Judy Greer

Darling, she says, do whatever you like.

If you'd rather drink in the room than go down to the lounge, that's perfectly fine with me.

She pulls at the cigarette.

How is her skin still so lovely, Monica wonders.

and tilts her head back to exhale against the awning above them.

"'You can drink from those awful bathroom glasses, and Monica and I will go down for aperitifs and pate.'

She reaches for her daughter-in-law's hand and squeezes her firm grip.

"'It's very firm and cool, don't you think, my dear?'

They are on this trip to celebrate an anniversary of sorts."

It has been just over a year since Martin's father died of pancreatic cancer, six months from diagnosis to death, the perfect length of time, Elizabeth pointed out at the reception after the funeral.

Long enough for the two of them to say their goodbyes, but short enough that there was no protracted decline, no months or even years of false hopes and setbacks, no extended physical humiliation or dementia.

He was an efficient man, and he was efficient in his dying.

He had been a professor of acoustics, retired, but for the occasional dissertation advice for a particularly promising doctoral student.

His son, Martin, has a beautiful singing voice and ease and grace with stringed instruments.

Monica herself is tone-deaf, as unmusical as it is possible to be.

When she confessed this at one of her first dinners with Martin's family, his mother had laughed in delight.

"'Finally, someone like me!'

she said and raised her glass to Monica.

"'My dear, you have no idea how happy I am to hear that!'

Even now it is hard for Monica to imagine how two women could be less similar than she and Elizabeth."