Judy Greer

So, they are in Paris for two weeks on a trip that Elizabeth planned and booked and paid for, a trip that Martin and Monica would not quite have been able to afford on their own.

Their hotel is small but elegant, close to the Seine and Musée d'Orsay.

Their budget is not unforgiving, but it does not have room for extended or luxurious travel.

I don't want an argument about this, Elizabeth said, after a dinner of grilled shrimp and salad one hot night in August when she handed them their tickets and itineraries.

This is something I promised your father I would do, she told Martin, her voice free of unsteadiness or sentiment.

We had planned to go to Paris for our 40th anniversary, she explained to Monica, which was obviously impossible under the circumstances, so I told him I would go anyway.

But I don't relish the idea of traveling alone at this point.

I don't know what to say, Monica said, and looked at Martin, whose face was impassive, his eyes focused out beyond the hedges in his mother's backyard.

I think I'll be having aperitifs with you, she says to Elizabeth now.

They have all finished their drinks, and Elizabeth tucks bills under the ashtray, stows her cigarettes in her bag, and arranges her shawl over her shoulders.

It is a lovely piece of fabric, purple and brown paisley shot through with gold, rich and exotic.

No one guesses she is American until she speaks, and even then her imperfect French charms waiters and taxi drivers.

Dinner is at nine tonight, she says.

I have a few shops I want to browse in the meantime, but you two go along.

Take some time alone.

She smiles at her son, a smile Monica recognizes.

Distant, chill.

Find something spectacular for your wife, Martin.

She slips through the narrow space between tables, the fabric of her slim black trousers whispering.

Abiento, she calls to the waiter, who salutes as he rushes past.