One

      Something was wrong with Manon. Usually she sparkled and flashed; today she spoke in a monotone and sagged like a doll that had lost its stuffing.

      “It seems as if we joined the campus French club just last week. Can you believe it was twenty years ago?” Manon pushed the restaurant menu to one side and raised her glass. “Here’s to our friendship—I’m glad you’re here today and even happier you’ll be in Toronto for three weeks this summer.” Her warm words contrasted with her flat voice.

      “And may we always be there for one another.” Hollis Grant gave what had become a traditional reply. Today the words had new meaning. Being there meant identifying the source of Manon’s unhappiness. Better not to ask directly. Manon hated pointed questions: she said they made her feel defensive and uptight. Instead Hollis would update Manon on her own life while she decided how to find out what was bothering her friend.

      “I had a hundred end-of-term academic things to attend to,” Hollis sighed. “I’ve held this trip out as a carrot to keep myself going. This first year as a widow has been rough, but I’ve reached a turning point in my life. This course will be a litmus test for my future.” She hadn’t yet shared what she was about to say with anyone, but it was time she did. “When it’s over, I’m deciding whether or not to give up my academic career and paint full time.”

      Manon’s eyes widened. “That is definitely news. Give up teaching. What a major, major change. Can you support yourself?”

      “I’ve crunched the numbers. It’s possible.”

      “You’re a terrific painter.” She examined Hollis. “To change the subject—you look great. I like your hair—strawberry blonde suits you.” Manon reached up and smoothed her chestnut brown chignon. “I’ve always envied you those curls.”

      “And I’ve yearned for straight hair. Funny how we’re never content. Next to you I’ve always felt like a cart horse.”

      Manon’s smile seemed more genuine. “Statuesque, imposing, stunning—adjectives no one applies to small women like me. And your new glasses are smashing—I’d never be bold enough to buy red.” As she talked, she repeatedly tapped the table with perfectly manicured crimson-tipped nails, a new nervous mannerism.

      “I thought they suited a tall, big-boned woman like me. I’d look ridiculous in tiny glasses.” Hollis tucked her unmanicured hands out of sight. Did she subconsciously pick showy jewellery to detract from the leathery skin on her face and hands? But it wasn’t time to think about herself.

      Their warm scallop salads arrived.

      Hollis risked a direct but generalized inquiry. “How are you?”

      “Mon Dieu, is this an innocent question—has today gone okay, or has clinical depression struck again?” Irritation edged Manon’s voice.

      “So much for trying to be subtle.” Hollis tried for a light touch.

      “Sorry for sounding cranky. I know you care. We’ve shared a lot. But you’ve never been subtle. You’ve always spoken your mind—and acted impulsively, I might add.”

      “Thank God, or I wouldn’t have dragged you down to the Canadian National Exhibition Midway to meet Rocco,” Hollis said.

      “Or told me you planned to drop out of university to run off with the world’s sexiest man.”

      “He was gorgeous and exotic.” Hollis shook her head, thinking how close she’d come to ruining her life.

      “And when I locked you in your room to stop you, your fury scared even you.”

      “An understatement. I’d never before and have never again been that angry.”

      “Or so grateful when you regained your sanity.” Manon finished Hollis’s sentence.

      “And realized you’d quite literally saved my life. Now it’s my turn. Confession time. Tell me. How are you?”

      “Since I’m taking my meds faithfully, I’ll say—‘as well as I ever am’, and that’s not bad.”

      She might be physically and mentally well, but something was wrong. Hollis removed her glasses and polished them on her napkin. That something could involve work, but more likely it related to her home life. “You said Etienne couldn’t decide whether to play baseball or soccer. I bet he’s doing both? Eleven’s a terrific age. You’re competent and independent but not mired in a hormonal swamp. He’s a great kid.”

      “I agree. You’re right. Baseball and soccer keep him busy. He’s also enrolled in a July astronomy day camp.” Manon’s eyes crinkled, and her expression softened when she spoke about Etienne.

      “And your stepsons?”

      “Ivan’s about the same.” She thought for a moment. “Not true. He’s more secretive. He’s seldom home. He’s still employed part-time at the Buy Right Supermarket on St. Clair. And now he’s out most evenings working for Catering Plus. When he drifts in, he hardly talks. I don’t blame him. Curt is always on his case.”

      “You didn’t tell me he had a second job.”

      “Nothing to tell. I only know about it because the company phones every so often to leave a message. Anyway, Curt nags him to shape up and do something significant with his life. Ivan listens, agrees and leaves it at that. He never defends himself.”

      “How come he still lives at home?”

      “Good question. A year ago he said he planned to move out but something, I have no idea what it was, changed his mind.” She tapped her dessert spoon to punctuate her comments. “Since it seemed he didn’t intend to leave, we converted the third floor into an apartment for him and Tomas. I think Ivan needed privacy. After all, he is twentythree. But I worry about him. Even though he and Tomas have always lived part-time with us, Ivan’s never allowed me to get close. I know inconsequential details—how he prefers buttondown shirts, is allergic to wool, hates anything made with tofu, but nothing important.”

      “What