Honor Thyself

A terrorist attack in Paris …

a blinding explosion in a tunnel …

a woman's entire history vanishes …

and all that remains is love, honor, and hope.

Honor

Thyself

PRAISE FOR DANIEL STEEL“Steel pulls out all the emotional stops.… She delivers.”—Publishers Weekly“Steel is one of the best!”—Los Angeles Times“The world's most popular author tells a good, well-paced story and explores some important issues.… Steel affirm[s] life while admitting its turbulence, melodramas, and misfiring passions.”—Booklist“Danielle Steel writes boldly and with practiced vividness about tragedy—both national and personal … with insight and power.”—Nashville Banner“There is a smooth reading style to her writings which makes it easy to forget the time and to keep flipping the pages.”—Pittsburgh Press“One of the things that keep Danielle Steel fresh is her bent for timely storylines … the combination of Steel's comprehensive research and her skill at creating credible characters makes for a gripping read.”—Newark Star-Ledger“What counts for the reader is the ring of authenticity.”—San Francisco Chronicle“Steel knows how to wring the emotion out of the briefest scene.”—People“Ms. Steel excels at pacing her narrative, which races forward, mirroring the frenetic lives chronicled; men and women swept up in bewildering change, seeking solutions to problems never before faced.”—Nashville Banner“Danielle Steel has again uplifted her readers while skillfully communicating some of life's bittersweet verities. Who could ask for a finer gift than that?”—Philadelphia Inquirer

PRAISE FOR THE RECENT NOVELS OF

DANIELLE STEEL

HONOR THYSELF“A five-handkerchief Danielle Steel heartbreaker.”—Barnes & Noble“Faithful readers will be catapulted by Steel's staccato pacing and straightforward prose.”—BooklistA GOOD WOMAN“Once again, the legendary Steel has combined triumph and tragedy to create the story of a woman who, though tossed by the whims of fate, still manages to survive on her own terms.”—Booklist“Annabelle is one of the better protagonists.… Steel's fans will eat this up.”—Publishers WeeklyROGUE“Steel…keeps the pages turning and offers a satisfying twist at book's end that most readers won't see coming.”—Publishers WeeklyAMAZING GRACE“[A] veteran novelist who never coasts is Danielle Steel.… She likes her characters and gives them every chance to develop strength and decency; along with her creative storytelling it makes for very satisfying … fare.”—Sullivan County Democrat“A sparkly story with an uplifting spiritual twist.”—Publishers WeeklyBUNGALOW 2“Steel's many loyal readers will be entertained by this story of a dedicated mother and wife who embarks on a series of life-altering adventures in Hollywood.”—Publishers Weekly“Danielle Steel…takes readers into the often glamorous but always turbulent world of Hollywood and fashionable Beverly Hills.… Steel gets to the heart of her characters, a trait that has endeared her to her readers.”—Herald PublicationsSISTERS“Steel's plots are first-rate—and this one is no exception.”—Newark Star-Ledger“Female bonding with a cozy slumber-party vibe.”—Kirkus ReviewsH.R.H.“A journey of discovery, change and awakening… a story of love found, love lost and ultimately an ending that proves surprising.”—Asbury Park Press“Steel's fans will be waiting for this one.”—BooklistCOMING OUT“Acknowledges the unique challenges of today's mixed families.”—Kirkus Reviews“[A] tender, loving novel.”—Fort Wayne Journal GazetteTHE HOUSE“Many happy endings.”—Chicago Tribune“A … Steel fairy tale.”—BooklistTOXIC BACHELORS“A breezy read …that will keep fans reading and waiting for more.”—Publishers Weekly“Steel delivers… happy endings in the usual nontoxic, satisfying manner.”—BooklistMIRACLE“Steel is almost as much a part of the beach as sunscreen.”—New York Post“Another Steel page-turner. Three strangers' lives become linked after a terrible storm ravages northern California.”—Lowell SunIMPOSSIBLE“Dramatic, suspenseful… Steel knows what her fans want and this solid, meaty tale will not disappoint them.”—BooklistECHOES“Courage of conviction, strength of character and love of family that transcends loss are the traits that echo through three generations of women… a moving story that is Steel at her finest.”—Chattanooga Times Free Press“Get out your hankies… Steel put her all into this one.”—Kirkus Reviews“A compelling tale of love and loss.”—BooklistA MAIN SELECTION OF THE LITERARY GUILD

AND DOUBLEDAY BOOK CLUB

Also by Danielle Steel

A GOOD WOMAN MALICE ROGUE FIVE DAYS IN PARIS AMAZING GRACE LIGHTNING BUNGALOW 2 WINGS SISTERS THE GIFT H.R.H. ACCIDENT COMING OUT VANISHED THE HOUSE MIXED BLESSINGS TOXIC BACHELORS JEWELS MIRACLE NO GREATER LOVE IMPOSSIBLE HEARTBEAT ECHOES MESSAGE FROM NAM SECOND CHANCE DADDY RANSOM STAR SAFE HARBOUR ZOYA JOHNNY ANGEL KALEIDOSCOPE DATING GAME FINE THINGS ANSWERED PRAYERS WANDERLUST SUNSET IN ST. TROPEZ SECRETS THE COTTAGE FAMILY ALBUM THE KISS FULL CIRCLE LEAP OF FAITH CHANGES LONE EAGLE THURSTON HOUSE JOURNEY CROSSINGS THE HOUSE ON HOPE STREET ONCE IN A LIFETIME THE WEDDING A PERFECT STRANGER IRRESISTIBLE FORCES REMEMBRANCE GRANNY DAN PALOMINO BITTERSWEET LOVE: POEMS MIRROR IMAGE THE RING HIS BRIGHT LIGHT: LOVING The Story of Nick Traina TO LOVE AGAIN THE KLONE AND I SUMMER'S END THE LONG ROAD HOME SEASON OF PASSION THE GHOST THE PROMISE SPECIAL DELIVERY NOW AND FOREVER THE RANCH PASSION'S PROMISE SILENT HONOR

a cognizant original v5 release october 16 2010

To my mother, Norma,

who never read any of my books,

but was proud of me anyway, I hope.

To the challenging relationships

between some less fortunate

mothers and daughters, the missed opportunities,

the good intentions gone awry, and in the end

the love that carries one through, whatever

the story looked like, appeared to be, or was.

In all the ways that mattered to me at the time,

I lost my mother when I was six,

when she was no longer there to comb my hair,

so I wouldn't look silly at school.

We knew each other better as adults,

two entirely different women,

with such different views of life.

We disappointed each other often,

understood each other little,

but I give us both credit for trying and hanging in till the end.

This book is for the mother I wish I had had,

the one I hoped for every time we met,

the one who cooked pancakes and Swedish meatballs

when I was little, before she left,

for the one I'm sure she tried to be even after she did,

and finally with love, compassion, and forgiveness

for the one she was.

In her own way, she taught me to be the mother that I am.

May God smile on you and hold you closely,

may you find joy and peace.

I love you, Mom.

d.s.

“If you become whole,

everything will come to you.”Tao Te Ching

Chapter 1

It was a quiet, sunny November morning, as Carole Barber looked up from her computer and stared out into the garden of her Bel-Air home. It was a big, rambling stone mansion that she had lived in for fifteen years. The sunny greenhouse room she used as an office looked out over the rosebushes she had planted, the fountain, and the small pond that reflected the sky. The view was peaceful, and the house silent. Her hands had barely moved over the keyboard for the past hour. It was beyond frustrating. Despite a long and successful career in films, she was trying to write her first novel. Although she had written short stories for years, she had never published any. She had even tried her hand at a screenplay once. During their entire marriage, she and her late husband, Sean, had talked about making a movie together, and never got around to it. They were too busy doing other things, in their primary fields.

Sean was a producer-director, and she was an actress. Not just an actress, Carole Barber was a major star, and had been since she was eighteen. She had just turned fifty, two months before. By her own choice, she hadn't had a part in a movie for three years. At her age, even with her still remarkable beauty, good parts were rare.

Carole stopped working when Sean got sick. And in the two years since he'd died, she had traveled, visiting her children in London and New York. She was involved in a variety of causes, mostly relating to the rights of women and children, which had taken her to Europe several times, China, and underdeveloped countries around the world. She cared deeply about injustice, poverty, political persecution, and crimes against the innocent and defenseless. She had diligently kept journals of all her trips, and a poignant one of the months before Sean died. She and Sean had talked about her writing a book, in the last days of his life. He thought it was a wonderful idea, and encouraged her to start the project. She had waited until two years after his death to do it. She had been wrestling with writing it for the past year. The book would give her an opportunity to speak out about the things that mattered to her, and delve deep into herself in a way that acting never had. She wanted desperately to complete the book, but she couldn't seem to get it off the ground. Something kept stopping her, and she had no idea what it was. It was a classic case of writer's block, but like a dog with a bone, she refused to give up and let it go. She wanted to go back to acting eventually, but not until she wrote the book. She felt as though she owed that to Sean and herself.

