Read the book: «Dance with the Doctor»

Moving slowly and gracefully, Darcy swayed to the music.

Her hips rolling, Darcy’s arms traced patterns in the air. The exotic music, the sparkle of sequins and shimmer of silk—even the faint incense scent of the air around him—worked a spell on Mike. He felt as if he’d plummeted through a trapdoor from his everyday life to this erotic new world.

Darcy twirled a veil around her, hiding behind it, then revealing the curve of her hip, the smooth paleness of her bare back, the gentle roundness of her belly, the swell of cleavage above the sequined bra top.

Mike’s heart pounded and he had trouble breathing, but he made no attempt to turn away.

Dear Reader,

Three and a half years ago I took a belly dancing class. I was looking for some form of exercise that would be fun. The class was fun, all right. So fun I’ve been dancing ever since.

Though the characters in this book have no connection to the women I’ve met through my dancing classes, it was a lot of fun to write a story that combines my love of dancing, family and romance.

Life is full of little miracles, and organ transplant is certainly one of those. If you’d like to know more about organ and tissue donation, visit www.organdonor.gov.

I hope you’ll enjoy Darcy and Mike’s story. I always enjoy hearing from my readers. You can e-mail me at Cindi@CindiMyers.com or through my website www.cindimyers.com.

Cindi Myers

About the Author

CINDI MYERS is the author of more than three dozen novels and a member of an amateur belly dancing troupe, the Mountain Kahai Dancers. She thinks writing and dancing have a lot in common, since both require creativity and a certain amount of chutzpa. She writes and dances in the mountains of Colorado, where she lives with her husband and two spoiled dogs.

Dance with

the Doctor

Cindi Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Sheila and the Mountain Kahai Dancers—

especially the Thursday night bunch.

CHAPTER ONE

WHAT WAS I thinking? Darcy O’Connor fought down butterflies as she looked out over the dance studio filled with eight preteen girls who’d signed up for the Belly Dancing for Girlz class. The normally tranquil room had been transformed into a scene of chaos. Dressed in everything from blue jeans and T-shirts to ballet leotards, the girls, ranging in age from nine to eleven, took turns preening and posing in the full-length mirrors lining one wall, draping themselves in the various scarves and costumes that hung around the rest of the room, all talking at once.

Darcy had taught dozens, even hundreds, of women to dance in her four years as a belly dance instructor, but she’d never attempted a class just for girls. When she’d come up with the idea, she’d thought of it as a good way to make children part of her life, but now she wondered if she was really ready for this.

“My aunt Candace took a pole dancing class last summer. Is this anything like that?”

“We saw belly dancers at the Renaissance Festival. My dad stuck a dollar in one of the dancer’s bras and my mom got mad.”

“I want to dance like Shakira. How long will it take you to teach me to do that?”

“Girls, girls!” Darcy held up her hands. “I’ll answer your questions as we go along, but right now let’s get started. First, let’s line up in rows. Everybody stand where you can see yourself in the mirror.”

She moved one of the taller girls, Debby, into the back row, and called forward the smallest of her new students, a delicate child with large brown eyes and a mass of dark brown hair. “Sweetie, you come up here on the front row. What’s your name, again?”

“Taylor,” the girl said eagerly. She grinned up at Darcy.

“Taylor, you stand next to me. Hannah, you come up on my other side.” Darcy surveyed the neat double line of girls in the mirror and felt more in control of the situation. “That’s better. Now we can start.” She pressed the play button on the remote for the stereo and the first notes of a pop number filled the room. “The first thing we’re going to learn is to move our hips from side to side, while the upper part of our bodies stays still.”

“My brother says I can’t learn to shake my hips because I don’t have hips yet,” one of the girls, Zoe, volunteered.

“You do too have hips,” Kira protested. “Everybody has hips.”

“Brothers are just that way,” Debby said. “Once mine told me—”

“Now let’s try making a circle with our hips,” Darcy said, recalling the girls’ attention.

“What’s this move called?” Liz asked.

“Is it okay if my circle is more of an oval?” Taylor asked.

Darcy smiled to herself. Yes, this class was going to be a challenge, but maybe a challenge was exactly what she needed. “All right, girls. See if you can do this next move. I want everyone to be quiet and listen to the music. Think about how the music makes you feel.”

