See Jane scramble. She's a mother, girlfriend, mistress, gal pal, owner of a thriving patisserie, and therapy patient. Not that you'd pick up oversubscribed vibes if you swung by for a glass of chardonnay. Her octopus-armed life unfolds in a universe of serenity, where barely a square inch of floor is ungraced with sisal, nary a window untreated with glazed linen. In the comfort of her rambling, terra-cotta-shingled ranch, Jane bathes in a claw-foot tub and dines atop gray-veined Carrara marble. You root for her to find love. You hanker for one of her homemade chocolate croissants. But mostly, you wish you were holding a gift-registry scanner.
