“Mrs. Nowack?" the Happy Helper asked.

“Yes? I was expecting Edith. Hi, Jane."

“I know, ma'am, but Edith took sick and they sent me instead. They tried to call you from about six this morning, and the line was busy. If it's not okay, I can call and the van'll come back for me.”

Shelley obviously wasn't pleased, but said, "No, I need the help today and I'm sure you'll do a fine job. Come in. I wonder what's the matter with the phone. The dog must have pulled the basement extension off the table again.”

Both Shelley and the Happy Helper stood aside and allowed Jane room to safely negotiate the door with the unwieldy cake. "I didn't get your name," Shelley said to the cleaning lady.

“Ramona Thurgood, ma'am."

“I'll show you where everything is, Ramona, so you can get started.”

Jane leaned against the counter, studying the kitchen and wondering how it could possibly look cleaner. Shelley had the sort of house that Jane's mother would have said you could eat off the floors in — if you didn't mind the taint of fresh wax and Lysol. As many years as she'd known Shelley, Jane had never figured out just when Shelley did all that cleaning. She'd never caught her at it. Once she'd appeared at the door with a dustrag in her hand, and occasionally Jane was able to discern the scent of fresh furniture polish, but she never actually saw Shelley clean anything.

But then, there was a lot she didn't understand about Shelley. They'd become friends, Jane supposed, more through geographical proximity than natural inclination. Over the years, they'd come to spend a lot of time together and had a frank, friendly relationship, in spite of the fact that they were very different. But if they hadn't lived so close, Jane wasn't certain she'd have ever learned to like Shelley so well. She was a little too perfect, a smidge too attractive, a bit too bossy and self-assured for most people to warm up to her.