She took the kitchen receiver-which enabled her to pet two cats at the same time. Possibly she was raising a herd, because he hadn’t seen these longhaired caramel models before. The caller seemed to be someone named Mabel, who seemed to feel Violet could give her some herbal suggestions for hot flashes.

This took some time. Cameron finished one glass of lemonade and poured another while he got an earful about menopause-more than he’d ever wanted to know, and more than he could imagine a woman as young as Violet could know. What was she, thirty? Thirty-one? What in God’s name was squaw root and flax seed oil?

She’d just hung up and turned back to face him when the sucker rang again. This time the caller appeared to be a man named Bartholomew. Although she seemed to be arguing with the guy, it was a stressless type of quarrel, because she sorted through her mail, petted more cats and put breakfast cups in the dishwasher during the conversation. A woman could hardly be ditsy to the bone if she could multitask, right? Then she hung up and started talking to him again.

“You see?” she asked, as if there was something obvious he should be seeing. “That’s exactly why it’s impossible for you to stay. Bartholomew Radcliffe is supposed to be putting a new roof on the cottage. The place where you were going to stay when you came in July.”

“It is July,” he felt compelled to tell her.

She made a fluttery motion with her hand, as if the date were of no import. Clearly there were several things in life that Violet Campbell considered inconsequential-dates, facts, contracts and possibly anything else in that generically rational realm. Because he was starting to feel exhausted, he rested his chin in his hand while she went on.