I was in a meeting with the head of the town crew, discussing his zealous use of salt so far this winter and the complaints about undercarriage rust I’d been fielding, when I got the call.

Yes, being first selectman of a small town in Connecticut was a nonstop thrill fest. I smiled at the thought. Truth was, I loved my job. Even moments like this.

It was my last appointment of the day, and I didn’t have any committee meetings tonight. Maybe I’d head over to Caro’s if John was already parked in front of whatever war documentary he was watching these days. If she didn’t have plans, that was.

“Yeah, well, people always bitch and moan if they skid half an inch, so I can’t win for losing here, Barb,” Lou said.

“We’re halfway through the salt budget, and we’ve only had two inches of snow so far. You know we’ll have at least four or five more storms this year.”

“Like I said, I’m the one who gets blamed!”

Lindsey, my secretary, opened the door.

“Barb?” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “I’m so sorry, but you need to take this call. Right away. Lou, out you go.”

I picked up the phone. “This is Barb Frost, how can I help you?” I said in my warm, mayoral voice. Most people who called my office wanted to complain about something, and I found that being polite always shocked them a little. I grew up in Minnesota, where manners were drilled into us. This was New England.

“Mrs. Frost, it’s George Macon.” George was a paramedic in town, but I didn’t think we had any issues with the first responders. I hoped he wasn’t going to ask for new equipment. They just got a new ambulance last year.

“How can I help you, George?” I said.

“I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Frost. Your husband is on his way to the ER, and he’s unresponsive and not breathing on his own. Seems like he took a bad fall off his bike. Can someone drive you to the hospital? Right now?”

Gosh. Right now sounded real ominous, all right. My mouth moved for a moment before the words came out. “Of course. Thank you.” I hung up.