Trish’s strategy.
The volunteer folded her arms.
“You should probably speak with Patricia.”
“I probably should.”
“She’s at the clubhouse.”
“Call her.”
The woman hesitated.
“I don’t have her personal—”
A golf cart appeared from behind my barn.
Two men rode in front.
A woman sat in back.
White linen pants.
Burgundy blouse.
Huge sunglasses.
Patricia Kessler.
She spotted me.
Even from fifty yards away, I saw her posture change.
The golf cart stopped.
She stepped down slowly.
“Jack.”
“Trish.”
“You’re back early.”
That was an interesting sentence.
Not hello.
Not we tried contacting you.
You’re back early.
“Apparently.”
She glanced at the volunteer.
“Melissa, could you give us a moment?”
Melissa disappeared toward the tents.
Trish walked closer.
“I was going to call you.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“After installing forty fence posts?”
Her mouth tightened.
“It’s temporary.”
“So is trespassing if you leave quickly enough.”
She exhaled.
“Jack, I understand
