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words. “Isabelle? She just needed someone to listen to her while she worked out a few things. Last boyfriend was an idiot. There’s nothing between us—and seeing as how she was up for the part of Roxanne, we tried to avoid problems.”
    Carly frowned slightly. “Jack, you’re still too much of a nice guy. Problems, hah!” Then she went softly serious. “It’s been more than a year since Toria, Jack. Don’t you ever, you know, miss having—a physical relationship?”
    He thought for a minute. “I get invited to parties and make the rounds, but I have to admit, the old routine of meaningful glances and raised eyebrows across the crowded room—just doesn’t do it anymore. I was awfully naive before I met Victoria.”
    She poked him playfully in the side. “I know.”
    The taxicab pulled up, and she found herself hesitating.
    Jack embraced her, slowly, then fiercely. “Thank you, Carly. Be safe. Oh, I almost forgot!” He pulled a small, brightly wrapped package from his pocket. “This is for Kelly’s collection. It’s from Istanbul. Tell her its two hundred years old; maybe she’ll take care of this one.”
    “Oh, Jack, that girl has enough spoons. And you’re only spoiling her.”
    He hugged her again. “I thought that’s what godfathers did. Take care, Carly. Call me when you’re home safe.”
    There was only room for one more in the cab. Her overnight bag snug at her feet, Carly turned and watched Jack’s face as he lingered at the curb, and sighed. A kind of slippery depression was stealing over her. Her friend was seriously in trouble. She hadn’t broken through, she was sure.
    He would read the scripts, smile at the article in Entertainment Weekly, and that would be about it. Jack needed to heal. He needed the kind of peace a woman could provide–Carly caught herself in the thought. Way too melodramatic , she thought. But what else could there be for Jack? He hadn’t retreated from his career, that was certain. In all honesty, his acting had improved, gained a bit of a desperate edge. The critics, unaware of his personal loss (Jack was so careful about that) had nearly enshrined him last week, despite his absence at the opening of And Caesar Whispered , for his performance as a young Douglas MacArthur. He could very well get another Oscar nomination, poor guy.
    Jack could be so infuriating. He didn’t drink, except during a filming when his character required him to as part of a scene, and that was just apple juice. He didn’t smoke, except herbal cigarettes and the like, and again, that was only when the demands of a particular role called for it. During a shooting he didn’t hide in his trailer, argue dialogue and motivation with the director, or throw chairs and farm animals through windows. To the best of her knowledge, he’d never tried to fool around with any of the other cast members, not even his leading ladies in the name of “getting more realism into their on-screen romance.” If not for his disarming friendliness and reputation as a bit of an on-set practical joker, Jack would probably be the most peaceful, centered, boring person in Hollywood. But lately . . . Carly sighed again. What else could she do? He’d managed to graciously turn down the numbers of half-a-dozen good, expensive therapists since Toria died.
    Since Victoria had died.
    Carly leaned back in her seat, trying vainly to relax. Orly International Airport was more than half an hour away yet, in this traffic. She put Jack’s gift to her daughter in her overnight bag, and wondered.
    What to do for Jack?
    *
    He watched the tail lights of the cab submerge into the thick, darkening maelstrom of Parisian traffic, then slowly began walking south toward the Seine.
    The light had narrowed into a sullen, red finality to the west. Jack hunched his shoulders slightly in the cool breeze, sinking deeper into his long jacket. He was thinking consciously in French again, musing over Carly’s offer to stay with him. It seemed