He was a small man of French descent, who was approaching ninety with the same ferocious attitude he did every new decade. He was a no-holds-barred kind of man. He loved life, made no promises, and gave no excuses. He smoked a cigar every night on his porch while enjoying a nice bourbon, and he ate food rich in taste and calories.

He’d been married five times—happily, he claimed. He’d divorced three and outlived the other two, including his first wife, who was the love of his life. He had a pack of kids, many grandchildren, including Margot, a friend of Regan’s, and all of them loved him with a fierceness that brought a lump to Regan’s throat.

He was a character, and it was always a pleasure to see him. He, and folks like him, were the reason she opted to go into general practice. It wasn’t as glamorous as specializing in something like neurosurgery, which she’d considered, but she loved where she was.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Darville.” Regan sat in her seat and had a look at the computer screen.

“George to you, girlie.” He winked.

“Okay, George.” Regan clicked a few times. “I see your blood pressure is good.”

“I could have saved your nurse the time, but she insisted.” He winked again. “I think she likes me.”

“Everybody likes you, George.” Regan studied the notes and frowned. “You’re complaining of pain? In your abdomen?”

“Bah.” He shook his head. “It’s nothing, but Margot insisted I come see you.”

“Okay.” Regan got up. “Let’s have a look.”

It took Regan about twenty minutes to finish her examination. George’s abdomen was slightly distended and definitely tender. She sent him to the hospital for further tests—with someone his age, she didn’t want him to wait—and called Margot to fetch her grandfather. After conferring with her for a few moments, they were on their way, and Regan could do nothing more until the results were in.

She made a few notes and shut down her computer before gathering her purse and jacket. Bella was asleep on her bed, tucked away in the corner of her office, but one whistle and her little three-legged bundle of fur jumped up and happily followed her from the office. They climbed into her car just as her phone pinged.

She glanced at her cell. Crap. Her mother.

She sighed and sank back into her seat, waiting for the vehicle to warm up. “Shit,” she muttered, reaching for her cell. There was no sense in putting this off. Her mother was stubborn as hell and had been calling since Sunday evening. The evening she’d spent doing all sorts of things with Wyatt Blackwell that, apparently, she shouldn’t have been doing. She should have had her ass parked at her mother’s, enjoying a nice roast beef. If she’d done that, she wouldn’t still be searching for that word that kicked “irritated” out of the ball park.

She sighed and answered her phone.

“Regan?”

“Wrong number? Were you looking for Adam?” A girl could be hopeful.

“I’m not in the mood.”

“No. I can hear that.” And, boy, could she ever. Her mother’s tone was full of attitude, and Regan gazed out the windshield, wishing she hadn’t bothered to answer. She loved her mother. So much. But Jesus, the woman was relentless.

“You missed dinner Sunday night.”

“I did.”

There was a pause. “You didn’t call to tell me you wouldn’t be coming for dinner. I set out the good china. The rosewood pattern that will one day be yours. I even made Yorkshire pudding because it’s your favorite.”

“Sorry. I was busy.”

“So I hear.”

Regan perked up at that comment. “What do you mean by that?”

“Regan Ophelia Thorne.” Okay. The middle name had been thrown down, and that was never a good sign. How in hell did her mother manage to get under her skin like this at the ripe old age of twenty-nine? Heck, her birthday was coming up. She would be thirty in a month. It was ridiculous.

“Mom.” She went for a soothing tone. The kind she used with little kids when they came in for a needle.

“Don’t you Mom me. I’m hurt, Regan.”

Unbelievable. “Hurt? Mom, I missed regular Sunday night dinner. It’s not like it was Thanksgiving, or Christmas or Easter or freaking Lent, when we don’t get to eat anything good anyway.”

“Regan.”

Tags: Juliana Stone The Blackwells of Crystal Lake Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net