In August, she had turned down what seemed like a good part in an important movie. The director was excellent, the screenwriter had won several Academy Awards for his earlier work. Her costars would have been interesting to work with. But when she read the script, it did absolutely nothing for her. She felt no pull to it at all. She didn't want to act anymore unless she loved the part. She was haunted by her book, still in its fetal stages, and it was keeping her from going back to work. Somewhere deep in her heart, she knew she had to do the writing first. This novel was the voice of her soul.

When Carole finally started the book, she insisted it wasn't about herself. It was only as she got deeper into it that she realized that in fact it was. The central character had many facets of Carole in her, and the more Carole got into it, the harder it was to write, as though she couldn't bear facing herself. She had been blocked on it again now for weeks. It was a story about a woman coming of age and examining her life. She realized now that it had everything to do with her, the life she'd led, the men she'd loved, and the decisions she had made in the course of her life. Every time she sat down at her desk to write it, she found herself staring into space, dreaming about the past, and nothing wound up on the screen of her computer. She was haunted by echoes of her earlier life, and until she came to terms with them, she knew she couldn't delve into her novel, nor solve its problems. She needed the key to unlock those doors first, and hadn't found it. Every question and doubt she'd ever had about herself had leaped back into her head with the writing. She was suddenly questioning every move she'd ever made. Why? When? How? Had she been right or wrong? Were the people in her life actually as she'd seen them at the time? Had she been unfair? She kept asking herself the same questions, and wondered why it mattered now, but it did. Immensely. She could go nowhere with the book, until she came up with the answers about her own life. It was driving her insane. It was as though by deciding to write this book, she was being forced to face herself in ways she never had before, ways she had avoided for years. There was no hiding from it now. The people she had known floated through her head at night, as she lay awake, and even in her dreams. And she awoke exhausted in the morning.

The face that came to mind most often was Sean's. He was the only one she was sure about, who he had been, and what he meant to her. Their relationship had been so straightforward and clean. The others weren't, not to that degree. She had questions in her mind about all of them but Sean. And he had been so anxious for her to write the book she had described to him, she felt she owed it to him, as a kind of final gift. And she wanted to prove to herself that she could do it. She was paralyzed by the fear that she couldn't, and didn't have it in her. She had had the dream for more than three years now, and needed to know if she had a book in her or not.

The word that came to mind when she thought of Sean was peace. He was a kind, gentle, wise, loving man, who had been only wonderful to her. He had brought order to her life in the beginning, and together they had built a solid foundation for their life together. He had never tried to own or overwhelm her. Their lives had never seemed intertwined or entangled, instead they had traveled side by side, at a comfortable pace together, right until the end. Because of who he was, even Sean's death from cancer had been a quiet disappearance, a kind of natural evolution into a further dimension where she could no longer see him. But because of his powerful influence on her life, she always felt him near her. He had accepted death as one more step in the journey of his life, a transition he had to make at some point, like a wondrous opportunity. He learned from everything he did, and whatever he encountered on his path, he embraced with grace. In dying, he had taught her yet another intensely valuable lesson about life.

Two years after he had gone, she still missed him, his laughter, the sound of his voice, his brilliant mind, his company, their long quiet walks together along the beach, but she always had the feeling that he was somewhere nearby, doing his own thing, traveling on, and sharing some kind of blessing with her, just as he had when he was alive. Knowing and loving him had been one of her greatest gifts. He had reminded her before he died that she still had much to do, and urged her to go back to work. He wanted her to make movies again, and write the book. He had always loved her short stories and essays, and over the years she had written dozens of poems to him, which he treasured. She had had all of them bound in a leather folder several months before he died, and he had spent hours reading them over and over again.

She hadn't had time to start the book before he died. She was too busy taking care of him. She had taken a year off to spend time with him, and nurse him herself when he got really sick, particularly after chemo and in the last few months of his illness. He had been valiant till the end. They had gone for a walk together the day before he died. They hadn't been able to walk far, and they had said very little to each other. They had walked side by side, holding hands, sat down frequently when he got tired, and they had both cried as they sat and watched the sunset. They both knew the end was near. He had died the following night, peacefully, in her arms. He had taken one last long look at her, sighed with a gentle smile, closed his eyes, and was gone.

Because of the way he'd died, with such elegant acceptance, afterward it had been impossible to be overwhelmed with grief when she thought about him. As best one could be, she was ready. They both were. What she felt in his absence was an emptiness she still felt now. And she wanted to fill that void with a better understanding of herself. She knew the book would help her do that, if she could ever get a handle on it. She wanted to at least try to measure up to him, and the faith he'd had in her. He had been a constant source of inspiration to her, in her life and her work. He had brought her calm and joy, and a kind of serenity and balance.

In many ways, it had been a relief for her not to work in films for the past three years. She had worked so hard for so long that even before Sean got sick she knew she needed a break. And she knew that time off for introspection would eventually bring deeper meaning to her acting as well. She had made some important movies over the years, and had been in some major commercial hits. But she wanted more than that now, she wanted to bring something to her work that she never had before. The kind of depth that only came with wisdom, seasoning, and time. She wasn't old at fifty, but the years since Sean got sick and died had deepened her in ways she knew she would never have experienced otherwise, and she knew that inevitably that would show on the screen. And if she mastered it, surely in her book as well. This book was a symbol of ultimate adulthood for her, and freedom from the last ghosts of her past. She had spent so many years pretending to be other people through her acting, and appearing to be who the world expected her to be. Now was the time in her life when she wanted to be unfettered by other people's expectations, and finally be herself. She belonged to no one now. She was free to be whoever she wanted to be.

Her years of belonging to a man had been over long before she met Sean. They had been two free souls, living side by side, enjoying each other with love and mutual respect. Their lives had been parallel, and in perfect symmetry and balance, but never enmeshed. It was the one thing she had feared when they got married, that it would get complicated, or he would try to “own” her, that they might somehow stifle or drown each other. That had never happened. He had assured her it wouldn't, and had kept his promise. She knew that her eight years with Sean were something that only occurred once in a lifetime. She didn't expect to find that with anyone else. Sean had been unique.

She couldn't imagine herself falling in love, or wanting to be married again. She had missed him for these past two years, but had not mourned him. His love had sated her so totally that she was comfortable now even without him. There had been no agony or pain in their love for each other, although like all couples, they'd had resounding arguments now and then, and then laughed about them afterward. Neither Sean nor Carole was the kind of person to hold a grudge, and there wasn't a shred of malice in either of them, or even in their fights. In addition to loving each other, they had been best friends.

They met when Carole was forty, and Sean was thirty-five. Al though five years younger than she was, he had set an example for her in many ways, mostly in his views about life. Her career was still going strong, and she was making more movies than she wanted to at the time. For so many years before that, she had been driven to follow the path of an ever-more-demanding career. They met five years after she had moved back to Los Angeles from France, and she'd been trying to spend more time with her children, always pulled between her kids, and increasingly alluring movie roles. She had spent the years after her return from France without a serious involvement with a man. She just didn't have the time, or the desire. There had been men she'd gone out with, usually for a brief time, some of them in her business, mostly directors or writers, others who were in different creative fields, art, architecture, or music. They had been interesting men, but she'd never fallen in love with any of them, and was convinced she never would again. Until Sean.

They had met at a conference they'd both gone to, to discuss the rights of actors in Hollywood, and had been on a panel together about the changing role of women in films. It had never bothered either of them that he was five years younger than she was. It was completely irrelevant to both of them. They were kindred spirits, regardless of age. A month after they met, they had gone to Mexico together for a weekend. He had moved in three months later, and never left. Six months after he moved in, despite Carole's reluctance and misgivings, they were married. Sean had convinced her it was the right thing for both of them. He was absolutely correct, although at first Carole had been adamant about not wanting to get married again. She was convinced that their careers would somehow interfere and cause conflicts between them, and impact their marriage. As Sean had promised, her fears had been unfounded. Their union seemed blessed.

Her children had been young then, and still at home, which was an added concern for Carole. Sean had none of his own, and they had none together. He was crazy about her two children, and they had both agreed that they were too busy and wouldn't have had time to give to another child. Instead they nurtured each other, and their marriage. Anthony and Chloe were both in high school when she and Sean married, which was part of her decision to marry Sean. She didn't like setting the example of just living together with no further commitment, and her children had cast a strong positive vote for the marriage. They wanted Sean to stick around, and he had proven to be a good friend and stepfather to both of them. And now, much to her chagrin, both her children were grown up and gone.

Chloe was in her first job, after graduating from Stanford. She was the assistant to the assistant accessories editor for a fashion magazine in London. It was mostly prestige and fun, helping with styling, setting up shoots, doing errands, for almost no pay and the thrill of working for British Vogue. Chloe loved it. With looks similar to her mother's, she could have been a model, but preferred to be on the editorial end, and she was having a ball in London. She was a bright, outgoing girl and was excited about the people she met through her job. She and Carole talked often on the phone.

