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make that promise. “You could ask out Ellyn DeMoss, Miles. You light up when you talk with her.” There was no jealousy in her tone. We were secure in our love for one another.
    â€œWhat? Sarah, I can’t—I won’t think about this now. God may still . . .”
    But by then, we both knew.
    I lost her a few days later.
    Sarah will always be part of me—of who I am. I will never forget her nor will I ever love her any less. But she made me promise that I’d move on. That I wouldn’t get stuck in my grief. That I’d continue living even if she didn’t.
    Easier said than done, my gal.
    â€œDr. Becker?”
    â€œComing, Camie.”
    I close the desk drawer and as I do I see my bare ring finger still indented from the band I wore there for almost thirty years.
    I removed it this morning for the first time.
    Just before my appointment with Ellyn DeMoss.

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.
    â€œI 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