Page 45

“Some titles are earned, Patsy,” I say quietly, my voice careful, measured, like each word needs to be placed just right. “And others… well, they aren’t.”

I give a small shrug, watching as her brow furrows, her curiosity flickering to life. But before she can press, I turn, my fingers brushing absently along the edge of the counter.

“It’s how he always wanted it,” I add, letting the words come out light, easy, the kind of tone that tells her without saying it: Don’t ask me more.

Patsy tilts her head, her expression softening just a fraction. “You don’t have to explain it to me, but whatever it is you’re holding onto… it’s heavy, Lydia.”

I glance away, my fingers tracing the seam of my sleeve. “It’s not worth explaining,” I murmur, more to myself than her.

Patsy’s lips press into a thin line, her unspoken judgment hanging in the air. But she doesn’t push further. Instead, she shifts her stance and says what I’ve been bracing to hear. “I know you’re capable of just about anything, but taking care of someone in your dad’s condition? You’re more of a woman than I’ll ever be.”

The door to the clinic opens, the bell above it jingling softly. I glance over to see a man stepping inside, his tall frame and broad shoulders silhouetted against the morning light. Pastor Thompson.

He looks every bit the part of a man of faith, pressed slacks, a neatly combed mane of salt-and-pepper hair, and a smile that seems just shy of genuine. I’ve seen him once or twice at the grocery store and walking out of the hardware shop, always with a warm word for the clerk or a neighbor. People already seem to like him, leaning into his easy charm like moths to a flame.

The town hasn’t yet immortalized him in its brochures or plastered his face across church bulletins. But I know his type, the kind who makes themselves visible in the quiet ways at first, shaking hands, offering prayers, becoming indispensable. I wonder how much of it is real. How much of that warmth and unity actually lingers when the cameras are put away and the church doors are locked. How often does his wife’s smile falter when no one’s looking? How often do his kids fidget under his expectations?

I’ve seen men like him my whole life. I know how easily their polished exteriors can crack.

“Ladies,” he greets, his voice rich and practiced.

Patsy straightens, offering a polite nod. “Pastor Thompson. What brings you here?”

He steps closer, his eyes landing on me with an intensity that feels like a searchlight. “Actually, I was hoping to speak with Lydia. Heard you’d be stepping away from the clinic for a while.”

I force a smile, my grip tightening on the edge of the counter. “Word travels fast.”

“It always does in a town like Hurricane,” he says, chuckling lightly. “I wanted to offer my support. I can’t imagine the weight you’re carrying right now, caring for your father.”

“Thank you,” I reply, my voice measured.

He nods, then gestures to a chair near the corner. “May I?”

“Of course,” Patsy interjects, her voice brightening. “Have a seat.”

Pastor Thompson lowers himself into the chair, smoothing his hands over his knees. “I also wanted to discuss some ideas I’ve been working on. Community health is one of my priorities as the new pastor, and I thought we could collaborate. Perhaps a flu shot clinic hosted at the church? It could be a wonderful way to bring the congregation together while promoting wellness.”

His gaze shifts to me expectantly and I hesitate, searching for the right words. “That… sounds like a good idea,” I say cautiously. “But I won’t be much help while I’m on leave,” I add, voice tight, trying to keep it light.

“No rush,” he says quickly, his voice warm, touched with that quiet, almost awed reverence. “We’ll wait until you’re ready. You know, your father was a man I deeply admired. His sermons had such conviction, such passion. So many people looked up to him.”

I force myself to meet his gaze, even as my stomach knots, tightening at his words.

He keeps going, not noticing the way I’ve gone quiet. “When I got the call about the parish here in Hurricane, I was honored, truly. To follow in the footsteps of a man like your father, it’s humbling.”

“He left big shoes to fill,” I say, a little sharper than I mean to.

Thompson’s eyebrows tick up, just a little, but he doesn’t flinch.

“He certainly did,” he says, nodding. “The way he could command a room, inspire faith, bring a whole community together, it’s something I can only hope to live up to.”

I swallow hard, pushing back the bitterness clawing up my throat. “Yeah,” I murmur, keeping my tone level. “He had a gift for that.”

Thompson’s smile flickers, then softens. His eyes settle on me, and for a beat, he looks almost… thoughtful, like he’s trying to read something in my face.

“Do you think you’ll bring him back to church?” he asks after a moment, his voice lifting just a little; careful, hopeful. “The congregation would be… honestly, they’d be over the moon to see him again. A recovery like this, it’s…” He lets out a small breath, shaking his head slightly. “It’s a real testament to God’s grace.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, sharp, hard, tasting a thin trace of blood. “It’s… it’s too early,” I say quietly. “He’s got a long road.”