Anthony was following in his father's footsteps on Wall Street, in the world of finance, after getting an MBA from Harvard. He was a serious, responsible young man, and had always made them proud. He was as handsome as Chloe was pretty, but had always been a little shy. He went out with lots of bright, attractive girls, but no one important to him so far. His social life interested him less than his work at the office. He was diligent about his career in finance, and always kept his goals in mind. In fact, very little deterred him, and more often than not when Carole called him on his cell phone late at night, he was still working at his desk.

Both children had been deeply attached to Sean, and to their mother. They had always been wholesome, sensible, and loving, despite the occasional mother-daughter skirmish between Chloe and Carole. Chloe had always needed her mother's time and attention more than her brother, and complained bitterly when her mother went on location for a movie, particularly during high school, when she wanted Carole around, like the other mothers. Her complaints had made Carole feel guilty, even though she had the kids fly out to visit on the set whenever possible, or came home during breaks in filming to be with them. Anthony had been easy, Chloe always a little less so, at least for Carole. Chloe thought her father walked on water, and was more than willing to point out her mother's faults. Carole told herself it was the nature of relationships between mother and daughter. It was easier to be the mother of an adoring son.

And now, on her own, with her kids grown and gone, and happy in their own lives, Carole was determined to tackle the novel she had promised herself to write for so long. In the past few weeks, she had gotten seriously discouraged, and had begun to doubt it was ever going to happen. She was beginning to wonder if she had been wrong to turn down the part she had declined in August. Maybe she had to give up writing, and go back to making movies. Mike Appelsohn, her agent, was getting annoyed with her. He was upset about the parts she kept turning down, and fed up with hearing about the book she didn't write.

The story line was eluding her, the characters still seemed vague, the outcome and development seemed to be tied in a knot somewhere in her head. It was all a giant tangle, like a ball of yarn after the cat played with it. And no matter what she did, or how intently she thought about it, she couldn't seem to sort out the mess. It was frustrating her beyond belief.

There were two Oscars sitting on a shelf above her desk, and a Golden Globe she'd won just before the year she'd taken off when Sean got sick. Hollywood still hadn't forgotten her, but Mike Appelsohn assured her they'd give up on her eventually, if she didn't go back to work. She had run out of excuses for him, and given herself till the end of the year to start the book. She had two months left, and was getting nowhere. She was beginning to feel panicked about it every time she sat down at her desk.

She heard a door open gently behind her, and turned with an anxious look. She didn't mind the interruption, in fact she welcomed it. The day before, she had reorganized her bathroom closets instead of working on the book. When she turned, she saw Stephanie Morrow, her assistant, standing hesitantly in the doorway of her office. She was beautiful, a schoolteacher by profession, whom Carole had hired for the summer, fifteen years before, when she first came back from Paris. Carole had bought the house in Bel-Air, accepted parts in two films that first year, and signed on for a year in a Broadway play. She got deeply involved in women's rights, had publicity to do for her movies, and needed help organizing her kids and staff. Stephanie had come to help her out for two months, and stayed forever. Fifteen years later, she was thirty-nine years old. She lived with a man, but had never married. He was understanding about her work and traveled a lot himself. Stephanie still wasn't sure if she ever wanted to marry, and was clear she didn't want children. She teased Carole and said she was her baby. Carole reciprocated by saying Stephanie was her nanny. She was a fabulous assistant, handled the press brilliantly, and could talk her way in or out of any situation. There was nothing she couldn't manage.

When Sean was sick, she had done everything she could for Carole. She was there for the kids, for Sean, and for her. She even helped Carole plan the funeral and pick the casket. Over the years, Stephanie had become more than just an employee. Despite the eleven years that separated them, the two women had become close friends, with deep affection and respect for each other. There wasn't an ounce of jealousy in Stevie, as Carole called her. She was happy for Carole's victories, mourned her tragedies, loved her job, and faced each day with patience and humor.

Carole was deeply attached to her, and readily admitted that she would have been lost without her. She was the perfect assistant, and as people did in jobs like hers, it meant putting Carole's life first and her own second, or sometimes not having a life at all. Stevie loved Carole and her job, and didn't mind. Carole's life was far more exciting than her own.

Stevie stood six feet tall, with straight black hair and big brown eyes, and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, as she stood in Carole's office doorway. “Tea?” she whispered.

“No. Arsenic,” Carole said with a groan, as she swiveled in her chair. “I can't write this goddamn book. Something's stopping me, and I don't know what it is. Maybe it's just terror. Maybe I know I can't do it. I don't know why I thought I could.” She looked at Stevie, frowning in despair.

“Yes, you can,” Stephanie said calmly. “Give it time. They say the hardest part is the beginning. You just have to sit there long enough to do it.” For the past week, Stevie had helped her reorganize all her closets, then redesign the garden, and clean out the garage. And decide to redo the kitchen. Carole had come up with every possible distraction and excuse to avoid starting the book, again. She had been doing it for months. “Maybe you need to take a break,” Stevie suggested, and Carole groaned.

“My whole life is a break these days. Sooner or later, I have to go back to work, either on a movie, or writing this book. Mike is going to kill me if I turn down another script.”

Mike Appelsohn was a producer, and had acted as her agent for thirty-two years, since he discovered her at eighteen, light-years before. A million years ago, she had been just a farm girl from Mississippi, with long blond hair and huge green eyes, who came to Hollywood more out of curiosity than real ambition. Mike Appelsohn had made her what she was today. That, and the fact that she had real talent. Her first screen test at eighteen had blown everyone away. The rest was history. Her history. Now she was one of the most famous actresses in the world, and successful beyond her wildest dreams. So what was she doing trying to write a book? She couldn't help but ask herself the same question over and over again. She knew the answer, just as Stevie did. She was looking for a piece of herself, a piece she had hidden in a drawer somewhere, a part of her she wanted and needed to find, in order for the rest of her life to make sense.

Her last birthday had affected her deeply. Turning fifty had been an important landmark for her, particularly now that she was alone. It couldn't be ignored. She had decided that she wanted to weave all the pieces of her together, in ways she never had before, to solder them into a whole, instead of having bits and pieces of herself drifting in space. She wanted her life to make sense, to herself if no one else. She wanted to go back to the beginning and figure it all out.

So much had happened to her by accident, in her early years particularly, or at least it seemed that way. Good luck and bad, though mostly good, in her career anyway, and with her kids. But she didn't want her life to seem like an accident, fortuitous or otherwise. So many things she'd done had been reactions to circumstances or other people, rather than decisions she'd actively made. It seemed important now to know if the choices she'd made had been the right ones. And then what? She kept asking herself what difference it would make. It wouldn't change the past. But it might alter the course of her life for her remaining years. That was the difference she wanted to make. With Sean gone, it seemed more important to her now to make choices and decisions, and not just wait for things to happen to her. What did she want? She wanted to write a book. That was all she knew. And maybe after that, the rest would come. Maybe then she'd have a better sense of what parts she wanted to play in movies, what impact she wanted to have on the world, what causes she wanted to support, and who she wanted to be for the rest of her life. Her kids had grown up. Now it was her turn.

Stevie disappeared and reappeared with a cup of tea. Decaffeinated vanilla tea. Stevie ordered it for her from Mariage Frères in Paris. Carole had become addicted to it while she lived there, and it was still her favorite. She was always grateful for the steaming mugs of it Stevie handed her. It was comforting for her. Carole looked pensive as she put the mug to her lips and took a sip. “Maybe you're right,” Carole said thoughtfully, glancing at the woman who had been her companion for years. They traveled together, since Carole took her on the set when she was making a movie. Stevie was a one-man band who made Carole's life smooth as silk, and enjoyed doing it for her. She adored her job, and coming to work every day. Each day was different, and a challenge. And it still excited her after all these years that she worked for Carole Barber.

“What am I right about?” Stevie asked, letting down her long limbs into the room's comfortable leather easy chair. They spent a lot of hours together in that room, planning things, talking things out. Carole was always willing to listen to Stevie's opinions, even if she did something different in the end. Although most of the time, she found her assistant's advice to be solid, and valuable to her. And to Stevie, Carole was not only an employer, but something of a wise aunt. The two women shared opinions on life, and often saw things the same way, particularly about men.

“Maybe I need to take a trip.” Not to avoid the book, but maybe in this case to crack it, like a hard shell that resisted and wouldn't open any other way.

“You could go visit the kids,” Stevie suggested. Carole loved visiting her son and daughter, since they seldom came home anymore. It was hard for Anthony to get away from the office, although he always made time to see her in the evening when she was in New York, no matter how busy he was. He loved his mother. As did Chloe, who would drop everything to run around London with her mother to play and shop. She soaked up her mother's love and time, like a flower in rain.

“I just did that a few weeks ago. I don't know… maybe I need to do something completely different … go somewhere I've never been before… like Prague or something… or Romania … Sweden …” There weren't a lot of places left on the planet where she hadn't been. She had spoken at women's conferences in India, Pakistan, and Beijing. She had met heads of state around the world, worked with UNICEF, and addressed the U.S. Senate.