The soaring notes of an Egyptian mizmar filled the air, accompanied by a pounding drumbeat. The music vibrated up through the soles of Darcy’s bare feet, soothing her like the caress of a friend. She hoped the girls felt it, too. She wanted to pass on to them more than the mere mechanics of movement.

She caught Taylor’s eye in the mirror and was rewarded with a smile that made Darcy’s heart skip a beat. There was so much joy and innocence in that smile—so like the smile of her son. A smile she ached to see.

She pushed the sad thought away and struck a dramatic pose as the last notes of the song hung in the air, holding still until someone in the back of the class giggled. Then all the girls dissolved into laughter. Darcy joined them, reaching out to pull Hannah and Taylor close. She’d missed the sound of children’s laughter since she’d lost Riley two years ago.

“That was fun.” Taylor looked up at her, still smiling. “You’re really pretty,” the girl said. “Did it hurt when they pierced your nose?”

Darcy laughed. “A little.”

Taylor wrinkled her own button nose. “I hate needles.”

The fierceness in the child’s voice both surprised and charmed Darcy. She patted Taylor’s back. “There will be no needles in this class. I promise.”

“Are we going to learn to dance with swords?” Kira pointed to the pair of curved scimitars that hung over the mirrors at the front of the room. Darcy danced with a sword as part of her professional routine sometimes, but the thought of these girls anywhere near those sharp blades made her blanch.

“You’re going to learn a special routine,” she said. “We’ll spend the next eight weeks learning it and you’ll perform it for your parents and friends at my student show in April.”

“Will we get to wear costumes?”

“Real belly dancing costumes?”

“I want a pink costume!”

“Can we have bells on them and everything?”

So much for thinking she was in control, Darcy thought, as the girls crowded around her. But she no longer felt nervous or panicky among them. She clapped her hands. “We’ll talk about costumes more next week. For now, let’s dance some more.”

For the rest of the class they played games where Darcy showed a move and each girl did her best to imitate it. The last five minutes they simply danced. She encouraged the girls to be as silly and uninhibited as they liked, and their excited comments echoed off the walls of the small studio until Darcy’s ears rang.

By the end of the hour, everyone was tired but happy, including Darcy. She’d taken an important step today toward putting her life back together. These girls didn’t make her miss her son less, but they made her heart less empty.

The girls gathered around the door of the studio to greet arriving parents. Hannah’s mother, Darcy’s friend Jane, was one of the first to arrive. “How did it go?” she asked.

“It went great, Mom.” Hannah held up her cell phone. “I was just texting Kelly all about it. She’s going to be so sorry she chose soccer over this.” She moved past them out the door, furiously thumbing away.

Jane turned to Darcy. “Well? What do you think?”

“It was a blast,” Darcy said. “I was worried at first because the girls seemed so scattered, but they really got into it after a bit.”

“I’m glad. This was a big step for you.” Jane squeezed her hand.

“It was time.” For months after Riley’s death even the sight of a child on television was enough to cause a flood of tears.

Jane lingered, her eyes fixed on Darcy. “Is something wrong?” Darcy asked.

Jane shook her head. “No. I was just wondering—would you like to go out this weekend?” she asked.

“Go out where?”

“I don’t know,” Jane said, with studied casualness. “Maybe out to dinner. There’s a new steak place over in Kittredge I hear is nice.”

“You want to take me out for steak?” Darcy asked.

Jane fidgeted. “Eric has this friend …”

Ah. “No fix-ups.” Darcy shook her head.

“He’s a really nice guy,” Jane persisted. “His name is Mitch and he—”

Darcy didn’t cover her ears, though she wanted to. Instead, she put one hand on Jane’s arm. “I appreciate the thought, but I’m not interested.”

Jane’s brown eyes filled with sadness, and her smile vanished. “Okay,” she said. “But let me know when you’re ready.”

That would be never, but Darcy didn’t try to explain. Some people, like Jane, who’d been married to Eric for twenty years, were made for happily-ever-after relationships. Others, like Darcy, who came from a family with so many exes and halves and second, third and fourth marriages that they’d have to hire an arena if they ever held a reunion, weren’t the long-term-relationship type. Darcy had tried to buck the odds when she’d married Riley’s father, Pete, but as much as she’d loved him, things couldn’t have turned out worse. She wasn’t going to take any more chances.

