“I wanted to meet you. It’s just been horrible for you. Horrible for all of us, of course. I think that now that things have quieted down a bit... I thought it would be good to get to know one another a little.” I’m itching for one of those Aperol spritzes, something to dull the surreality of this conversation, their even tones, the sun.

“That’s what my friend Quinn said, who I came here with. He thought we should meet, too.” I try a tight grin, wring my hands. “Did you fly over from Michigan?” The sun moves again, the heat prickling my skin once more.

“Mom and Dad did,” Page says, answering for them. “I’m living here now for the time being, to take care of a few things. I’m staying at Louisa’s daughter’s.” She blinks a few times, as if to ward off more tears. “You know what, let me grab a couple of those Aperol spritzes, okay?” I thank her as she tiptoes off, circumventing the crowd like she’s a stranger at her own sister’s death party.

“It’s hard for us,” Odilie’s mother says suddenly. “Hard for us here, I mean. You can see it. We can all see it. They avoid us, these friends of Odilie’s. They’re very generous, of course. They’ve put us up in a great hotel. Page is staying in some beautiful house, rent-free. But they don’t care about getting to know us, you know? They’re a little scared of us. Or maybe we’re not classy enough for them? I’m not sure. But they don’t talk to us. They won’t engage with us.” Her husband pats her absentmindedly on the shoulder.

“Mandy, they just don’t know what to say.” He turns to me. “No one ever knows what to say. Do you get that, too?” His voice is so gentle, with such calming undulations, that I almost begin to tear up, too, from the sheer kindness of it all.

“I do.” I’m saved from saying any more by Page, who comes back up to us and hands me a glass of the orange liquid. Immediately, without thinking, I’ve chugged half of the glass.

“They’re good, right?” Page says brightly, primly sipping her own. “I never knew the Odilie who claimed this was her favorite drink. But I believe it.” It’s an odd, throwaway thing to say, and I’m about to interrogate her further about it, when Quinn comes up to us, his own drink resting decorously in his hand. He introduces himself, looks at me inquiringly to see if I’m okay. I nod, almost imperceptibly.

“This is a really beautiful event. You must be so pleased to be celebrating Odilie’s life like this. The eulogies were so lovely, too.” Quinn raises his glass, as if to signal a toast.