“No, I went over to close it for you. You came over for a couple of days, told me what you wanted to keep and send back to L.A., and I took care of the rest. The place was small, but gorgeous. Eighteenth century, I think, with boiseries and parquet floors, big French windows looking out over a garden, and fireplaces all over the place. I was kind of sorry you didn't keep it.”

“Why didn't I?” Carole asked, frowning as she listened to her. She wanted to remember all these things, but didn't.

“You said it was too far away. And you were working a lot then. You didn't have time to run off to Paris between movies. You do now, but you didn't then. And I don't think you wanted to come back here.” Stevie didn't volunteer the rest. “You were trying to spend more time with your kids between films, especially Chloe. Anthony was always more independent.” Stevie had known him since he was eleven, and even then he had been content to spend time with friends and on his own, and visiting his father in New York during his vacations. Chloe had wanted more of her mother, and there had never been enough of Carole to suit her. She had been a very needy child, in Stevie's opinion, and still was, although less so now. These days, Chloe had her own life, and was less demanding of her mother's time. But she still liked being the center of attention when she was with her mother.

“Was she right about what she said yesterday?” Carole looked genuinely worried. What she really wanted to know was if she was a good person or not. It was scary not to know.

“Not all of it,” Stevie said fairly. “Some maybe. You must have worked hard when she was small. You were twenty-eight when she was born, and at the height of your career. I didn't know you then. I came along seven years later. But she was already angry at you. I think you took the kids on location to most of your movies, when you could, with a tutor, unless they were in crazy places, like Kenya. But if it was civilized, you took them, even when I was first working for you. Eventually Anthony didn't want to go, and when they got to high school, you couldn't take them out of school. But before that they went most of the time, and their schools bitched like crazy. But so did Chloe, when you didn't.” More than that, as Chloe got older, Stevie often suspected that she wanted to be her mom, which was a bigger problem. But Stevie didn't say that to Carole. “I'm sure it's not easy to be the child of a celebrity, but I've always been impressed by how hard you tried, and how much time you spend with them, even now. You never travel anywhere without going through London and New York, to see them. I'm not sure Chloe realizes how unusual that is, or how much effort it takes on your part. She doesn't give you a lot of credit, at least not for time you spent with her during her childhood. And from all I know you were very good about it. I guess she just wanted more.”

“Why?”

“Some people are just like that,” Stevie said wisely. “She's still young, she can work it out, if she wants to. She's basically a nice kid. It just upsets me when she's hard on you. I don't think it's fair to you. She's still a baby in a lot of ways. She needs to grow up.” And then Stevie smiled at her. “And besides, you've spoiled her. You give her everything she wants. I know. I pay the bills.”

“Shame on me,” Carole said benignly. She was speaking well now. She had found the words, just not the history that went with them. “Why do you suppose I do that?”

“Guilt. Generosity. You love your kids. You've done well and want to share it with them. Chloe takes advantage of it sometimes, trying to make you feel guilty, although some of the time I think she genuinely feels she got cheated as a child. I think what she wanted was a mother who was a regular suburban housewife who picked her up and dropped her off all day, and had nothing else to do. You picked her up at school every day, when you were in town, but you did more than just make movies. You had a very busy life.”

“Like what?” Listening to Stevie was like listening to her talk about someone else. Carole had no sense that this was about her. The woman Stevie was describing was a stranger.

“You've been involved in women's rights causes for years. You've traveled to underdeveloped countries, spoken to the Senate, gone to the UN, gave speeches. You put your money where your mouth is, when you believe in something, which I think is a great thing. I've always admired you for it.”

“And Chloe? Does she admire me for it too?” Carole said sadly. It didn't sound like it from what Stevie said.

“No. I think if anything, it pisses her off, if it takes time or money away from her. Maybe she's too young to care about those things. And admittedly, you traveled a fair amount for that too, between films.”

“Maybe I should have stayed home more,” Carole said, wondering if the damage between them was reparable at this point. She hoped it was. It sounded as though she had some things to make up to her daughter, even if she was a little spoiled.