“Excuse me. Ms. O’Connor?”

Both women turned at the sound of the deep, masculine voice. A broad-shouldered man with dark, curly hair, dressed in an expensive overcoat, greeted them. If Darcy had been asked to use one word to describe the man, she would have chosen “imposing.” He had the demeanor of a man used to being in authority.

“I’m Darcy O’Connor,” she said, drawing herself up to her full five feet four inches and looking him in the eye, though she had to tilt her head slightly to do so.

Jane squeezed Darcy’s arm and waved goodbye, at the same time giving the stranger an appreciative once-over.

“I’m Dr. Mike Carter. Taylor’s father.”

Darcy saw the resemblance now, in the thick dark curls and brown eyes. Those eyes appeared troubled. She didn’t ordinarily have much sympathy for doctors. Her dealings with the medical profession since Riley’s death had been mostly unpleasant.

“Hey, Daddy.” Taylor joined them, swinging on her father’s arm. Dr. Carter looked down at his daughter and smiled, his face so transformed that Darcy caught her breath.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“Great. The class was awesome.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You seem flushed.”

“Dad!” Taylor’s voice rose. “I’m fine.”

“Is something wrong?” Darcy asked. Taylor’s cheeks were a bit pink, but that was normal after an hour of dancing—wasn’t it?

Dr. Carter’s gaze remained on his daughter, who was giving him what Darcy could only describe as a warning look. Finally, he said, “Taylor’s fine. She’s fine now.”

Now? “Is there something I need to know?” Darcy asked. Had this man sent his daughter to class sick, possibly exposing a room full of children—not to mention herself?

He shook his head. “I just don’t want Taylor to overdo it. Her mother assured me belly dancing wouldn’t be too strenuous, though how she’d know that, I have no idea.”

Darcy had a vague recollection of a telephone conversation with an enthusiastic woman. “Your wife is the one who signed Taylor up for the class,” she said.

“Ex-wife, actually. We’re divorced.”

Oops.

“I have custody of Taylor, but Melissa sees her as much as possible,” he continued. “Her work takes her out of the country quite often.”

“My mom’s a flight attendant,” Taylor offered.

“I’m the one who’ll usually be picking up Taylor from class, so I wanted to introduce myself.” He looked around her open-concept studio. Wood floors, white walls and windows on three sides. Framed photos of dancers between the windows. Merely stepping into this space was enough to relax Darcy. This was her hard-won sanctuary where grief and fear were absolutely not allowed. She wondered what the doctor, with his expensive coat and patrician air, thought of the humble space. She wouldn’t call his expression disapproving, but he was a difficult man to read.

“Do you have children?” he asked.

She stiffened. An innocent enough question, but his tone bothered her—almost as if he was grilling her. I had a son, she might have answered. But that was none of his business. “No,” she said.

“Do you have experience working with children?”

“Not especially. But I’ve taught dance full-time for four years and I’ve danced professionally longer than that.” It annoyed her to have to defend herself to this man. She didn’t blame him for wanting to know more about the adult who’d be teaching his daughter, but his tone was accusational, as if he suspected her of something.

“Do you have any first-aid training?” he asked. “Do you know CPR?”

Having been the mother of an active boy had taught her plenty of first aid, and she had, in fact, taken a CPR course three years ago. But why did Dr. Carter want to know about that? “Is there a point to all these questions?” she asked.

“I’m concerned for my daughter’s safety, that’s all.”

“I assure you Taylor is perfectly safe here.” Did he really think belly dancing was dangerous?

“Dad!” Taylor’s tone was anguished. “You’re embarrassing me.”

His face flushed, and he gave Darcy a look that might have passed for apologetic. “I’ve tried to tell Taylor it’s a father’s job to embarrass his child, but she doesn’t agree.” He took out his wallet and handed her a card. “If you should need to get in touch with me.”

She took it. Michael Carter, M.D. Pediatric Specialist. He wasn’t just any doctor—he was a children’s doctor. Was he so cautious with Taylor because he spent his days seeing everything that could go wrong with children? “Thanks,” she said, and started to add the card to the pile of papers on the table just inside the door.

“Wait a minute.” He stopped her. “Just in case.” He took the card back and scribbled on it. “My cell number.” He returned it to her. “Nice meeting you,” he said, and took Taylor’s hand.

