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"I don't think you'll remember us," the man starts, "but I'm Stephen Wallace and this is my wife, Lorrie." I take his hand and shake it and while I'm shaking Lorrie's hand Stephen says, "We're friends of your father's."

I let go of Lorrie's hand as the tingling immediately evaporates and then I place my sunglasses back on and pick up the towel. "Oh?Advertisement

Really?" is all I say, breathing in.

"Yes, we knew your parents when they were living in Washington," Stephen says. "In Georgetown."

"Oh wow," I'm saying unenthuslastically. "Am I like on 'Totally Hidden Video' or something?"

The Wallaces laugh "good-naturedly" and I'm reminded of a nonexistent appointment I need to keep.

"The last time we saw you, you must have been..." Stephen stops, looks at Lorrie for help. "What? Nine? Ten?"

"Oh, it was earlier than that," the woman says, tilting her head, consulting the sky.

"What year did your father move back to Washington from New York?" Stephen asks.

"It was the year Mom died," I say, running my hand through my hair, eyeing the waiter removing Marina's half-empty pitcher of iced tea and my beer bottle-a prop I almost reach for just to have something to hold on to.

"Right, right," the man murmurs, shaking his head sorrowfully.

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The woman offers a generous, sympathetic smile.

"Don't worry," I say. "I don't dwell on what happened, so it's okay."

"Was that after you were at...?" Stephen stops again, stuck. "Where did you go to school?"

"You went to Camden, right?" the woman asks, guessing.

"Yeah, it was actually during Camden when it happened," I say. "But she'd been sick a long time." I stare at them hard, making them grasp that it really doesn't matter now. What does is: I've forgotten Marina's last name, what deck she's on, her room number.

"Well, the last time we saw you you were practically a baby," the man says, chuckling, shifting modes. "You wouldn't remember. It was at a fund-raiser at your parents' place in Georgetown."

I bring a hand to my forehead. "Dimly, yeah, dimly I remember."

"We just saw your father a month ago in Washington," Lorrie offers. "Far out," I'm saying.

"He was at a dinner in a new restaurant on Prospect Street with Sam Nunn, Glen Luchford, Jerome Bunnouvrier and Katharine Graham, as well as two of the forensic experts on the defense team of the O. J. Simpson trial."

"God," I groan. "I wish I'd been there. It sounds like a blast. I've gotta split."

"And how's your sister?" Lorrie asks.

"Oh, she's cool. She's in Washington too," I'm guessing. "But I've gotta split."

"And where are you off to?" Stephen asks.

"Right now? Back to my cabin," I say.

"No, I meant in Europe," he says.

Lorrie keeps smiling at me, staring warmly, sending definite horny vibes my way.

"Well, I think Paris," I say. "Actually Cherbourg, then, um, Paris."

The woman immediately glances over at her husband when I say this but ultimately it's awkwardly done and the director has to retake this simple reaction shot four more times before proceeding to the rest of the scene. "Action" is called again and in the background extras resume their positions: old people milling around, the Japanese splashing all over the pool.

"Really?" Stephen asks. "What takes you to Paris?"

"Um, I'm going to... photograph Jim Morrison's grave for... Us magazine and... that's, um, for one, yeah..." Pausing for emphasis, I then add, "And I'm also going to visit the Eiffel Tower, which everyone I know says is a 'must-see,' so-o-o..." I pause again. "And the Gothic Eurobeat scene is really big just now, so I might check that out."

The Wallaces stare at me blankly. Finally Lorrie clears her throat. "Where are you staying in Paris?" she asks.

I remember hotels Chloe and I stayed at and, avoiding the obvious, choose "La Villa Hotel."

"Oh yes, on Rue Jacob, just off Boulevard Saint-Germain," Lorrie says.

"That's the one," I say, pointing cheerfully at her. "I've gotta split."

"And was that your traveling companion?" Stephen asks, gesturing at the empty chaise Marina was lounging on.

Unsure of how to answer, I ultimately go with, "Oh no, not really. I'm on my own." pqdm.com