Stevie hesitated to state the obvious. Paris. She knew how much the city meant to her. Carole had lived in Paris for two and a half years, and had only been back twice in the last fifteen. Carole said there was nothing for her there anymore. She had taken Sean to Paris shortly after they were married, but he hated the French, and always preferred going to London instead. Stevie knew she hadn't been back now in about ten years. And she'd only been there once in the five years before Sean, when she sold the house on the rue Jacob, or actually in a small alley behind it. Stevie had gone with her to close the house, and loved it. But by then Carole's life had shifted back to L.A., and she said it made no sense to keep a house in Paris. It had been hard for her when she closed it, and she never went back again, till her only trip there with Sean. They stayed at the Ritz, and he complained the entire time. He loved Italy and England, but not France.

“Maybe it's time for you to go back to Paris,” Stevie said cautiously. She knew that ghosts lingered there for her, but after fifteen years, she couldn't imagine that they would still affect Carole. Not after eight years with Sean. Whatever had happened to Carole in Paris had long since healed, and she still spoke of the city fondly from time to time.

“I don't know,” Carole said, thinking about it. “It rains a lot in November. The weather is so good here.”

“The weather doesn't seem to be helping you write the book. Somewhere else then. Vienna … Milan… Venice… Buenos Aires… Mexico City… Hawaii. Maybe you need a little time on the beach, if you're looking for good weather.” They both knew the weather wasn't the issue.

“I'll see,” Carole said with a sigh, getting out of her desk chair. “I'll think about it.”

Carole was tall, though not as tall as her assistant. She was slim, lithe, with a still-beautiful figure. She worked out, but not enough to justify the way she looked. She had great genes, good bone structure, a body that defied her years, and a face that willingly lied about her age, and she had had no surgery to help it.

Carole Barber was just a beautiful woman. Her hair was still blond, she wore it long and straight, often tied back in a ponytail or in a bun. Hairdressers on the set had been having a ball with her silky blond hair since she was eighteen. Her eyes were enormous and green, her cheekbones high, her features delicate and perfect. She had the face and figure of a model, not just a star. And the way she carried herself spoke of confidence, poise, and grace. She wasn't arrogant, she was just comfortable in her own skin, and she moved with the elegance of a dancer. The studio that had signed her first had made her take ballet. She still moved like a dancer today, with perfect posture. She was a spectacular-looking woman, and rarely wore makeup. She had a simplicity of style that made her even more striking. Stevie had been in awe of her when she first came to work. Carole had only been thirty-five then, and now she was fifty, hard as that was to believe. She looked easily ten years younger than she was. Even though he'd been five years younger, Sean had always looked older than she did. He was handsome, but bald, and tended to put on weight. Carole still had the same figure she'd had at twenty. She was careful about what she ate, but mostly she was just lucky. She had been blessed by the gods at birth.

“I'm going to run some errands,” she told Stevie a few minutes later. She had put a white cashmere sweater around her shoulders, and was carrying a beige alligator bag she'd bought at Hermès. She had a fondness for simple but good clothes, especially if they were French. At fifty, there was something about Carole that reminded one of Grace Kelly at twenty. She had that same kind of elegant, aristocratic ease, although Carole seemed warmer. There was nothing austere about Carole, and considering who she was, and the fame she'd enjoyed for all of her adult life, she was surprisingly humble. Like everyone else, Stevie loved that about her. Carole was never full of herself.

“Anything you want me to do for you?” Stevie offered.

“Yeah, write the book while I'm out. I'll send it to my agent tomorrow.” She had lined up a literary agent, but had nothing to send her.

“Done.” Stevie grinned at her. “I'll man the fort here. You hit Rodeo.”

“I am not going to Rodeo,” Carole said primly. “I want to look at some new dining room chairs. I think the dining room needs a face-lift. Come to think of it, so do I, but I'm too chicken to get one. I don't want to wake up in the morning looking like someone else. It's taken me fifty years to get used to the face I have. I'd hate to turn it in.”

“You don't need one,” Stevie reassured her.

“Thanks, but I've seen the ravages of time in the mirror.”

“I have more wrinkles than you do,” Stevie said, and it was true. She had fine Irish skin that wasn't wearing as well as her employer's, much to her chagrin.

Five minutes later, Carole drove off in her station wagon. She had driven the same car for the last six years. Unlike other Hollywood stars, she had no need to be seen in a Rolls or a Bentley. Her station wagon was fine with her. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of diamond stud earrings and, when Sean was alive, her plain gold wedding band, which she had finally taken off that summer. Any thing more than that she considered unnecessary, and the producers borrowed for her when she had to appear to promote a film. In her private life, the most exotic piece of jewelry Carole wore was a simple gold watch. The most dazzling thing about Carole was herself.

She was back two hours later, while Stevie was eating a sandwich in the kitchen. There was an office nook for her, where she worked, and her main complaint was that it was much too close to the fridge, which she visited too often. She worked out at the gym every night to compensate for what she ate at work.

“Did you finish the book yet?” Carole asked as she walked in. She looked in much better spirits than when she left.

“Almost. I'm on the last chapter. Give me another half-hour, and I'll be all set. How were the chairs?”

“They were the wrong look for the table. The scale wasn't right. Unless I get a new table too.” She was looking for projects, and they both knew that she needed to go back to work, or write the book. Indolence wasn't her style. After a lifetime of working constantly, and now that Sean was gone, Carole needed something to do. “I decided to take your advice,” Carole said, sitting down at the kitchen table across from Stevie with a solemn look.

“What advice?” Stevie could no longer remember what she'd said.

“About taking a trip. I need to get out of here. I'll take my computer with me. Maybe sitting in a hotel room, I can get a fresh start on the book. I don't even like what I've got so far.”

“I do. The first two chapters are good. You just need to build on that and keep going. Like climbing a mountain. Don't look down or stop until you reach the top.” It was good advice.

“Maybe. I'll see. Anyway, I need to clear my head,” she said with a sigh. “Book me a flight to Paris for the day after tomorrow. I don't have anything to do here, and Thanksgiving isn't for another three and a half weeks. I might as well get my ass out of here before the kids come home for that. It's the perfect time.” She had thought about it all the way home and made up her mind. She felt better now.

Stevie nodded and refrained from further comment. She was convinced it would do her good to get away, particularly to a place she loved.

“I think I'm ready to go back,” Carole said softly, with a pensive look. “You can get me a room at the Ritz. Sean hated it, but I love it.”

“How long do you want to stay?”

“I don't know. Why don't you book the room for two weeks, so I have it. I thought I'd use Paris as a base. I actually do want to go to Prague, and I've never been to Budapest either. I want to wander around a little, and see how I feel when I'm there. I'm free as a bird, I might as well take advantage of it. Maybe I'll get inspired if I see something new. If I want to come home earlier, I can. And I'll stop in London and see Chloe for a couple of days on the way home. If it's close enough to Thanksgiving, maybe she'll want to fly back with me. That might be fun. And Anthony's coming out for Thanksgiving too, so I don't need to stop in New York on the way back.” She always tried to see her kids when she went anywhere, if they had the time and she did. But this trip was for her.

Stevie smiled at her, as she jotted down a note to herself with the details. “It'll be fun to go to Paris. I haven't been since you closed the house. That was fourteen years ago.” Carole looked slightly embarrassed then. She hadn't made herself clear.

“I hate to be a shit. I love it when we travel together. But I want to do this one on my own. I don't know why, but I just think I need to get into my own head. If I take you with me, I'd rather talk to you than dig into myself. I'm looking for something, and I'm not even sure what it is. Me, I think.” She had a deep conviction that the answers to her future, and the book, were buried in the past. She wanted to go back now to dig up everything she had left behind and tried to forget long ago.

Stevie looked surprised, but smiled at her employer. “That's fine. I just worry about you when you travel alone.” Carole didn't do that often and Stevie didn't love the idea.

“I worry too,” Carole confessed, “and I'm lazy as hell. You've spoiled me. I hate dealing with porters and ordering my own tea. But maybe it'll do me good. And how hard can life be at the Ritz?”

“What if you go to Eastern Europe? Do you want someone with you there? I could hire someone for you in Paris, through security at the Ritz.” There had been threats over the years, though nothing recent. People recognized her in almost every country. And even if they didn't, she was a beautiful woman traveling alone. And what if she got sick? Carole brought out the mother in Stevie every time. She loved taking care of her and shielding her from real life. It was her mission in life and her job.

“I don't need security. I'll be fine. And even if they recognize me, so what? As Katharine Hepburn used to say, I'll just keep my head down, and avoid eye contact.” They were both still surprised at how often that worked. When Carole didn't make eye contact with people on the street, they recognized her far less. It was an old Hollywood trick, although it didn't always work. But more often than not it did.

“I can always fly over if you change your mind,” Stevie offered, and Carole smiled. She knew that her assistant wasn't angling for a trip. Stevie was just concerned about her, which touched Carole's heart. Stevie was the perfect personal assistant in every way, always striving to make Carole's life easier and anticipate problems before they could occur.