“Goodbye, Darcy,” Taylor called. “See you next week.”

“Goodbye, Taylor. Dr. Carter.” When they were gone, Darcy studied his business card again. Had Taylor’s father been coming on to her? Why else would he give her his number? After all, it wasn’t as if Taylor wouldn’t know her father’s phone number.

Still puzzling over the doctor’s strange behavior, she pulled a coat on over her costume and left the studio, which had once been a detached garage. Though the sun was shining in a Colorado blue sky, the forecast called for more snow by nightfall. She made a mental note to check that the snowblower had plenty of gas.

She walked out to the end of the driveway and collected her mail from the box, then climbed back up to the house. Painted in two shades of green, with a stone patio across the front, it had started life as a weekend getaway for some well-to-do Denverite. In the days before air-conditioning, city folks fled in the summer heat to rustic mountain cabins like this one in Woodbine.

Now they built second homes in Vail and Aspen, leaving the old cabins for people like Darcy to renovate and call home.

She pushed open the front door and shed her coat, pausing, as always, in front of the shelf tucked into an alcove by the door. A swath of bright green Indian silk covered the shelf, on which sat a statue of the Hindu goddess Kali. Cradled in the goddess’s many arms was a framed photo of a handsome man with bright red hair and a goatee, and a sandy-haired boy of six, who smiled out of the photo with all the joy and innocence of an angel.

Darcy kissed her finger, then touched the boy’s face, her heart tightening as always. The raw grief of missing these two—her husband and son—had lessened in the time since they’d both died in a car accident, but she still felt their absence keenly.

With one last look at the photo, she moved into the living room to sit on the sofa and sort the mail: junk, bill, magazine, junk, junk, bill, ju—She froze in the act of tossing the last letter onto the junk pile. She read the return address on the meter-stamped envelope: Colorado Donor Alliance, Denver.

She stared at it a long time, her insides liquid. Nightmare images filled her head—harsh hospital lighting, beeping monitors, the concern of a woman explaining about organ donation, a pile of paperwork … Darcy struggled to push the ugly memories away. Why were these people contacting her now, after two years?

“They probably just want a donation,” she muttered as she tore open the envelope with shaking hands.

Dear Mrs. O’Connor,

Your decision to give the ultimate gift of life by donating your son’s, Riley’s, organs, has saved the lives of several children. I hope you will take comfort in knowing that some small part of Riley lives on.

Your information and information about organ recipients is always kept in strictest confidence unless both parties give their permission for it to be released. Though some donor families wish to remain forever anonymous, others find closure in meeting the recipients of their gift.

We have recently been contacted by the family of the child who received your son’s heart. They would like to meet you, to personally thank you and to allow you to see the results of your decision.

We will be happy to facilitate such a meeting, if you so desire. If you prefer to maintain your anonymity, we will respect that also.

Sincerely,

Mavis Shehadi

Donor Coordinator

Darcy sank back on the sofa and stared, not at the letter in her hand, but at the framed eight-by-ten photo on the wall opposite. Riley, dressed in his green-and-yellow Little League uniform, a bat posed on one shoulder, his hat sitting at a jaunty angle over his blond curls, was frozen in a moment of six-year-old bravado. This was the image of a child who had never known prolonged pain or a moment’s real unhappiness.

Darcy had been assured he’d died without suffering. A head injury had damaged his brain, but his other organs had functioned long enough that they could be given to others. The Donor Alliance counselor had assured her that donating Riley’s heart, kidneys and liver might spare some other mother the agony Darcy had endured. Overwhelmed by grief and guilt, Darcy had signed the papers, numb to anything but the pain of losing her son. She was convinced she should have done more to save him. Saving his organs for others had seemed such a small thing at the time.

Only later, as some of the blackness receded, had she wondered about those children and their families. But she quickly decided she didn’t want to know.

The idea that part of Riley lived on somewhere was comforting in the abstract, but she was afraid hearing about the lives of those children would hurt too much. They got to live …. No amount of heartfelt thanks from other parents could ever make up for the fact that they had their children and she’d lost hers forever.

She’d received a couple of moving letters from grateful parents, their identities carefully blacked out. She’d put them away with other mementos that were too painful to look at—the funeral program, Riley’s last report card, his baseball cap.

