“I’m sure I’ve seen you at Spinney’s, Gwen,” said Chiyo. “I bought a desk there last year. And a two-drawer filing cabinet. You look familiar.”

“I came out to the sales floor occasionally, though most of the time I was in the office,” said Gwen. “I miss work,” she said, abruptly. And added, lest the others think her cold, unforgiving, “And I miss Brigg. I loved him.” She had no explanation for blurting out that unnecessary and untrue piece of information. She stopped because she could think of no further admission to make, true or false. She looked down at the table again, silent.

“Thanks, Gwen. We have one more person to hear from,” said Hazzley. She looked across the table at someone she was sure she’d seen at Marvin’s checkout. A woman in her forties who looked as if she’d willingly sit down with strangers and listen to their long-drawn-out life stories. A woman who would know how to impart wise counsel about matters of the heart and soul.

Addie sighed audibly and smiled.

“I’m Addie,” she said. “I work at the hospital in town—I’m unit manager for the newly expanded Danforth Wing, a busy job. We’ve probably passed each other in a hospital corridor at some time over the years. I seem to have been there forever. Well, not forever, but it feels that way. I applied for the job after deciding it was time to leave Montreal. I graduated from McGill years ago. I’m not a nurse, but my mom was. She was heavy-set and she was tough. She had to be tough because she worked in a psychiatric hospital in Quebec—one of those sprawling Victorian buildings that were erected on fenced-in grounds and housed hundreds of patients on locked wards. So many men and women lived out their final days in those places.”

What did that have to do with grief? And what did her mother’s weight have to do with anything? Was she stalling? Why was she startled by the fact that each of the others in the group had spoken about someone who had died? Now that she’d mentioned her mother, maybe the others assumed she was here because of losing a parent. Her mother had died years earlier of complications from what had begun as a blood clot in her leg. She’d had excellent care in Montreal, and Addie had been with her as much as possible, but her mom died suddenly, while supposedly recovering. Now Addie’s father, at seventy-eight, lived comfortably with his new wife in Catalonia, year-round. Addie loved him and saw him every two years. She still grieved her mother, but . . . she was losing track of what she’d intended to say.

“My dearest friend,” she said. “Sybil.” She could think of nothing else to say without the entire story of the past eight months pouring out. “Breast cancer.” She heard something like a sob coming from herself and felt a hand on her shoulder. Chiyo, the young woman to her right. The personal trainer. A brief but reassuring touch. Soothing.