“That wouldn't have been you,” Stevie said simply. “You always have a million irons in the fire.”

“And now?”

“Not so many. You've slowed down in the last few years.” Stevie was cautious about what she said, because of Sean. She wasn't sure if Stevie was ready to hear about that, and deal with the feelings that might come with it, particularly if she remembered.

“Have I? Why? Why have I slowed down?” Carole looked troubled, trying to jog her mind.

“Tired, maybe. You're pickier about the movies you do. You haven't done one in three years. You've turned down a lot of parts. You want to do parts that have meaning to you, not just something showy and commercial. You're writing a book, or trying to.” Stevie smiled. “That's why you came to Paris. You thought it might give you deeper insight to come back here.” And instead it had damn near cost her her life. Stevie would regret forever that Carole had taken this trip. She still felt traumatized herself from nearly losing this woman she loved and admired so much. “I think you'll start doing more movies again after you finish the book. It's a novel, but I think there must be a lot of you in it. Maybe that's why you were blocked.”

“Are those the only reasons why I slowed down?” Carole looked at her with the innocent eyes of a child, and Stevie paused for a long minute, not sure what to say to her, and decided to tell the truth.

“No, they're not. There was another reason.” Stevie sighed. She hated to tell her, but someone would sooner or later, better it was her. “You were married, to a wonderful man. A really, really nice guy.”

“Don't tell me I got divorced again,” Carole said, looking unhappy. Two divorces seemed too much to her. Even one was sad.

“You didn't,” Stevie reassured her, if you could call it that. Being widowed and losing a man she loved was so much worse. “You were married for eight years. His name was Sean. Sean Clarke. You married him when you were forty and he was thirty-five. He was a very successful producer, although you never worked on a movie together. He was an incredibly kind man, and I think you were both very happy. Your kids loved him. He didn't have any kids of his own, nor with you. Anyway, he got sick three years ago. Very sick. Liver cancer. He was in treatment for a year, and he was very philosophical about it. Very peaceful. He accepted what happened to him in a very dignified way.” Stevie took a breath as she went on. “He died, Carole. In your arms. A year after he got sick. That was two years ago. It's been a big adjustment. You've done a lot of writing, some traveling, spent time with the kids. You've turned a number of parts down, although you've said you'll go back to work after you write the book. And I believe you will, write the book, and go back to movies. This trip was part of that. I think you've grown a lot since he died. I think you're stronger now.” Or at least she had been until the bomb. It was amazing she had come through it, and who knew what the fallout from that would be, when all was said and done. It was too soon to know. As Stevie looked at her, there were tears rolling down Carole's cheeks. Stevie reached over and touched her hand. “I'm sorry. I didn't want to tell you all that. He was a lovely man.”

“I'm glad you told me. It's so sad. I lost a husband I must have loved, and whom I don't even remember now. This is like losing everything you ever cared about or owned. I've lost all the people in my life, and the history we had. I don't even remember his face or his name, or my marriage to Jason. I don't even remember when my babies were born.” It felt like a tragedy to her, even more than the actual impact of the bomb. Her doctors had explained all that to her. It sounded so unreal. But so did everything else. Like someone else's life, and not hers.

“You haven't lost anyone except for Sean. Everyone else is still here. And you had wonderful times with him you'll remember again one day. The others are all here, in one form or another. Your children, Jason, your work. The history is there too, even if you can't remember it yet. The bond you have to them is still there. The people who love you aren't going anywhere.”

“I don't even know who I was to them, who I am … or who they were to me,” Carole said miserably, and blew her nose on the tissue the nurse handed her. “I feel like a ship went down with everything I owned.”

“It didn't go down. It's out there in the fog somewhere. When the fog clears, you'll find all your stuff, and everyone on the ship. Most of it is just baggage anyway. Maybe you're better off.”

“And what about you?” Carole asked, looking at her. “What am I to you? Am I a good employer? Do I treat you well? Do you like your job? And what kind of life do you have?” She wanted to know who Stevie was as a person, not just in relation to herself. She really cared. Even without her memory, Carole was still the fine woman she had always been, and whom Stevie loved.