Addie put on her jacket, took the elevator down to the indoor parking garage, got into her car and drove to Marvin’s. She bought pasta, fresh tomatoes, herbs and green onions. She would make a decent meal for herself. She chose a green pepper and was reminded that this was chili-sauce weather, though she had no time to start putting up jars of preserves. Her mother used to make chili sauce every fall when Addie was a child. On those days, always a weekend, the kitchen was filled with an expanding aroma that took the breath away: tomatoes, apples, cinnamon, onion and celery, allspice and cloves, vinegar and cayenne, all simmering in a cauldron-like container on the wood stove—later, on the electric range.

Addie passed the bakery shelves and selected a Black Forest cake. Eat now, worry later. At the checkout, she added two bars of dark chocolate. On the way out of the store, grocery bag in hand, she stopped by the noticeboard. One notice looked fairly new, though several strips had been removed:

GRIEF DISCUSSION GROUP

The first meeting was to be held the following week, Tuesday evening at Cassie’s. Addie tore off a strip and dropped it on top of the green pepper in her bag. She didn’t want to discuss academic or analytic stages of grief. She didn’t want to turn to colleagues at her own hospital for help. But she did want to talk. Or listen. Yes, if she could listen to others, that might help.

Good decision, her administrator’s voice echoed in her head. And then she heard Sybil’s voice chip in, too.

Good decision, Addie.

Talking Heads

TUESDAY, SEPT. 18

The meeting was called to order by Hazzley, who was self-consciously aware of Cass watching. Her friend had deliberately positioned herself at the front counter and was facing the glass partition that separated the main section of the café from the backroom. Hazzley frowned and Cass looked down, pretending to tot up receipts. The partition was partly covered with trailing ivy, but not covered enough. Cass, now grinning ear to ear, stared at Hazzley and raised her eyebrows as if sending a message: Get going. Get the group moving. Hazzley did not return the grin. She was hoping new customers would storm into the café and occupy Cass’s attention.

Hazzley did not want to be anyone’s leader. But she was the one who had posted the notice; she was responsible. Four people had showed up, for a total of five. Once again, she glanced in the direction of the partition. On the other side, Cass was nodding to herself, biting her bottom lip. Another message? Hazzley wondered for a moment if Cass should be the one running this group. Over the years, she had accumulated her own list of people to grieve. Hazzley was relieved to see her friend disappear in the direction of the café kitchen. She felt free to give her full attention to the group.

Three women and one man tilted slightly forward in their chairs. There was an undercurrent in the room. The tension of strangers. Of expectation. Of strange expectation. Give it up, Hazzley, she told herself. She’d been standing as the others came in, but now she sat at the round table Cass had set up. A slender vase of cosmos, wispy pinks and mauves, adorned the centre. The most elegant of fall flowers, in Hazzley’s opinion.