Gracious old maples shaded the front lawn, their canopies ablaze with the red and orange leaves of autumn. One good thunderstorm and they'd all be gone, blown off toward the low mountain ridge in the distance, Marie thought sadly as she pulled her car into the curving driveway. She had no idea what to expect here. The home belonged to Luc Marchand, an artist. Her best friends—bless their well-intentioned hearts—had thrown her a divorce party and showered her with gifts. Wine, expensive chocolates, gift certificates for manicures and massages and waxing. Gifts designed to make a newly-divorced woman feel attractive after years of feeling ignored. Or failing that, to feel drunk and fat. Not that Marie had ever had trouble making herself feel drunk and fat before. That was no hard trick. She pressed the ignition button on the car and stepped out into the warm October air. She took a deep breath.
