As she stood up to give her panty hose a final tug, her finger punched through the hose, and a fat run slithered down her leg. "A man invented panty hose," Shelley observed.

“Probably a grandson of the man who invented corsets!" Jane said, stripping off the ruined item and throwing it into the wastebasket. She hurriedly fed Willard, then ran upstairs while Shelley continued to tidy the kitchen.

When Jane returned, she was a new person. Her short, streaked blond hair was combed and sprayed into a tousled upswept style—Shelley had made her go to a hairdresser to learn how to create this miracle—and she had on navy knee-length boots that added a full two inches to her height. With makeup, she looked a good five years younger and a great deal less stressed. "You do clean up good," Shelley said approvingly.

Jane glanced around the spotless kitchen. "Sodo you. If Paul ever goes bankrupt and you need a job, I'll hire you."

“The sad thing is, I'd love it," Shelley observed. "I know it's shallow of me, but I really love to clean. It's not anything compulsive, it's just that you can see a difference when you're through. Not like raising kids or something that you're not sure how it's going to turn out for a couple of decades.”

Jane sat down and took another sip of the now-cold coffee. "And I hate cleaning, because no matter how often or well you do it, it has to be done again—and again and again. How are we on time?"

“Plenty. Your friend's flight isn't due for an hour and a half, and it's only an hour to the airport."

“Still, I'd like to get going. Do you mind?"

“Not a bit. Are you driving, or shall I?”