So she’d never contacted the donor registry and hadn’t considered the possibility that they might contact her after all this time.

She reread the letter and waited for the familiar pain to overwhelm her. The guilt was still there, and the ache of longing, but the resentment had faded. That Riley had been taken from her was tremendously unfair, but she would never wish the loss she’d endured on another.

And to think that Riley’s heart lived on filled her with a flood of good memories. She had called Riley her sweetheart. When he did something kind for someone, she told him he had a good heart. Before he was born, she had listened to the beating of his heart in her doctor’s office and begun to know and love him as someone precious who was part of her, yet his own person.

Did Riley’s heart, beating in this other child, sound the same? Would Darcy recognize its rhythm?

What would she do if she did recognize something of Riley in this other child? The idea stopped her short.

If she met this child, she wouldn’t be anything like Riley, Darcy reassured herself. She had a vague recollection of the donor coordinator telling her Riley’s heart was going to a girl. And she would belong to other parents.

Grief was a kind of insanity she only recently felt she’d emerged from. Would meeting this child plunge her back into that darkness, making the loss of Riley fresh again?

She shook her head, and replaced the letter in the envelope. That wasn’t a risk she was willing to take. She’d write to the Donor Alliance and refuse. Maybe one day she’d be strong enough to meet one of the transplant children, but she wasn’t there yet.

“WHAT DID YOU THINK of Darcy, Dad?”

Mike glanced in the rearview mirror at his daughter. Taylor leaned forward in the backseat of the car, straining against the seat belt. Only recently had she been able to abandon the booster seat that had been a source of shame for her. Her health problems had left her undersized for her age. Strangers often mistook her for a much younger child. “Isn’t she awesome?”

Awesome was Taylor’s word of the moment, used to describe everything from her favorite song on the radio to the macaroni and cheese they’d had for dinner last night. And apparently her new dance teacher. “Ms. O’Connor seems very nice,” he said. Though not what he’d expected. “Belly dancer” conjured an image in his mind of someone dark and exotic; Darcy O’Connor was blond and blue-eyed with the kind of curves that would make any man take a second look. Even as concerned as he was for Taylor, Mike had had a hard time not staring.

“She’s so beautiful.” Taylor ran both hands through her dark curls. “I wish I had hair like hers.”

The idea of Taylor with blond curls like Darcy O’Connor almost made Mike smile. “Your hair is beautiful just the way it is,” he said.

“You only say that because you’re my dad.”

Mike felt a pang of regret. Not so long ago his compliments had meant the most simply because he was her dad. Now, apparently, they didn’t count for as much.

“I really like the other girls, too,” Taylor said. “A couple of them I recognized from school.”

“Are any of your friends in it?” he asked. Taylor didn’t talk much about her classmates. This hadn’t worried Mike before. Yes, all her hospitalizations had put her behind some of her classmates academically. Maybe that had hindered her socially, as well.

“Keisha and Monica are the only girls I really hang out with much at school,” Taylor said. “And neither of them is in the class. I think dancing might help me make more friends.”

The note of wistfulness in her voice tugged at his heart, and he felt the tightness in his chest from the old anger he could never completely bury. Why had his daughter been singled out for such cruelty? Why did she have to suffer so much? “I’m sure you’ll make friends,” he said.

“I think so.” She sat back in the seat. “It’s kind of special, you know? Being part of the dance group, I mean. I’ll bet a lot of girls wish they could be in it.”

Mike forced himself to loosen his grip on the steering wheel and reminded himself that in spite of everything, Taylor had been very lucky. She was alive, and likely to live a long, happy life, if she was careful. He turned onto Sycamore Street. “Did you remember to take your medicine?” he asked.

“Yes. I took it before class.”

“Good.” She’d been so excited about the dance class he’d been afraid she’d forget. It needed to be taken on a strict schedule. “I want you to be honest with me—you didn’t overdo it today, did you? The class wasn’t too strenuous?”

“No. It was fun. Darcy’s a really good dancer.”

Darcy again. Taylor was clearly captivated by her attractive teacher. “I imagine she’s been practicing for quite a few years.” Though how long could that be, really? Maybe her petite size made her look young for her age, but she hadn’t seemed a day over twenty-five to Mike. At thirty-six, he felt positively ancient next to her.

