and then some. His Sunday dinners were legendary, but so were the piles of dirty dishes he left in his wake. Over the years, they had crafted a bargain—he cooked, she cleaned up. By the time he was done, the kitchen would look like a war zone—flour dusting the counters, pots bubbling over, and every available surface covered with some kind of kitchen gadget.
