I pulled out the telephone book and looked in the yellow pages under “Attorneys.” In the subcategory “Wills, Trusts and Estate Planning,” there were twenty-one lawyers listed and I’d never heard of one. It wasn’t quite noon, so I picked up the phone and called Lonnie Kingman, my attorney of record. He’s my go-to guy at the first sign of legal troubles, which have cropped up more than once in the course of my career. For a period of three years, we’d shared office space, in that he’d accorded me the use of his conference room for business purposes after I left California Fidelity Insurance.

Eventually, his firm had outgrown the space he was in and he’d bought an office building on lower State Street into which he’d moved some two years before. I realized with embarrassment that I’d never even stepped foot in the place. Maybe I should have considered that good news because it meant I hadn’t been arrested, jailed, or legally threatened of late. Instead, I was forced, once again, to acknowledge the gaps in my upbringing. Aunt Gin hadn’t fostered feelings of connectedness and I hadn’t had occasion to develop them on my own. Maybe it was time to at least pretend to be a nicer person than I knew I was. I dialed Lonnie’s office number.

When the receptionist picked up, I identified myself and asked to speak to Lonnie. I didn’t recognize the receptionist’s name. She told me he was out of the country and wasn’t expected back until the following week.

“What about John Ives? Is he in?”

“No, ma’am, he’s not. Mr. Ives has left the firm and opened offices of his own. I can give you his number if you’d like.”

“Martin Cheltenham?”

“He moved to Los Angeles . . .”

“Who’s left?”

“I can put you through to Mr. Zimmerman.”

“What’s his specialty?”

“Personal injury.”

“Do you have anyone who handles estate law? Wills, dead people? Anything like that?”

“Burke Benjamin.”

“Fine. I’ll take him.”

“Her.”

“Right. Could you put me through?”

“She’s not here at the moment but I expect her back after lunch. Shall I set up an appointment?”

“Please. I’m a friend and longtime client of Lonnie’s and I can be there at one o’clock if she’s available.”

“Looks like it to me. I’ll make a note of it.”

“Thanks so much.”

I spelled my name for her. She asked for my phone number and I dutifully recited it. I thought she might ask for a credit card number, like a restaurant hedging against no-shows, but she let it go at that.