“Samantha, this is Rachel Slocum.” Sam’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Rachel’s put-on British accent was thick this afternoon, and unless she’d called to practice it, Sam couldn’t imagine why she’d phoned. They weren’t friends and it didn’t sound like an emergency. If Rachel hadn’t said Samantha, Sam would have thought the rich girl had the wrong number. “Samantha, did we get cut off?” Rachel sounded bored by the possibility. “Uh, no. I’m here.” “Good, I’m in my bedroom spa and sometimes the telephone reception is not what it should be.” “That’s a shame,” Sam said. Then another thought popped up. “Aren’t you going to your father’s party?” “That’s the thing.” Rachel sighed. “My father requested that I ask your family to pick up ice on your way over. We’re already running short. The caterers are busy serving and the regular hands are doing—cow things.” Sam might have laughed if she hadn’t resented taking up the slack for the Slocums’ hired help.
