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through the conversation. “Lisa, I know you said a long time ago that you would never go to Paris again, but I’m asking you to reconsider. That’s all. Just reconsider.”
    Amy’s mom reached over from the passenger’s seat by the window and patted both of us on the leg. “I think this is what Grandmere hoped for all along.”
    “Amelie Jeanette,” I said, “I would love to go to Paris with you. I’m honored that you asked. My answer is oui, oui, mon ami!”
    “Très bien!”
Elie clapped her hands.
    Amy added a trainful of celebratory French words, and we began to make plans. I’d become so adept at packing up the past at Amy’s childhood home that I subconsciously covered my previous memories of Paris with a layer of invisible bubble wrap. Then I taped the heart bundle so tightly closed that no one, not even my dear hubby, knew a wound hid under the padded layers.

A s soon as we decided
on our target date for going to Paris, Amy set about with determination to lose weight. Our departure date was April 14 of next year, so that gave Amy eleven months. She stocked her kitchen with tangible assistance from the health food store: protein powder; soy supplements; and a large, dark bottle of Norwegian fish oil capsules.
    I watched her one morning as she drank a quarter cup of raw unsweetened cranberry juice followed by half of a fresh lemon squeezed into a cup of warm water.
    “Are you sure that’s good for you?” I asked.
    “It’s supposed to revitalize my liver.” She then methodically partook of a tablespoon of finely ground psyllium husks to clear the “preservative residue” from her colon. She had been reading a variety of books on nutrition andreminded me that my mother’s choice of after-school apples was much better for us than the sweets offered at Amy’s house.
    “Look how slim you still are,” Amy said. “You never packed on the saddlebags the way I did.”
    Trying to reason with her was pointless. Explaining our metabolism differences had never put a dent in Amy’s comparisons of our body types. I weighed an easily camouflaged ten pounds more than I had weighed the day I graduated from high school. I never had carried a baby inside me for nine months, so I didn’t personally appreciate the agony of extra pregnancy padding that wouldn’t go away. Amy and I had different genetics. Straight and simple. But that line of reasoning never had gone over well with her, so I didn’t resort to it now when she was in the midst of her weight management program.
    In the first month she lost four pounds and was so motivated she talked me into joining an aerobics class with her. The best feature of this class was that it was for women over forty.
    That sounded more appealing than the high-powered gym that offered free membership for the first month. Amy and I had visited that slick setup. We both left feeling intimidated and certain that we didn’t want to try to negotiate a roomful of exercise machines in a coed gym. For one thing, we would have to buy new workout wardrobes to fit in with the other exercisers. Then we would have togo to a tanning booth and use some sort of super-whitening product on our teeth.
    “I didn’t see one person who looked like she
needed
to be working out at that gym,” Amy said. “I’m going to find a place where we can blend in.”
    Extensive research efforts produced a lead on a place across town that was independently owned and for women only. We pulled up in front of the small strip mall before class on our first day, and I said, “So, where’s the gym?”
    “Right there.”
    “Where?” I saw a dry cleaner’s, a dog wash, and a Vietnamese restaurant.
    “It’s that one.” Amy pointed to the front door of a bright yellow store next to a vacuum cleaner repair shop. “See the sign? ‘Lighten Up!’ ”
    We entered the small sunshine yellow dance studio and joined a bunch of over-forty women who jumped and jiggled in chortling harmony. I have to admit it