“Oh. Those are so cute,” says Jeannie about the containers.

“I love these truffles,” Laurie says. “Brian and I fought over them. I made him some for his birthday as part of his present.”

“Thank you.” Charlene’s eyes are wet, but her smile reveals even teeth and her gratitude. “Well, I wanted to thank you. All of you. Each and every one of you,” she adds as if it’s our concern and love that enabled her to keep from splintering apart. “Thank you for your support, the calls, the letters, the visits,” she chokes, and then clearing her throat, “the love.” She passes another canister to Rosie and continues. “You really helped me get through it. You know Luke was very spiritual. The last thing he said to me was that he’d always be with me.” Her eyes shine and she looks happy; her voice is soft, almost a whisper.

We listen quietly.

“Well, I don’t believe in angels, but I feel his aura. When I think of him I feel him and he’s there in my mind. He said, once, that love’s immortal. Maybe he’s right. It’s at least as immortal as all the people you love.” As she talks she continues to pass the canister. We rest them on our laps or place them in our bags and listen.

Is love immortal? Do I still love Alex? Yes. And Stephen, in spite of myself. The love for him is mixed still with dismay, anger, and disappointment. That’s why it hurts so much. My love, my feelings and concern, for Jim will persist, too.

Charlene continues. “Each day I get through I learn something more. Tonight I’m reminded of you guys and how much you and this party are part of my life. And how much I love it. How much fun you are. That there’s fun in life.” She repeats it as though she taught herself something. “Fun in life.”

She turns to Jeannie. “Your fortune cookie said ‘The wheel is turning. This is the dark time. What must you gain from the night?’ We don’t often think of that, do we? What is it we learn from the night, the night as a symbol of hardship or”—her voice cracks—“tragedy.”

She stops and narrows her eyes slightly, thinking. “I’m not sure yet, but somehow Luke’s death has changed me and I’m just beginning to relearn myself. I know Luke’s death didn’t happen to teach me, it just does, inadvertently.”

“That’s because of your resilience. Other people could be mired in the pain,” Allie says.

“The issue is what I gain, because the fortune cookie happens to be right. This much I knew immediately when I read it: Each death is a gift. I’m not sure what the gift is yet. Maybe discovering the gift is my mission. Maybe that’s my unfinished business.”