Patty-Cake without her blinding smile was an unsettling phenomenon, because of course she meant that to be the case. She said, “You’ve got messages,” and put a short stack of pink slips on his desk directly in front of him. “The first one is the most important.”

In her rounded hand she had written, Caroline 9:15; will call again at noon.

John felt a flush running up his spine, nerves prickling and jumping.

“It’s eleven now.”

“My mother just got in this morning.” It took considerable effort to keep his tone even, but this was a game he understood, and could play. She was angry for whatever reasons—most probably because he had put a crimp in the way she used the photocopy machine to extract tribute—but he had offered her real currency to soothe the pain: news of Lucy Ogilvie. Patty-Cake would bank it, but first she would ask questions, lots of them, all cloaked as compliments. How is your mama? And, My, it must be two years since she’s been back, and I’ll bet she’s got the prettiest dress for the wedding from someplace fancy, Paris or London.

But Patty-Cake wasn’t going for it, against all expectations. Instead she stood there with deep lines bracketing her mouth. I-disapprove lines; I-am-disappointed lines; I-know-you’re-up-to-no-good lines. He was about to throw all common sense to the wind and tell Patty-Cake Walker exactly what he thought of her, but then Rob was there, moving her toward the door in a bubble he created with his soothing patter.

“That was close,” he said in a theatrical whisper when he had shut her out.

“You’re right,” John said. “I was on the verge of … something. Something not good.”

“A lawsuit,” Rob said. “Our Patty-Cake is a whiz at filing complaints. There are six of them in the last five years that I know of, and probably more I don’t.”

“Oh, great,” John said. “Patty-Cake Walker is going to sue me for breach of promise.”

“Or harassment or chilly climate in the workplace or something else along those lines. But let me see if I can turn her around, okay? No need to go looking for a defense lawyer just yet.”

“You are my lawyer,” John said. “Or you would be if you’d just take the damn Georgia bar.” He looked at the telephone message again, tapped it with one finger. “Did you hear about this?”

“I was there when she answered the phone,” Rob said. “If it’s any use to you, Patty-Cake didn’t get anything substantial out of Caroline, though she tried. Look, you need something to take your mind off the telephone, and I’ve got just the thing: the budget.”

John sat down, his hands flat on the desk. After a moment, he nodded.