“We’re all flawed,” said Rachel in a gentle voice. “We have to accept that and forgive those who make mistakes. Nobody’s perfect.”

“Easy to say but hard to do,” said Sid.

Forgiveness became even harder the next morning, when the lead story in the International New York Times broke the news that one of the paper’s own reporters had been arrested and charged with the murder of Laurence Bruneau, a noted chef and pâtissier. The motive, police charged, was a dispute resulting from the pair’s involvement in a black market operation at several high-end hotels, including the Cavendish, an operation that stole liquor and expensive foods, such as truffles and caviar, and sold them through a phony wholesale company.

Ted read a paragraph or two, then tossed the paper on the floor. “Trash,” he declared. “This isn’t journalism. They’re just reporting the prosecution’s side of the story!”

“You never really know another person,” said Lucy, but Ted was having none of it.

“Maybe you believe this stuff, but I’m sticking by my friend,” said Ted, heading for his room and slamming the door behind him.

“Denial,” whispered Rachel. “It’s the first stage of grief.”

“But not the last,” said Lucy, wishing there was some way to prepare herself for the overwhelming sadness she knew she would feel at Sylvie’s funeral, scheduled for later that morning. If only there was a product like sunblock for grief: if you plastered on SPF 50, the grief would bounce right off, instead of burning through your defenses and rekindling long-buried sorrows. Whenever she attended a funeral, Lucy found herself grieving once again for her parents, gone for years now, and dear friends who had met untimely deaths, and she prayed for the health and safety of those she loved.

Paris was a gray city, but nowhere was it grayer on this rainy Saturday than the Cimetière Montparnasse, where the narrow cobbled pathways were lined with bulky tombs and looming statuary, dotted with a few trees, their leaves dripping. According to Lucy’s guidebook, a lot of famous people were buried there, including sexy rock star Serge Gainsbourg, and famous authors and lovers Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre. Their tombs were marked with lipstick kisses and gifts of cigarettes, which Lucy felt was a desecration. She decided she preferred the spacious, neat, and grassy cemetery perched high on a hill overlooking the harbor in Tinker’s Cove, where tributes were limited to geraniums planted on Memorial Day and tasteful baskets of evergreens placed on graves at Christmas.