“What the…”

I followed Anarchy’s worried gaze.

Randy approached us at a dead run. He pulled up when he reached the shade, then bent over as if couldn’t breathe. The man was ruddy at the best of times. Running in the heat had turned his skin a deep red. He drew a rasping breath, then gasped, "Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a call for you, Mrs. Jones."

"For me?”

Randy straightened, grimaced, and ran his palm across the back of his boiled-lobster neck. "It’s your mother.”

We let that horror sink in.

“I told her it might take a while to find you. She said she'd wait."

She would, too. She’d hold the line, growing increasingly annoyed with each passing minute. I pictured her at her desk with her white hair sprayed into a perfect helmet. She was probably picking an imaginary piece of lint from the sleeve of her St. John dress. That, or tapping a perfectly manicured nail on the blotter. Waiting. For me. I glanced at my husband. “I’d better take this.” Please, please, think of a reason I shouldn’t.

Anarchy offered me a rueful smile. He knew what Mother was like. He knew she was unavoidable, like death, taxes, or lost socks in the dryer.

We both knew why she was calling.

How bad could this day get?

I girded my loins and followed Randy to the clubhouse.

Anne Boleyn, on her way to meet the axe, walked with more enthusiasm than I did.

We reached the building and stepped into the air-conditioning. I paused and let the sudden cool coat my skin.

“She’s waiting.” Randy pointed to a small office, then ran as if Mother were a character from The Exorcist.

I nodded and ventured inside.

Randy’s office featured knotty pine paneling, a battered desk covered with ledgers and hunting magazines, a calendar featuring a German shorthair pointing in a field tacked to the wall, plaid curtains at the windows, and a braided rag rug on the worn floor. I breathed deep, held the blessedly cool air in my lungs for ten whole seconds, then exhaled slowly. The exercise did nothing to calm my nerves. With a shaking hand, I picked up the receiver and briefly considered returning it to its cradle.

She'd call back, even more annoyed. Or, worse, she'd get in her car and drive down here.

“Hello.” I tried to sound upbeat, as if I was pleased to hear from her.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting? It’s long distance, Ellison. This call is costing me a fortune.”

“You could have left a message.” An entirely reasonable suggestion.

One which she ignored. “Tell me it isn't true.”

“It isn’t true,” I deadpanned.

“Don’t sass me.” Who needed air-conditioning? Mother’s voice was cold enough to bring on the next ice age.

This call was off to a bang-up start. “What do you want to hear, Mother?”