Over the past years, the rest of my friends had shied away as my random acts of bitchery carried on (and on), so Robin was the only one I had left.

But her husband had left her two years before mine did and not for a nurse, for a Pilates instructor. Thus Robin had random acts of bitchery down to an art as she’d been honing her skills way before I entered the game.

She’d been my mentor, a very good one, and we’d carried on with our shenanigans, doing it with a glee that I only very recently realized hid our despair.

She was still there and living her bitterness while spurring mine on, nowhere near coming to a place in her life where she’d reflect on this, move past it and take back her life.

But to save my family, I had to do just that. And to do that, I had to cut her off (semi) cold turkey.

Which, to start anew, was what I was doing.

So the call could only be from Mom, something that would be out of her usual modus operandi.

Or, if she jumped the gun, it would be from Dad, angry with me that I hadn’t taken Mom’s calls and not only willing but very able to share that with me, cutting me to the bone with his precisely aimed ice daggers, reducing me to nothing.

I didn’t know what to make of the fact that the screen had nothing but a number I didn’t recognize.

Mom would not play games. She wouldn’t get to me through subterfuge. And Dad never phoned me on anything but his cell because that would require the effort of looking up my number, which he would not bother to memorize. He would never make that effort, even to allow himself his relished pastime of laying into me.

Though, it could be Robin. She had a variety of ways of getting to people who didn’t want to hear from her.

Even thinking this, I took the chance of taking the call, putting my phone to my ear and saying a cautious, “Hello.”

“Hello. Is this Amelia?” a woman (not Robin, thankfully) asked.

“Yes,” I answered, pushing through the door from the garage that led into the dining area portion of the landing of the open-space great room.

“This is Josephine Spear,” she announced and I stopped, eyes unfocused on the blue sea beyond my windows, my mind on the fact that Jake hadn’t lied. His wife must be a dog with a bone because, as he predicted, I’d barely made it home before she contacted me. “You met my husband at the gym. Jake Spear?”

“I did, Josephine,” I confirmed. “And I’m pleased you phoned.”

“Head gear is crucial in boxing,” she declared strangely. “We have thirty-seven boys in the league and only gear enough to fit twelve boys appropriately.” Her voice started filling with excitement. “Jake told me what you were wishing to do and a house sale is just the thing! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.”