“I promise I'll call if I run into trouble, get lonely, or feel weird,” Carole assured her. “Who knows, I may decide to come home after a few days. It's kind of fun to just go, and not have any set plans.” She had been on a million trips to promote movies, or on location when she made them. It was rare for her to just take off like this, but Stevie thought it was a good idea, even if it was unusual for her.

“I'll keep my cell phone on so you can call me, even at night or at the gym. I can always hop the next plane,” Stevie promised, although Carole was conscientious about not calling her at night. She had kept firm boundaries over the years, which went both ways. She respected Stevie's private life, and when Carole had one, Stevie respected hers. It had made working together that much better over the years. “I'll call the airline and the Ritz,” Stevie said, finishing her sandwich, and going to put the plate in the dishwasher. Carole had long since reduced her housekeeping staff to one woman, who came in the mornings five days a week. With Sean and the kids gone, she didn't need or want much help. She rummaged in the refrigerator herself and no longer had a cook. And she preferred driving herself. She enjoyed living like a normal person without all the trappings of a star.

“I'll start packing,” Carole said as she left the kitchen. Two hours later she was finished. She was taking very little. Some slacks, some jeans, one skirt, sweaters, comfortable shoes to walk in, and one pair of high heels. She packed one jacket and a raincoat, and took out a warm hooded wool coat to wear on the plane. The most important thing she was taking was her laptop. She needed very little else, and maybe she wouldn't even use that, if nothing came to her while on the trip.

She had just finished closing her suitcase, when Stevie walked into her bedroom to tell her that the reservations had been made. She was on a flight to Paris in two days, and the Ritz had a suite for her on the Vendôme side of the building. Stevie said she would drive her to the airport. Carole was all set for her odyssey to find herself, in Paris, or wherever else she went. Whatever other cities she decided to travel to, she could make the reservations once she was in Europe. Carole was excited now at the thought of going. It was going to be wonderful being in Paris after all these years.

She wanted to walk past her old house near the rue Jacob, on the Left Bank, and pay homage to the two and a half years she had spent there. It seemed like a lifetime ago. She had been younger than Stevie when she left Paris. Her son, Anthony, who was eleven then, had been delighted to come back to the States. Chloe had been seven and was sad to leave Paris and her friends there. She had spoken perfect French. They had been eight and four when they first went there, when Carole was making a movie in Paris. The film had taken eight months, and they had stayed on for two years after that. It seemed like a big chunk of time then, especially in young lives, and even to her. And now she was going back, on a pilgrimage of sorts. She had no idea what she'd find there, or how she'd feel. But she was ready. She could hardly wait to leave. She realized now that it was an important step in writing the book. Maybe going back would free her, and open the doors that were sealed so tightly. Sit ting at her computer in Bel-Air, she couldn't pry them open. But maybe there the doors would swing wide open on their own. It was what she hoped.

Just knowing that she was going to Paris, Carole was able to write that night. She sat at her computer for hours after Stevie left, and was back at it the next morning when she arrived.

She dictated some letters, paid her bills, and did a last few errands. By the time she left for the airport the next day, Carole was ready. She chatted animatedly with Stevie on the way to the airport, remembering last details, of what to tell the gardener, some things she'd ordered that would arrive while she was away.

“What do I tell the kids, if they call?” Stevie asked as they reached the airport, and she took Carole's bag out of the station wagon. She was traveling light, so she could manage more easily on her own.

“Just tell them I'm away,” Carole said easily.

“In Paris?” Stevie was ever discreet, and only told people, even her children, what Carole told her she could say.

“That's fine. It's not a secret. I'll probably call them at some point myself. I'll call Chloe before I go to London at the end. I want to see what I decide to do first.” She loved the feeling of freedom she had, traveling on her own, and making decisions about her destinations day by day. It was rare for her to be that spontaneous, and do whatever she wished. It seemed like a real gift.

“Don't forget to tell me what you're doing,” Stevie chided. “I worry about you.” Probably more than her kids did, who were sometimes less aware, although they loved her. Stevie was almost maternal toward her at times. She knew the vulnerable side of Carole that others didn't see, the frail side, the one that hurt. To others, Carole showed tranquillity and strength, which wasn't always the case underneath.

“I'll e-mail you when I get to the Ritz. Don't worry if you don't hear from me after that. If I go to Prague or Vienna or somewhere, I'll probably leave my computer in Paris. I don't want to bother with a lot of e-mail while I'm away. Sometimes it's fun to just write on legal pads. The change might do me good. I'll call if I need help.”

“You better. Have fun,” Stevie said as she hugged her, and Carole smiled up at her.

“Take care. Enjoy the break,” Carole said, as a porter took her bag and checked her in. She was traveling first class. He did a double-take as he looked at her and then smiled as he recognized her.

“Well, hello, Miss Barber, and how are you today?” He was thrilled to meet the star face-to-face.

“Just fine, thank you.” She smiled back. Her big green eyes lit up her face.

“Going to Paris?” he asked, dazzled by her. She was as beautiful as she was on screen, and seemed friendly, warm, and real.

“Yes, I am.” Just saying it felt good to her now, as though Paris was waiting for her. She gave him a good tip, and he tipped his hat to her, as two of the other porters rushed up and asked for autographs. She signed them, waved at Stevie one last time, and then disappeared into the terminal in jeans, her heavy dark gray coat, and a large traveling bag on her arm. Her blond hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she slipped dark glasses on as she went inside. No one noticed her as she walked by. She was just another woman hurrying toward security, on her way to a plane. She was traveling Air France. And even after fifteen years, she was still comfortable in French. She'd have a chance to practice on the plane.

The plane left LAX on time, and she read a book she'd brought with her as they winged their way toward Paris. Halfway through the flight, she slept, and as requested, they woke her forty minutes before they arrived, which gave her time to brush her teeth, wash her face, comb her hair, and have a cup of her vanilla tea. She was in her seat, looking out the window as they landed. It was a rainy November day in Paris, and her heart leaped just seeing it again. For reasons she wasn't even sure of, she was making a pilgrimage back in time, and even after all these years, she felt as though she were coming home again.

Chapter 2

The suite at the Ritz was as beautiful as she hoped it would be. All the fabrics were silk and satin, the colors pale blue and hushed gold. She had a living room and a bedroom, and a Louis XV desk where she plugged her computer in. She sent Stevie an e-mail ten minutes after she got there, while she waited for croissants and a pot of hot water. She had brought a three-week supply of her own vanilla tea with her. It was coals to Newcastle since it came from Paris, but this way she didn't have to go out and buy it. Stevie had handed it to her as she packed.

The e-mail said that she had arrived safely, the suite was gorgeous, and the flight had been fine. She said it was raining in Paris, but she didn't mind. And she mentioned that she was turning off her computer and wouldn't be writing to Stevie again for a while, if at all. If she had a problem, she'd call on her assistant's cell. She thought about calling her children after that, but decided not to. She loved talking to them, but they had their own lives now, and this trip belonged to her. It was something she needed to do for herself. She didn't want to share it with them yet. And she knew they'd find it odd that she was wandering around Europe on her own. There was something faintly pathetic about it, as though she had nothing to do, and no one to be with, which was true, but she was comfortable about this trip. And she sensed now that the key to the book she was trying to write was here, or one of the keys at least. And she knew her children might worry about her, if they knew she was traveling alone. Sometimes Stevie and her children were more aware of her fame than she was. Carole liked to ignore it.

The croissants and tea arrived, delivered by a liveried waiter. He put the silver tray on the coffee table, already laden with small pastries, a box of chocolates, and a bowl of fruit, with a bottle of champagne from the manager of the hotel. They took good care of her. She had always loved the Ritz. Nothing had changed. It was more beautiful than ever. She stood at the long French windows, looking out at the Place Vendôme in the rain. Her plane had landed at eleven that morning. She had gone right through customs, and was at the hotel at twelve-thirty. It was one o'clock by then. She had the whole afternoon to wander around and see familiar landmarks in the rain. She still had no idea where she was going after Paris, but for the moment she was happy. She was beginning to think she wouldn't go anywhere, just stay in Paris, and enjoy the time there. It didn't get better than this. She still thought Paris was the most beautiful city in the world.

She unpacked the few things she'd brought with her, and hung them in the closet. She bathed in the enormous tub, and reveled in the thick pink towels, and then put on warm clothes. At two-thirty she was walking across the lobby, with a handful of euros in her pocket. She left her key at the front desk. The heavy brass tag on it made it too cumbersome to carry, and she never took a handbag when she went out walking. They always seemed like too much trouble to her. She dug her hands into her pockets, pulled up her hood, put her head down, and slipped quietly through the revolving door, and as soon as she got outside, she put on dark glasses. The rain had turned to mist by then and felt gentle on her face, as she walked down the front steps of the Ritz, and out into the Place Vendôme. No one paid any attention to her, nor recognized her. She was just an anonymous woman in Paris, going out for a walk, as she headed to the Place de la Concorde on foot, and from there she wanted to head toward the Left Bank. It was a long walk, but she was ready for it. For the first time in years, she could do whatever she wanted to in Paris, go wherever she chose. She didn't have to listen to Sean complain about it, or entertain her children. She didn't have to please anyone but herself. She realized that coming here had been the perfect decision. She didn't even mind the light November rain, or the chill in the air. Her heavy coat kept her warm, and the rubber-soled shoes she'd worn kept her feet dry on the wet ground. She looked up at the sky then, took a deep breath, and smiled. There was no more spectacular city than Paris, no matter what the weather. She had always thought the sky there was the most beautiful in the world. It looked like a luminous gray pearl now, as she looked past the rooftops as she walked along.

