Stranded in Paradise by Lori Copeland Page A

clipboard on her trim stomach. “What can we do for you today?”
    â€œI sprained my ankle running to catch a plane. It’s very painful.”
    She nodded. “Visiting Hawaii?”
    â€œYes.”
    She clipped the pencil on the board. “Doctor will be in shortly.” The door closed behind her, and Tess drew a deep breath, holding her foot out in front of her to reassess the damage. The ankle was blue and distorted— could she have chipped the bone? The prospect added another unwelcome angst to her growing list.
    Thirty minutes later the doctor appeared. Tess sat up quickly: she’d finally given in to the uncomfortable table and laid back. Absently smoothing her hair, she smiled at the gray-haired physician with a noticeable paunch.
    He peered at the chart in his hand. “Having ankle problems?”
    â€œI sprained it while I was running to catch a plane. It’s been throbbing for hours.”
    â€œHummm.” Setting the chart aside, he took her bare foot and examined it.
    â€œYes . . . hummm. There’s considerable swelling and bruising.”
    â€œI’ve taken Advil and used ice packs but nothing helps.” She waited, heart pumping erratically. What if it was broken and she had to endure a hot cast—which would undoubtedly mean crutches. . . . Her heart banged against her rib cage.
    â€œHumm. . . .” He bent closer and carefully manipulated the smarting appendage. Tess gritted her teeth and closed her eyes.
    â€œHurt?”
    Pain! Searing agony, you masochist!
    She grinned. “A little.”
    â€œHummm.” Straightening, his eyes focused on a mole on her left arm. Narrowing in on the site, he examined the barely distinguishable discoloration. “How long have you had this?”
    The heart again. Thumping wildly, crowding the back of her throat. “All my life—I think.” She tried to remember— she’d had the mole all her life, hadn’t she? The blemish looked vaguely familiar—but maybe it had come up lately. She felt faint.
    â€œDoes it look strange? Dangerous?” She turned to peer at the now definitely suspicious looking thing on her left forearm .
    â€œHummm.” He pulled a light over to the table, switched it on, then reached for a magnifying glass. Wide-eyed, she studied his grave demeanor, ankle forgotten. Drawing the light nearer, he scoured the object for what seemed an inordinately long time.
    â€œWhat?” she asked faintly.
    â€œHummm. . . .” The magnifying glass moved back and forth—an inch here, half inch there. . . .
    Sweat broke out on her forehead.
    Straightening, he snapped off the light and pushed the stand back. “I’m going to write you a prescription for pain and something to relax those muscles. Before you leave I’d like to take an x-ray of that foot, but I believe we’re dealing with a simple sprain.”
    Nodding mutely, she tried to fathom how pain and muscle relaxants could relate to a suspicious looking mole? Dear God—she’d never noticed. Len had thrown her into such a tailspin, and she’d been so busy with work. . . . Had she overlooked something? Melanoma. She’d read article after article about the dreaded skin condition. She lifted her forearm and stared.
    The doctor wrote on the pad. Her mind faintly registered the scrape of ball point against paper. She’d have to fly home immediately—consult her doctor, who would then refer her to a specialist. How good were Denver oncologists? Her hands trembled. She would fly to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota—she’d have the best of care there—maybe even extend her life a few more years. . . . Her heart sank. There was so much yet to do—so many things she’d wanted to experience. Motherhood. She wanted to spend a summer in Ireland, take an Alaskan cruise.
    â€œI’ll wrap the ankle—should give you some relief,” the doctor was