“These are gorgeous.” Vera lifts the lid and unfolds the tissue paper, which makes a fire-crackling sound. “The tags all have her kiss prints.”

I smile when I see the hint of a grin along with the sexiness of her kiss. I continue to pass out her boxes of cookies and place one in my bag and the last one in the hospice bag. “She sent me this email to copy for all of you.” I wave the papers I printed of her email and hand them out, too.

“Oh,” Taylor says as she reads the email, “this is so her. I can almost hear her laugh.”

“I love that laugh,” Allie says. “Every time I hear it, it makes me happy.”

“I miss her.” Juliet’s mouth turns down in a hyperbole of a sad face. “When’re they getting back?”

“Right before Christmas. For the Townie Party.”

Vera eats the chocolate candy. “Hmmm. She made these a few years ago, too.”

“She knew everyone loved them. And they’re easy and keep well.”

“I still miss her.”

“Hey, here’s to Tracy’s laugh.” I raise my glass and everyone follows. “Here’s to Tracy.”

“And Alice,” Vera adds.

I wonder if maybe we need a new rule. You can only miss one party in a three-year period. I want people who will actually be able to be here. It’s not about the cookies, never was, it is always about being together and having fun. And each of us makes the party merrier.

I don’t know if it’s the reference to absent people that rouses Charlene, but she stands and announces, “I’ll go next.” And she brings back the bags we had packed earlier that day.

“I guess we’re in the chocolate time, because my cookies, too, are essentially a chocolate candy. Truffles. You loved them a few years ago, and maybe I …” Charlene swallows as she recalls how easy everything seemed a year ago and how everything changed in May. “Wanted to do something automatic, or maybe I wanted to remember that time.”

Her eyes are quiet as they move around our circle and she moistens her lips. The brazen cheer of her jaguar-print jacket, which she wore a few years ago, seems a lie. “I don’t, I guess, have much of a story to tell this year. Not about the cookies. I made these particular cookies because you liked them so much and last year one of you was disappointed I hadn’t made them again. I wasn’t able to do anything new. I’ve done enough new. I listened to Georgian chants while I baked them.” Her soft hair falls into her face. Her hands quiver slightly as she reaches in her sack for the blue canisters. And then she forces a smile as if to remind herself that there is still the joy of life and that’s why she’s here.