She walked past the Hotel Crillon and into the Place de la Concorde, with the fountains and statues, and traffic whizzing past them. She stood for a long time, soaking in the soul of the city again, and then set off on foot toward the Left Bank, with her hands dug into her pockets. She was happy she had left her handbag in her room. It would have been a nuisance to carry it with her. She felt freer this way. And all she needed with her was enough money to pay for a cab home, if she strayed too far from the hotel and was too tired to walk back.

Carole loved to wander in Paris. She always had, even when the children were small. She had taken them all over the city, to all the monuments and museums, and to play in the Bois de Boulogne, the Tuileries, Bagatelle, and the Jardins du Luxembourg. She had cherished their years here, although Chloe remembered very little of it, and Anthony had been happy to go home. He missed baseball, hamburgers, and milkshakes, American television, and watching the Super Bowl. In the end, it had been hard to convince him that life was more exciting in Paris. It wasn't, for him, although both children had learned French, and so had she. Anthony still spoke a little, Chloe none at all, and Carole had been pleased to find on the plane that she could still manage fairly well. She rarely had a chance to speak it anymore. She had applied herself while they lived there, and became completely fluent. She no longer was, but she still spoke it very well, with the expected le and la mistakes that Americans made. It was hard for anyone who hadn't grown up in the language to speak it flawlessly. But when they lived there, she had come pretty close, and impressed all her French friends.

She crossed to the Left Bank on the Pont Alexandre III, heading toward the Invalides, and then headed up the Quais, past all the antiques dealers she still remembered. She turned down the rue des Saint Pères, and wended her way toward the rue Jacob. She had come back here like a homing pigeon, and turned into the little alley where their house was. For the first eight months of her time in Paris, they lived in an apartment that the studio rented for them. It was small and cramped for her, both kids, an assistant, and a nanny, and eventually they had moved to a hotel briefly. She had enrolled the kids in an American school, and after the film was finished, when she decided to move to Paris, she had found this house, just off the rue Jacob. It had been a little gem, on a private courtyard, with a lovely garden behind it. The house had been just big enough for them, and had endless charm. The children's rooms and the nanny had been on the top floor with oeil de boeuf windows and a mansard roof. Her room on the floor below it had been worthy of Marie Antoinette, with huge, high ceilings, long French windows that looked out over the garden, eighteenth-century floors and boiseries, and a pink marble fireplace that worked. She had an office and a dressing room near her bedroom, and a huge tub where she took bubble baths with Chloe, or relaxed on her own. On the main floor there was a double living room, a dining room and kitchen, and an entrance to the garden, where they ate in spring and summer. It was an absolute beauty of a house, built in the eighteenth century for some courtesan or other. She had never learned its full history, but one could easily imagine it being very romantic. And it had been for her as well.

She found the house easily, and walked into the courtyard, as the doors were open. She stood looking up at her old bedroom windows, and wondered who lived there now, if they were happy, if it had been a good home for them, if their dreams had come true there. She had been happy there for two years, and then at the end very sad. She had left Paris with a heavy heart. Just thinking back to that time, she could feel the weight of it even now. It was like opening a door she had kept sealed for the past fifteen years, and remembering the smells and sounds and feelings, the thrill of being there with her children, of making new discoveries, and establishing a new life, and then leaving finally to go back to the States. It had been a hard decision to make, and a sad time for her. She still wondered at times if she had made the right decision, if things would have been different if they'd stayed. But standing here now, she somehow felt she had done the right thing, for her kids, if nothing else. And maybe even for herself. Even fifteen years later it was hard to know.

She realized now that this was why she had come. To figure it out again, to be sure she had been right. Once she knew that, in her soul, she would have some of the answers she needed for the book. She was traveling backward on the map of her life, before she could tell what had happened. Even if the book was fictionalized, she needed to know the truth first, before she could spin it into a tale. She knew too that she had avoided these answers for a long time, but she was feeling braver now.

She walked slowly out of the courtyard with her head down, and bumped into a man walking through the gates. He looked startled to see her, and she apologized to him in French. He nodded, and walked on.

Carole walked around the Left Bank after that, looking into antiques shops. She stopped at the bakery where she used to take the children, and bought “macarons,” which she carried out in a little bag, and ate as she walked. The neighborhood was filled with bittersweet memories for her, which rushed over her like an ocean at high tide, but it wasn't a bad feeling. It reminded her of so much, and suddenly she wanted to go back to the hotel and write. She knew what direction the book should take now, and where she should start. She wanted to rewrite the beginning, and as she thought about it, she hailed a cab. She had been walking for nearly three hours, and it was already dark.

She gave the driver the address of the Ritz, and they headed toward the Right Bank, as she sat back in the cab, thinking about her old house, and the things she'd seen that afternoon as she walked. This was the first time she had wandered around Paris and allowed herself to think of those things since she left. It had been different when she'd come here with Sean, and the avalanche of grief she'd experienced when she'd come to close the house with Stevie. She had hated to give it up, but there was no point in keeping it. Los Angeles was too far away, she was working on one film after another back to back, and she no longer had any reason to come to Paris. That chapter was over for her. So she sold the house a year after she left. She flew in for two days, told Stevie what to do, and then went back to

L.A. She hadn't lingered that time, but now she had nothing but time on her hands. And the memories didn't frighten her anymore. After fifteen years, they were too far back to do her any harm. Or maybe she was just ready now. Having lost Sean, she could face other losses in her life. Sean had taught her that.

She was lost in thought as they drove into the tunnel just before the Louvre, and got stuck in traffic. She didn't care. Carole was in no hurry to go anywhere. She was tired from the trip, the time difference, and her long walk. She was planning to eat an early dinner in her room, and work on her book before she went to bed.

She was thinking about the book as they advanced in the tunnel a few feet, and then came to a dead stop. It was rush-hour traffic, with people going home, others going out. At that hour Paris traffic was always bad. She glanced into the car next to her, and saw two young men in the front seat, laughing, and honking their horn at the car in front. Another young man stuck his head out of that car, and waved back at them. They were having a ball, and laughing hysterically about something, which even made Carole smile. They looked Moroccan or North African, and were dark skinned in a beautiful café au lait color, and in the backseat of the car next to her was a boy in his late teens, not sharing in their laughter. He looked nervous and unhappy about something, and for a long moment, his eyes met Carole's. It was almost as though he was frightened, and she felt sorry for him. The traffic in her own lane stayed stationary, but the lane next to her moved forward finally. The boys in the front seat were still laughing, and as they pulled away, the boy in the backseat jumped out of the car and began running. Carole was watching, fascinated by him as he ran backward through the tunnel and vanished, and just as he disappeared, she heard a truck backfire somewhere ahead of them. As she heard it, she saw both cars with the laughing young men turn into fireballs, as the entire tunnel reverberated with a series of explosions and she could see a wall of fire move toward them. Her mind told her to get out of the car and run, but almost as she thought the words, the cab door flew open and she could feel herself flying over cars, as though she had suddenly grown wings. All she could see was fire around her, the cab she had been in had disappeared, pulverized into oblivion along with other cars near them. It was like being in a dream then, she could see cars and people disappearing beneath her, other people were flying just like she was, and then she drifted gently down into total blackness.

Chapter 3

There were dozens of fire trucks outside the tunnel near the Louvre for hours. The CRS, the riot troops, had been called in, in full battle dress, with shields and helmets, carrying machine guns. The street had been closed off. Ambulances, the SAMU, and fleets of paramedics had arrived. The police were controlling onlookers and pedestrians, while the bomb squads looked for more bombs that had not exploded. And inside the tunnel there was a raging inferno, as cars continued to explode from the fire, and it was almost impossible to get people out. Bodies littered the tunnel floor, survivors moaned, and those who could walk, run, or crawl emerged, many with their hair and clothes on fire. It was a total nightmare, as news teams arrived for coverage of the scene, and to interview survivors. Most were in a state of shock. As yet, no known terrorist group had taken responsibility for it, but from everything people who'd been in the tunnel had described, it had clearly been a bomb, and more likely several.

It was after midnight when firemen and police told reporters they believed they had gotten all the survivors. There were still bodies trapped in vehicles, or among the wreckage and debris, but it would be several more hours before they could put out the fire, and extricate the bodies. Two firemen had died in the blaze, trying to rescue people, when yet more cars exploded, and several rescuers had been overcome by fumes and flames, as had paramedics who were trying to assist people, or tend to them where they were trapped. Women, children, men had died. It was a spectacle beyond belief, and many were brought out alive but unconscious. Victims were being sent to any of four hospitals, where additional medical personnel had been brought in to help them. Two burn centers were already overcrowded, and people burned less severely were being sent to a special unit on the outskirts of Paris. The rescue efforts had been extraordinary and impressively coordinated, as one of the newscasters said, but there was only so much they could do in the wake of an attack of that nature. It had presumably been done by terrorists, and the force of the bombs used had even taken out sections of the walls of the tunnel. It was hard to believe that anyone had survived, when one saw the fierce blackness of the smoke, and the fire still raging in the tunnel.

