Call To Redemption

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Who knew?

Two days later, she realized that she apparently also enjoyed moonlit sails, beach volleyball and hiking through Namolokama Falls.

Of course, the common denominator in all of that was Dominic. The sexy, intriguing, entertaining Dominic.

Darby grinned as she juggled her overstuffed beach bag to use her key card to open the hotel room door.

Dominic, who challenged her to try new things. To revel in new experiences. Every minute with him was alive. Enticing, exciting, invigorating.

Darby stared out the floor-to-ceiling window for a long second, basking in the view of the ocean.

Who knew?

There was life outside of work.

And she was enjoying every second of it.

As if mocking her thoughts, her cell phone rang out, loud and demanding.

For three long, glorious seconds she debated ignoring the call. She was on vacation. She had a date to get ready for. She could call back later.

But duty, as ingrained as her ambition, won out.

“Hello,” she answered with the swipe of her thumb.

“Darby?”

“Mother,” she greeted as she dumped her beach bag on the overstuffed chair just inside the door. She automatically ran her fingers through her windblown hair, trying to push it into place, then fluffing the ends. “How are you doing?”

“Not well, actually. Dr. Sternberg said it’s nothing, but he’s running tests for an ulcer. Which says it all, doesn’t it?”

It said that Laura Raye and her ongoing affair with hypochondria was a force to be reckoned with. Sometimes when Darby was feeling generous, she thought her mom needed a hobby. Something to distract her from swimming in the deep well of worry she’d gotten so used to. In her less generous moments, she figured the woman had dived so deep into grief in the years after Danny died that she was addicted to the misery. And like any addict, after she’d sucked the sympathy dry over the loss of her son, she’d had to go looking elsewhere for her fix.

Darby wasn’t sure what it said about her that her generous moments were few and far between. So maybe it was guilt over her lack of sympathy—or she was simply riding the feel-good wave of her vacation—that had her digging deep for compassion.

“Tests are smart. It’s always good to know what’s going on,” she said, trying to sound encouraging. “You’ll feel better once you know what you’re dealing with.”

Or she’d decide the doctor was conspiring to hide her actual test results for some reason or another.

There was always one reason or another.

Before she’d even finished the thought, her mother was off and running with her litany of reasons why the doctor hadn’t taken her seriously enough to offer a true diagnosis. He should have done more tests, his nurse had taken an unfair dislike to her, her insurance wasn’t good enough to demand better testing...