“You're doing okay, then?"

“I'm fine, Uncle Jim. You haven't got around to why you're calling."

“Oh, just to warn you I might be a few minutes late. I've got to go out to the boys' detention home and take a statement from a kid who cut up his sister with a butcher knife."

“Don't try to kid me. You love nothing better than a nice hour of kicking ass at a detention home.”

He laughed, then with mock-seriousness said, "Jane! What a way for a nice girl to talk.”

Jane smiled to herself. To Uncle Jim she was still a girl. "You can't tell me a Chicago inner-city cop is shocked by my language."

“Honey, nothing shocks me anymore. Except maybe that cheese dip your mother-in-law made last time I came over."

“See you Sunday then.”

As they concluded their conversation, Jane noticed Shelley get in her minivan and leave. She was looking ravishing in a rich, maroon suit with black piping and black patent accessories that were only slightly less shiny and neat than her hair.

The siege was lifted.

Jane changed from jeans and sweat shirt into tan culottes and a tan-and-white-striped sweater, took a quick swipe at her lips with a coral lipstick that Shelley had told her was her color, and headed for the closest grocery store. She got the carrots and onions, and for good measure picked up a wicked-looking paring knife, in the belief that any knife she might find in her kitchen would be too dull for the tricky business of cutting the onion as neatly as Shelley had specified. The last time she'd had a truly sharp knife Mike had used it to cut off a length of garden hose for a mysterious project. It was now good only for cutting butter — warm butter.

As she came down the dairy aisle, she spotted a plump, pimpled, and thoroughly harassed-looking young man with a tag that identified him as an assistant store manager. "Could you tell me where to find tangerine juice?" she asked.