In the end, Carole had landed in a little alcove of the tunnel, which, by sheer luck, had protected her as the fire advanced. She had been one of the first to be found by the firefighters who went in. She had a gash on one cheek, a broken arm, burns on both arms and near the cut on her cheek, and a major head injury. When they brought her out on a gurney and turned her over to the SAMU, manned by doctors as well as paramedics, she was unconscious. They rapidly assessed her injuries, intubated her to keep her breathing, and sent her to La Pitié Salpêtrière hospital, where the worst cases were being taken. Her burns were far less severe than many of the others they'd seen. But the head injury was life threatening. She was in a deep coma. They checked her for some kind of identification, and found none. She had nothing in her pockets, not even money. But her pockets would have been emptied by the force of her flight through the air. And if she'd had a handbag, she'd lost it when she was blown out of whatever vehicle she was in. She was an unidentified victim, a Jane Doe in a terrorist attack in Paris. There was absolutely nothing on her to identify her, not even a key to her room at the Ritz. And her passport was on her desk at the hotel.

She left the scene in an ambulance, code blue, with another unconscious survivor who had come out of the tunnel naked, with third-degree burns across his entire body. Paramedics tended to them both, but it seemed unlikely that either patient would be alive when they got to La Pitié. The burn victim died in the ambulance. Carole was still alive, though barely, when they rushed her inside to the trauma unit. A team was standing by, waiting for the first casualties to arrive. The first two ambulances had already shown up with dead bodies.

The female doctor in charge of the trauma unit looked grim as she examined Carole. The cut on Carole's cheek was a nasty one, the burns on her arms were second degree, the one on her face seemed minor compared to the rest of her injuries. They called in an orthopedist to set her arm, but it had to wait until they assessed the damage to her head. CT scans had to be done immediately, and her heart stopped before they could even start them. The cardiac team worked on her frantically, and got her heart going again, and then her blood pressure dropped dramatically. There were eleven people working on her, as other victims were brought in, but for the moment Carole was one of the worst. A neurosurgeon came in to examine her, and they were finally able to get the CT scans done. He decided to wait to do surgery, she wasn't stable enough to survive it. They cleaned up her burns, her arm was set, she stopped breathing on her own, and they put her on a respirator. It was morning before things calmed down in the trauma unit, and the neurosurgeon evaluated her again. Their main concern was swelling to her brain, and it was difficult to assess how hard she had hit the wall or pavement in the tunnel, or how great the damage would be later on, if she survived. He still didn't want to operate, and the head of the trauma unit agreed with him. If surgery could be avoided, they preferred it, in order not to add to her trauma. Carole was holding on to her life by a thread.

“Is her family here?” the doctor asked, looking grim. He assumed they would want her to have last rites. Most of the families did.

“No family. We have no ID on her,” the head of the trauma unit explained, and he nodded. There were several unidentified patients at La Pitié that night. Sooner or later, families or friends would look for them, and their identities would be known. It was irrelevant at this point. They were getting the best possible care the city could provide, no matter who they were. They were bodies that had been shattered by a bomb. He had already seen three children die that night, within moments of being brought in, all three burned beyond recognition. The terrorists had done a dastardly thing. The surgeon said he'd be back to check on Carole in an hour. She was in the réanimation section of the trauma unit in the meantime, getting the attention of a full team, which was trying desperately to keep her alive and her vital signs stable. She was literally hovering between life and death. The only thing that seemed to have saved her was the alcove she'd been blown into, which had provided an air pocket for her, and a shield against the fire. Otherwise, like so many others, she would have been burned alive.

The neurosurgeon went to get some sleep at noon, on a gurney in a closet. They were treating forty-two patients from the bombing in the tunnel. In all, police at the scene had reported ninety-eight people injured, and they had counted seventy-one bodies so far, and there were still more inside. It had been a long, ugly night.

The doctor was surprised to find Carole still alive when he came back four hours later. Her condition was the same, the respirator was still breathing for her, but another CT scan showed that the swelling to her brain had not worsened, which was a major plus. The worst of her injury seemed to be located in the brain stem. She had sustained a Diffuse Axonal Injury, with minor tears from severe shaking of her brain. And there was no way to assess yet what the long-term effect of it would be. Her cerebrum had also been impacted, which could ultimately compromise her muscles and memory.

The gash on her cheek had been stitched up, and as the neurosurgeon looked at her, he commented to the doctor checking her that she was a good-looking woman. He knew he'd never seen her before, but there was something familiar about her face. He guessed her to be about forty or forty-five years old at most. He was surprised that no one had come looking for her. It was still early. If she lived alone, it could take days for anyone to realize that she was missing. But people didn't stay unidentified forever.

The following day was Saturday, and the trauma unit teams continued to work around the clock. They were able to shift some patients to other units of the hospital, and several were moved by ambulance to special burn centers. Carole remained listed among their most severely injured patients, along with others like her in other hospitals in Paris.

On Sunday her condition grew worse, as she developed a fever, which was to be expected. Her body was in shock, and she was still fighting for her life.

The fever lasted until Tuesday, and then finally subsided. The swelling of her brain improved slightly, as they continued to watch her closely. But she was no nearer to consciousness than she had been when she came in. Her head and arms were bandaged, and her left arm was in a cast. Her cut cheek was healing, although it was going to leave a scar. Their worst concern for her continued to be her brain. They were keeping her sedated, due to the respirator, but even without sedation, she was still in a deep coma. There was no way to assess how great the damage would be to her brain long term, or if she would even live. She wasn't out of the woods yet by any means. Far from it.

On Wednesday and Thursday nothing changed, and she continued to cling to life by a thin thread. On Friday, a full week after she came in, the new CT scans they took looked slightly better, which was encouraging. The head of the trauma unit commented then that she was the only Jane Doe who had not been identified yet. No one had come to claim her, which seemed strange. Everyone else, whether dead or alive, had been identified by then.

On the same day, the day maid who cleaned her room made a comment to the head housekeeper at the Ritz. She said that the woman in Carole's suite hadn't slept there all week. Her handbag and passport were there, and her clothes, but the bed had never been used. She had obviously checked in, and then vanished. The housekeeper didn't find it unusual, since guests sometimes did strange things, like rent a room or a suite, to have a clandestine affair, and only appeared sporadically, rarely, or not at all, if things didn't work out as planned. The only thing that seemed odd to her was that the guest's handbag was there, and her passport was on the desk. Clearly, nothing had been touched since she checked in. Just as a formality, she reported it to the front desk. They made note of the fact, but she had booked the room for two weeks, and they had a credit card to guarantee it. Past her reservation date, they would have been concerned. They were well aware of who she was, and perhaps she never intended to use the room, but just keep it available for some unexplained purpose. Movie stars did strange things. She might have been staying somewhere else. There was no reason to link her to the terrorist attack in the tunnel. But they made a note on her account at the front desk (client has not used room since checked in). That information was, of course, not to be shared with the press, or anyone for that matter. They knew better than that. And her disappearance, if it was that, might well have to do with her love life, and a need for discretion, which was sacred to them. Like all fine hotels, they kept many secrets, and their clients were grateful for it.

It was the following Monday when Jason Waterman called Stevie. He was Carole's first husband, and the father of her children. They were on good terms, but didn't speak often. He told Stevie he had tried for a week to reach Carole on her cell phone, and had gotten no response to the messages he left her. And he had had no better luck when he tried her at the house over the weekend.

“She's away,” Stevie explained. She had met him several times, and he was always pleasant to her. She knew Carole had maintained a good relationship with him, because of their children. They had been divorced for eighteen years, although Stevie didn't know the details. It was one of the few things Carole didn't discuss with her. She just knew they had gotten divorced while Carole was making a movie in Paris eighteen years before, and she had stayed in Paris for two years after, with the kids.

“She has her cell phone with her, and it doesn't work when she's abroad. She left almost two weeks ago. I should be hearing from her soon.” Stevie hadn't heard from her either since the morning she'd arrived in Paris, ten days before, but Carole had warned her that she would be out of touch. Stevie assumed she was either floating around, or writing, and didn't want to be disturbed. Stevie wouldn't dream of bothering her, and waited for Carole to contact her when she was ready.

“Do you know where she is?” He sounded concerned.

“Not really. She started out in Paris, but she was going to do some traveling on her own.” He wondered if she had a new romance, but didn't want to ask. It sounded like that to him. “Is anything wrong?” Stevie suddenly wondered about the kids. Carole would want to know immediately if anything had happened to either of them.

