He lost his nerve. She scared him to death. He couldn’t help with this.

“How do you do, Mrs...?”

“Lancaster,” she supplied. “And you are?”

“I’m Cal Jones. I work here. I work for Sully. I’d, ah... I’ll leave you and Maggie. Can I get you anything? How about lunch?”

“Thank you, that would be fine. Is there something like a salad? Undressed, of course. If it’s dressed, skip it and get me fruit. And a San Pellegrino? Glass glass, if you please.”

“I’ll check,” he said, gathering up his food.

“Oh, and, boy? A rag to wipe the table?”

Cal kept his eyes downcast. He couldn’t meet her gaze. His lips twitched. She called a thirty-seven-year-old criminal defense attorney of some moderate fame and sterling reputation boy.

He disappeared as quickly as possible.

* * *

Maggie sat and left Phoebe to choose a chair. “Very nice, Mother. His name is Cal, not boy. Where were you raised? And the table is perfectly clean, I wiped it myself before I sat down. Now, what is it that brings you here, given you haven’t been here in, how long? Thirty years?”

“I kept hoping you’d visit soon because I have something to ask you that I didn’t want to ask over the phone, but you don’t seem to have the time to— Oh my dear God, your hands!”

Maggie splayed her fingers and examined her hands. Kind of a mess. Chipped nails, calluses, damaged cuticles. “Garden hands,” she explained.

“And what have you done with your hair?”

“Actually, nothing at all.”

“In three months?” Phoebe asked, clearly astonished.

“A little more when you get down to it.” She picked up her sandwich and took a bite. “I’m so amazed you’re here.”

“Well, Walter said it was quite a nice place and that you were doing very well.”

“So, he told you he was here?”

“Of course. Really, Maggie, not exactly the lap of luxury, now, is it? How can you relax in a place like this?”

Maggie laughed and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “This may be difficult for you to understand, Mother, but this is slightly more relaxing than standing in surgery for seven hours, up to my elbows in brains. Now, ask what you came to ask.”

Phoebe sighed. “It’s that time again, Maggie. Missy Stanhope is having her summer luncheon gala. This year she’s raising money for cancer research. I had hoped you’d be back in Denver by now but never mind that. You’ll go with me, of course. After you’ve had a decent color and cut and a manicure.”

“I don’t know, Mother. I might have to bow out this year. Too many complications.”

“There are always complications, Maggie! Many more complications when you were working and on call all the time! I don’t ask much.”

“Yes, but what you do ask is always hefty.” She took another bite and swallowed. “Have you ever asked yourself why a seventy-year-old woman goes by the name Missy? Come on.”

“She’s a lovely person and I didn’t pick her silly name!”

Missy was a wonderful person, but Maggie knew that wasn’t why Phoebe had chosen her for a friend. Her friends all had tons of money, all belonged to the same club, all played bridge and golf and had luncheons and participated in fund-raisers—an exact replica of Phoebe’s life back in Chicago. Only now Walter had more time to participate. And most of the women in Phoebe’s circle skied, which Phoebe did not. Phoebe also did not do volunteer work. She found it depressed her.

“You’re looking good, Mother. Is that a new color?” Maggie asked, touching her own head to indicate Phoebe’s hair.