In seeking for you I followed not the intelligence of the mind, by which you willed that I should surpass the beasts, but the mind of the flesh.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Four

Ellyn

I’d gone from the doctor’s office straight to the lab for blood work, and from the lab to Cowlicks on Main Street in Fort Bragg. A woman deserves ice cream after a prodding physical and multiple pokes from a vampire disguised as a phlebotomist. A scoop of Black Forest and one of Candy-Cap Mushroom on a sugar cone took the edge off my post-appointment agitation. The pint of Blackberry Chocolate Chunk that I took home and ate for dinner settled me into a sugar coma that left me sprawled on the sofa, dozing in front of American Idol.

We Americans love our idols.

Earl woke me early this morning with the usual chatter. What’s wrong with you? Will you never learn? You know you’re dragging this morning because of what you ate yesterday. You’re worthless.

“I know, I know!” I threw the covers back, stumbled from my bed to the bathroom—each aching step a reminder of what I know—I have to make changes in my diet. But by the time I reached the kitchen, my muscles and joints had loosened a bit and the half-and-half I poured into my coffee didn’t seem all that bad.

It’s just a few tablespoons.

The croissant slathered in butter and jam, my morning staple, shut Earl up.

I do need to make changes, but I won’t know how much I need to change until Dr. Norman calls with the results of my blood work. So I might as well enjoy the next few days.

That being decided, I have a second croissant, shower, and dress for work—leopard print, elastic-waist pants, black chef’s coat with three-quarter length sleeves, and black clogs. The leopard pants are my favorite—they go well with my coloring and are worn to just the right level of comfort. I pull my hair back into its standard ponytail.

I make the three-minute drive from home to the restaurant, then park along the opposite side of the street.

I sit there, fighting the desire to close my eyes for just a minute. Then I push my heavy limbs out of the car, and head into my day.

It turned out that Dr. Norman isn’t all that young, skinny, or beautiful. I’d peg her at around thirty-five, a hundred-fiftyish pounds, and cute. Not pretty. Not beautiful. But cute. Bouncy bob haircut, button nose, and great teeth except for the front two uppers, which are just crooked enough to give her smile character.

And Dr. Becker was right—she’s great. I learned so much in that appointment yesterday about women’s bodies, how we’re made, what happens with our hormones, and—of particular interest—how our estrogen levels can affect our appetites.

I also learned that Dr. Norman isn’t the reason Dr. Becker’s wedding ring is MIA.

I look at Rosa, who is sitting across from me at one of the tables in the dining room. The morning sun now streams in through the windows. We’re folding black linen napkins—something she excels at and I don’t. But I like to show my support. The black napkins were her idea. They don’t leave white lint on black clothing—something she observed at a new restaurant in town. So now Rosa, or our servers, replace the white napkins with the black for those wearing darker colors.

I look across the table at Rosa. “You know Dr. Becker?”

She looks up from the napkin she’s folding. “Dr. Miles Becker? Of course, everybody knows him. They used to come in here all de time.”

“I know, Rosa. I know you know him. I just meant . . . Never mind. Do you know what happened to his wife?”

Rosa stops folding and looks at me.

“Don’t tell me you din’t know?” She shakes her head. “How you not know dat? You need to spend more time wid customers instead of wid your head in an oven.”

“Someone has to cook, Rosa.”

“You outta de loop, Ellyn.”

“Okay, so include me in the loop when important news comes through the dining room. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that she . . . died.”

She shakes her head again.

“What happened to . . . her?”

“De cancer kill her.”

“Oh . . .” I put my hand on my chest in an attempt to soothe the ache I feel for Dr. Becker. “I knew I hadn’t seen them in a long time, but . . . They always seemed so happy when they’d come in.”

“Si.”

We continue folding in silence, Rosa folding three napkins to my one.

I recall my comment to Dr. Norman—and feel heat rise to my face again. “So where’s Dr. Becker’s wedding band?” I’d tossed her a grin. “I’m sure I’d have heard single women squealing all over the county if he was on the market.”

She’d cocked her head and looked at me. “He’s not wearing his ring any more?”

“Not today.”

She looked back at my leg and tapped my knee with that thingy that tests reflexes. My leg gave a little kick in response.

“Hmm . . . he must have finally taken it off.”

“Finally?”

She looked back up. “His wife died. About two years ago, I think.”

“Oh . . .” I swallowed. “I didn’t know.”

I’m such a dork.

A day later and I still can’t think about that conversation without embarrassment.

Rosa reaches for the last linen napkin and folds it in a triangle. “So, you interested?”

“In what?”

“In him. Doctor Becker.” She folds the edges of the triangle together.

I sputter. “What? No, of course not. I was just curious.”

“What wrong wid you? You ever gonna be interested in a man?”

“I don’t need a man, Rosa.” I push a loose curl behind one ear. “Anyway, look at me. No man is going to be interested in . . . this.”

“Dat what you think? You just scared.”

“Scared? I’m not scared. Rosa, there’s nothing wrong with being single.” I thrum my fingers on the table. “I love my life. I’m content. What do I need a man for?”

“You terrified.”

I get up from the table. “Oh, hush. What do you know?” As I walk away, I hear Rosa chuckle. “Glad you find me so entertaining,” I say over my shoulder on my way back to the kitchen. I remind myself, as I often do, about the apostle Paul’s words: “An unmarried woman is concerned about the Lord’s affairs: Her aim is to be devoted to the Lord in both body and spirit. But a married woman is concerned about the affairs of this world—how she can please her husband.”

Do I use the verse as justification? Or am I as concerned about God’s affairs as I profess? Sometimes . . . I’m not sure.

Terrified?

Oh, Lord, am I? I want Your will for me.

Honest.

I think.