“If I start now, I could be that good by the time I graduate high school.”

“I thought you wanted to be a doctor.” He tried to keep his voice neutral.

“I do. But I could belly dance on the side. As a hobby.”

A belly dancing doctor. “That would certainly give your patients something to talk about.”

“Dad, please!” Taylor’s voice drifted toward an unpleasant whine. “You’re always telling people how important it is to exercise. Dancing will be good for me.”

It probably would. And she was bored with spending so much time at his office after school, where he worried she might come down with an opportunistic infection despite all his precautions. But he hadn’t found a sitter he trusted and he couldn’t leave Taylor at home alone.

Even two years out from her transplant surgery, she was still so vulnerable. How could he trust her with a woman he barely knew? “Like it or not, you’re always going to be more vulnerable than other people to illness,” he said. “What if something happened while you were in dance class? What if you have a reaction to one of your medications?”

“Dad, that only happened one time! And it was months ago.”

“But what if it happened? I don’t know if Darcy is prepared to handle that.”

“She would do the same thing they would do at school—she’d call nine-one-one.”

Taylor had to go to school, but Mike tried to keep her away from large groups of people otherwise. Maybe he was being overly cautious, or even silly, but he couldn’t help himself. The knowledge of everything that could go wrong, and the memory of how close he’d come to losing the most precious person to him, haunted him. “I’d be happier if you’d wait a little longer,” he said. The past two years had been a nightmare of hospital rooms and surgeries, antirejection drugs, infections and the constant fear that something as simple as a cold virus could undo all her progress.

“I just want to do something a normal kid would do.”

The plaintive words cut through him. Wasn’t that all he wanted, too—for his little girl to be happy and healthy, and to live a full, normal life? And she was doing better. She’d started growing, and it had been four months since she’d been sick a single day.

“I know,” he said. “And dance class will probably be fine. But if you have any problems at all …”

“I’ll have to quit. But I’ll be fine, I promise. Thank you, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.” All that love made making the right decisions for her even harder sometimes.

They pulled up to their townhome and Mike pressed the button to open the garage. He and Melissa had purchased the home shortly after their wedding. When they’d divorced they’d both agreed it would be better for Taylor to remain in the only home she’d ever known, and Melissa had moved into an apartment near the airport, convenient to her work. If not for Taylor, Mike would have moved, too. The house was one more reminder of dreams that hadn’t come true. He and Melissa had planned to raise a family in this home.

Taylor was out of the car as soon as Mike released the child locks. “I’m gonna call Mom and tell her about the class,” she called over her shoulder as she raced to the door.

Mike hoped Melissa would be able to answer Taylor’s call. If she was in the middle of a flight that wasn’t possible. Taylor could leave a message, but Melissa wasn’t always good about returning her calls right away.

He followed Taylor inside, stopping to hang his coat on the rack in the foyer, opposite the portrait of the three of them as a family. Melissa smiled straight into the camera; a younger Mike focused on the toddler in Melissa’s lap. Taylor, in a lacy white dress, had been barely two then. She was laughing up at Mike—the happiest baby in the world.

And he’d been the happiest man, just beginning his practice, starting a family. How naive he’d been.

Taylor’s illness had changed all that. Mike didn’t know if he’d ever trust happiness again. He’d always be waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’d emerged from more than two years in hell with his daughter safe, for now, but the perfect family was gone. The messiness—both emotional and physical—of dealing with a chronically ill child had ended a marriage already strained by Mike’s long hours at work and Melissa’s erratic schedule.

The failure to save his marriage still stung. Mike’s parents had been married more than forty years now, while his grandparents had lived to celebrate seventy-five years together. His two sisters both enjoyed long marriages. Only Mike had failed.

He didn’t blame Melissa. Mike had deserted her when she needed him most. He’d been too focused on Taylor and on keeping his practice going to have much left over for his wife.

He found Taylor in the living room, curled on one end of the sofa, the phone still in her lap. “Did you talk to your mom?” he asked.

“I had to leave a message.” Her shoulders drooped.

“I should talk to your mother about setting up a schedule to see you more often,” Mike said. As it was, Melissa flew in and out of town, and her daughter’s life, with no predictable regularity. Taylor missed her mother, though she seldom said it.