She’s a stay-at-home mom, spends her time leading a feminist book group (“we use the term feminist loosely...all it means is we only read female authors”) and running events for her Unitarian church (“I only do it for social reasons. Half of us are Jewish!”). She’s full of life, gesticulating wildly, her ears adorned with beaded chandelier earrings she says Elias made for her. She wears no makeup except a plum-colored lip, but her eyes are so fervent that they match the vibrancy of the lipstick. Her nails are half-moon shaped, painted a glittering green, and she wears stacked rings on almost every finger, even next to her wedding ring.

We’re so busy talking that I don’t notice Gavin come up to us, bearing a flight of ciders for us to try, or the giant cheeseboard that comes next, full of meats and breads and pickled eggs. There is something so distinctly familiar about Georgia, so benign and warm, not unlike Anneliese was those first few weeks. But she’s different, a subtle variation in energy, and I realize, as she continues talking, that she is not trying to take anything from me, that with her fluttering hands and expansive personality, she isn’t trying to impress me. She’s fulfilled in life. I’m not consumed by her. There is no hunger, only joy.

“You know, I sometimes believe that if Belle hadn’t died, I would have had a more glamorous life,” she says as she smothers a fruity spread on a piece of bread. “Without her influence, my ambitions became more ordinary, I suppose. I don’t think I’d be living up here, married to the man I’m married to, living my small-town life.” She swallows.

“Not that I’m complaining at all. But she was such an influence on me as a young woman. And then, when our relationship fell apart, I guess I did, too, in a way. Or at least the fanciful dreamer aspect of myself.” She looks out the window at the black sky for a moment before shifting her eyes back to me. Poor Gavin is just sitting there, taking this all in. We’ve barely engaged him, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and I grab his hand under the table and give it a squeeze.

“Do you mind talking about that? About the falling out?” I ask, washing down a triangle of cheese with a somewhat bitter cider. I hesitate to bring up Anneliese’s name. It’s on my lips, like a crumb from the bread.