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hedge.
    “Jane, help me with these boxes,“ Shelley said, opening the side door of the minivan.
    Jane got out and braced herself to lift a particularly large carton. She nearly threw it over her shoulder when she gave a mighty heave. “Dear Lord, is this empty?“
    “No, it’s those embroidered Santa pillows the Parslow sisters made.“
    “Oh dear—“ Jane had seen the prototype pillow last summer and had been appalled. The rosy-cheeked Santa had looked like a lecherous old alcoholic. The stitching that was meant to give him a rosy nose looked like broken veins, and to make it worse, he was leering horribly.
    As they reached the front door, it opened, and Fiona Howard came out to meet them. “Shelley, Jane,“ Fiona said warmly in a lovely upper-class English accent that made Jane feel she’d stepped into the middle of a Masterpiece Theater production. “I didn’t hear you drive up. Here, let me help with those. I can call Albert to help us if you have anything heavy.“
    “No, we can manage. Just point me in the right direction,“ Jane said over the top of the Santa pillow carton.
    “Just down the hall, then. I’ll have the maid help me unpack them later.“
    “We’ll come back and do that,“ Shelley said, staggering under the weight of a box of iced gingerbread men. “You’re not supposed to go to any trouble, since you’re letting us use your house for the sale.“
    “I don’t mind in the least. But can’t you stay?”
    Jane had set her carton down and come back. “Not this morning. I have an old neighbor coming to town to stay a few days.“ Even saying it made her shudder. “I left her at home un- packing. If it’s okay, we’ll come back tomorrow and help you sort things out.“
    “Can’t you even have a cup of tea?“ Fiona asked.
    “That nice jasmine kind?“ Jane asked. “If you like.”
    Jane shot a questioning look at Shelley, who glanced at her watch and said, “Only for five minutes. I have to be at school pretty soon and to help the nurse weigh the third graders. Some sort of health unit.”
    Fiona led them through the house, and Jane dawdled as much as she could, looking around. She knew Fiona only slightly from church, and she’d never been within the hedged walls, much less inside the house before. She’d expected it to be palatial. Actually, it was quite ordinary, but in a very expensive, tasteful way. The only Englishness about it was the formal living room, which was done with a busy patterned carpet that was probably eighty dollars a yard minimum, imported. The room was furnished in elegant, dark furniture that was certainly antique. The rest of the rooms they passed were just what any well-to-do American family might have. Jane was sorry there wasn’t linen-fold paneling and ancestral portraits hung from picture molding.
    Fiona led them to a small, sunny breakfast room that overlooked the backyard and spacious garden, dormant now but obviously well tended. Fiona and Shelley fell into a discussion of the proper packaging and pricing of some hard candies that would be for sale at the church bazaar, and Jane studied Fiona. She, unlike her home, was satisfyingly English. Her hair was a burnished copper and the tiniest bit curly. It might even fuzz on a humid day. Her skin was as fair as milk and her eyes almost neon blue. She must have been a striking girl and was still attractive, but she had a bit of middle-age hippiness starting, and there were a few gray hairs in with the red. The large white teeth that must have made a ravishing smile in youth were the tiniest bit horsy at thirty-five. She looked like Fergie, the Duchess of York, would probably look like in a few years.
    “You don’t know anyone looking for a house, do you?“ Fiona asked, as she poured three cups of fragrant tea.
    “You’re not selling, are you?“ Shelley asked.
    “Heavens, no! We wouldn’t dream of leaving. It’s the house next door to the north. The lady who lived there has gone into a