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understood each other’s foibles, tolerated each other’s moods. They were kind to each other. Usually.
    This was their fourth trip abroad, and they traveled well together. They were intelligent enough to understand that women were complicated, sensitive creatures, who sometimes had to be dramatically unreasonable. Almost a week into the trip, and no one had cried or thrown a hissy fit. There had been moments—the tiff at the Picasso museum had been particularly tense—but even that had passed after early evening cocktails.
    The women were at their best when it came to food. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were things they never argued about. Unlike some tourists who opted to share meals, the trio from Pittsburgh always ordered full dinners. They were not shy about a third bottle of wine. Dessert was included in the price of the meal and would have been wasteful to refuse. After-dinner brandies, certainly a special treat, were never considered an indulgence.
    Night six of their two-week excursion, and they decided to treat themselves to dinner at Les Vieux Murs, an expensive seafood restaurant near the castle in Antibes.
    The waiter, who later identified himself as the owner of the place, greeted them in English, tripping over verb tenses until Jane urged him to speak French. The women were well educated. All three were fluent in French, and each spoke a smattering of another language. It was one reason they enjoyed traveling together—things were so much easier to obtain when you had the vocabulary.
    â€œThe chef has not yet arrived, but rest assured, he will be here momentarily,” he told the women. “When he comes I will tell him to cook his best for three women who look like angels.”
    He presented them with a tray of pretty pink aperitifs—complimentary Kir Royales in champagne flutes. They forgave him for his tardy welcome, but when he walked away from the table, Sally wrinkled her nose. “My god. What a cheeseball,” she said.
    â€œI don’t know,” Jane said and sniffled. “I think he’s kind of cute.”
    â€œYou think everyone’s cute,” Amber scolded. “But you never do anything about it.” She would have liked to talk to Jane about her lack of love-life, but men was a subject they had given up discussing because it was the same record playing over and over again.
    â€œNo. Oh no,” Jane said, blushing and stammering like a little girl. “I don’t. I never would.”
    Amber knew that Jane had been married. But the ex-husband was persona non grata except in the vaguest of terms. He entered conversations as a whispery shadow of the past, mostly as a warning to stay away. Sally, on the other hand, had never slept with a man, and, even when inebriated, was coy about the future of her virginity. They thought Amber was loose—too eager to meet men. They were not afraid to criticize her for at least trying to change her life. A spinster was not something one aspired to be. Amber wished they admired her more for her courage to go after what she wanted. She had bad luck with men, but she was always the first to admit it.
    The three women had met at an Attr-ACTIVE Women’s Group at the Jewish Community Center in the Pittsburgh neighborhood of Squirrel Hill. The brochure described the once-a-week meetings as a unique opportunity for women who wanted change in their lives. “Here is a physical fitness approach to emotional and spiritual well-being.” The meetings would consist of discussions about diet, exercise, and an attitude adjustment, which would—hopefully—result in a more attractive woman.
    The group leader was a large, talkative woman named Rosemary, who established in the first few minutes of the initial meeting that she was not a leader, but an encourager. “Attr-ACTIVE women do not want or need leaders. We are not lemmings. We are our own growing and developing women—we are