Iris takes the last drag, pushes the butt into the warm, soft soil of a flowerbed. “Tell me something about you that nobody knows,” says Iris, leaning against Joan’s legs.

“You know everything,” I tell her.

“Nobody knows everything,” Iris says. “Not even me.” She grins.

I shrug. “There’s nothing to tell really, I’m so...ordinary.”

“There’s nothing ordinary about you, Terry Shepherd,” Iris says.

I pick at a loose thread hanging from the hem of my skirt. Iris sets her cup on the wall, looks at me.

“Well, there is something I’m worried about.”

“I’d be worried if there wasn’t,” says Iris nudging me with her elbow.

“I’m being serious,” I say.

“Sorry,” says Iris, squeezing my hand. “Go on.”

I take a breath. “I’m worried that Brendan and I will end up like Mr. and Mrs. Lalouette.”

Iris doesn’t contradict me. She doesn’t say anything.

Instead, she puts her hand on my arm, rubs me.

“And he might lose his job,” I add.

Iris shakes her head. “Who knew the Canadians had it in them?”

“What am I going to do about Brendan?” I ask.

Iris doesn’t answer immediately. She’s thinking. I find myself crossing my fingers. Hoping that she’ll come up with something I can work with.

“Well,” she says, after a bit, “you only think you might end up like Jackie Sprat and her fella in there. So maybe you won’t.”

“That’s all you’ve got?”

“The good news is that you get to choose,” says Iris. “You can stay with Brendan, hope for the best. You can leave him. Or you can change your relationship with him so you don’t end up like the Sprats.”

“How is any of that good news?” I ask.

“Because you’re in charge.”

“I suppose so.”

We take to our wine, then lift our heads, the better to see the starry sky, the butter-yellow moon.

“Your turn,” I say to Iris.

“What?”

“Tell me something that nobody knows.”

“I’ve told you everything,” Iris says, with a wry smile, “whether you wanted to know or not.”

I smile back. It’s true that Iris is not fond of holding back.

Iris sets her mug on the wall beside her. “There is one thing,” she says.

“What?” I say.

“You’re not to read anything into it.”

“What is it?”

“It’s just, I feel great.”

“Well, that’s good isn’t it?” I say. “Feeling positive and—”

“No, I mean, I feel great. Physically. I feel as good as I used to. Before I got the MS. It’s like, in the last few hours, the symptoms have just...gone away. All of them.”

It takes a moment for her words to sink in. The significance of them.

“That’s great,” I say. And then, “I know you don’t believe in Signs, but—”

“You’re right,” says Iris, and there is a faint warning in her tone. “I don’t believe in Signs.”

“But since we arrived in France,” I continue, ignoring the warning, “you just seem so much better. It could be the climate. Or the food. I don’t know but...no matter what you say, you can live with MS. You can even beat it. I’ve read reports about people whose symptoms disappear. From legitimate medical sources.”