“No, it's not important. I'm trying to make plans for Christmas. I know they're planning to spend Thanksgiving with her, but I wasn't sure what her Christmas plans were. I talked to Anthony and Chloe, and they weren't sure either. Someone offered me a house in St. Bart's over New Year's, and I didn't want to screw up her plans with them.” Particularly now, with Sean gone, the holidays with her children meant more to her than ever. And Jason had always been nice about it. Stevie knew he'd remarried briefly, and had two other kids, who now lived in Hong Kong with their mother and were in their teens. Carole had mentioned that he didn't see them often, only a couple of times a year. He was far closer to his children by Carole, and to her.

“I'll tell her to call you as soon as I hear from her. It shouldn't be long now. I expect to hear from her any day.”

“I hope she wasn't in Paris when that bomb went off in the tunnel. What a mess that was.” It had been all over the news in the States too, and an extremist fundamentalist group had finally claimed responsibility for it, which had caused an outcry in the Arab world too, who in no way wanted to be linked to the perpetrators of the attack.

“It looked pretty awful. I saw it on the news. I worried about it at first, but it was the day she got there. I'm sure she was cozily tucked into the hotel after the flight, and nowhere near it.” Long distance travel usually wore her out, and she often stayed in her room and slept the day she arrived.

“Have you tried e-mailing her?” Jason asked.

“Her computer is turned off. She really wanted some time to herself,” Stevie answered matter-of-factly.

“Where's she staying?” he asked, sounding worried. And he was getting Stevie upset too. She had thought of it, but told herself it was ridiculous to worry. She was sure that Carole was fine, but Jason's concern was contagious.

“At the Ritz,” Stevie said quickly.

“I'll call her, and leave a message.”

“She might be traveling, so you may not get an answer for a couple of days. I'm not too worried yet.”

“It can't hurt to leave her a message. Besides, I need to know about this house, or I'll lose it. And I don't want to take it unless the kids want to come down. It might be fun for them.”

“I'll let her know if she calls me,” Stevie assured him.

“I'll see if I can catch her at the Ritz. Thanks.” He hung up then, and Stevie sat at the desk in her office, thinking about it. It seemed so unlikely that anything had happened to Carole, that Stevie was determined not to worry. What were the odds that she had been in the terrorist attack? About one in a hundred million. Stevie forced it out of her mind as she went back to work on a project she'd been doing, gathering information for Carole for some of her women's rights work. With Carole away, it was a good time for Stevie to catch up. The research she was doing was for a speech Carole was planning to make at the UN.

As soon as he hung up, Jason called the Ritz in Paris, and asked for Carole's room. They put him on hold, while they called her room to announce the call. She always had her calls screened by any hotel she was in. They came back on the line then, said she wasn't in her room, and referred him to the front desk, which was unusual. He decided to stay on the line and see what they had to say. A desk clerk asked him to wait for a moment, and then an assistant manager with a British accent came on and asked Jason who he was. The call was getting stranger by the minute, and he didn't like it.

“My name is Jason Waterman, I'm Miss Barber's ex-husband. And I'm a long-standing client of the Ritz. Is something wrong?” He was beginning to have a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he wasn't sure why. “Is Miss Barber all right?”

“I'm sure she is, sir. And this is rather unusual, but we've had a note from the head housekeeper about her room. These things happen, and she may be traveling, or actually staying somewhere else. But she hasn't used her room since she checked in. Normally, I wouldn't mention it, but the housekeeper was concerned. Apparently all of her things are there, as well as her handbag, and her passport is on the desk. There's been no sign of activity in the room for nearly two weeks.” He spoke in a hushed voice, as though divulging a secret.

“Shit,” Jason blurted out. “Has anyone seen her?”

“Not that I'm aware of, sir. Is there anyone you'd like us to call?” This was very unusual. Hotels like the Ritz did not tell people who called that the guest they were calling hadn't used their room in two weeks. Jason knew they must have been worried too.

“Yes, there is,” Jason answered his question. “This probably sounds crazy, but could you check with the police, or the hospitals where the victims of the tunnel attack were taken, and just make sure there are no unidentified victims, either dead or alive?” It made him sick to say it, but he was suddenly worried about her. He still loved her, always had, she was the mother of his kids, and they were good friends. He just hoped nothing terrible had happened. And if it wasn't the tunnel attack, he had no idea where the hell she was. Stevie probably knew more than he did, and didn't want to divulge secrets. Maybe she'd been meeting some guy in Paris, or elsewhere in Europe. She was, after all, single again now, since Sean's death. But then why hadn't she used her room, or at least taken her passport and handbag? These things didn't happen, he told himself. But sometimes they did. He hoped she was shacked up somewhere, with a new romance, and not in a hospital, or worse. “Would you mind calling around?” he asked the assistant manager, who immediately promised that he would.

“Would you be kind enough to leave me your number, sir?” Jason gave it to him. It was one o'clock in New York, and just after seven at night in Paris. He didn't expect to hear from him till the next day. He hung up, feeling uneasy, and sat at his desk, staring at the phone for a long time, thinking of her. His secretary told him the Hotel Ritz in Paris was on the line twenty minutes later. It was the same clipped British voice he'd spoken to before.

“Yes? Could you find anything out?” Jason asked, sounding tense.

“I believe so, sir, although it may not be her. There is a victim of the bombing who was taken to La Pitié Salpêtrière hospital. She is blond, approximately forty to forty-five years old. She is unidentified and has not been claimed.” He made her sound like lost luggage, and Jason's voice was a croak when he spoke.

“Is she alive?” He was terrified of the answer.

“She's in the intensive care unit, in critical condition, with a head injury. She's the only unidentified victim of the bombing they have left. She also has a broken arm, and second-degree burns.” Jason felt sick as he listened. “She's in a coma, which is why they've been unable to identify her. There's no reason to believe it's Miss Barber, sir. I would think someone would have recognized her even in France, since she's known worldwide. This woman is probably French.”

“Not necessarily. Maybe her face is burned. Or maybe they just didn't expect to see her there. Or maybe it's not her. I hope to God it's not.” Jason sounded near tears.

“So do I,” the assistant manager said in a gentle voice. “What would you like me to do, sir? Should I send someone over from the hotel to have a look?”

“I'll fly over. I can catch the six o'clock flight. That will get me to Paris around seven A.M., and the hospital about eight-thirty tomorrow morning. Could you book me a room?” His mind was racing. He wished he could get there sooner, but he knew there was no earlier flight. He went to Paris often, and it was the flight he always took.

“I'll take care of it, sir. I truly hope it's not Miss Barber.”

“Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow.” Jason sat at his desk then, feeling stunned. It couldn't be. This couldn't have happened to her. It didn't bear thinking. He didn't know what to do, so he called Stevie back in

L.A. and told her what he'd heard from the assistant manager at the Ritz. “Oh my God. Please God, tell me that's not Carole,” Stevie said in a strangled voice.

“I hope to hell it's not. I'm going over to see for myself. If you hear from her, call me. And don't say anything to the kids if they call. I'll tell Anthony I'm going to Chicago, or Boston or something. I don't want to say anything to them until we know,” Jason told her firmly.

“I'll fly over,” Stevie said, sounding frantic. The last place she wanted to be now was in L.A. On the other hand, if Carole was fine, Carole was going to think they were all nuts, when she and Jason walked in, as she arrived back at the Ritz from Budapest, or Vienna, or wherever she'd been. She was probably fine, and floating around in Europe somewhere, having a good time, with no idea that anyone was worried about her.

“Why don't you wait till I see what I find out there. The guy at the hotel is right, it may not be her. They probably would have recognized her if it is.”

“I don't know. She looks pretty simple without makeup and fancy hair. And they probably don't expect an American movie star to show up in a trauma unit in Paris. It may not have occurred to them.” Stevie also wondered if her face had been burned, which would explain their not recognizing her.

“They can't be that stupid, for chrissake. She's one of the best-known female stars on the planet, even in France,” Jason snapped.

“I guess you're right,” Stevie said, sounding unconvinced. But then again, he wasn't convinced either, or he wouldn't be going there. They were just trying to reassure each other, without much success.

“I won't get there till ten tonight your time,” Jason told Stevie, “and I probably won't know anything for another couple of hours after that. I'll go straight to the hospital from the airport and see her as soon as I can. But it'll be midnight for you by then.”

“Call me anyway. I'll stay up, and if I fall asleep, I'll keep my cell phone in my hand.” She gave him the number, and he took it, and promised to call her when he got to the hospital in Paris. After that, he told his secretary to cancel his appointments for that afternoon and the next day. He told her what he was doing, but warned her not to mention it to either of his children. The official version was that he had to go to an emergency meeting in Chicago. And five minutes later he left his office and hailed a cab. He was at his apartment on the Upper East Side twenty minutes later, and threw his clothes into a suitcase. It was two o'clock, and he had to leave the city at three for a six o'clock plane.

The next hour was agony as he waited to leave. And it was worse once he got to the airport. There was a surreal quality to all of it, he was going to see a woman in a coma in a Paris hospital, and praying it wouldn't be his ex-wife. They had been divorced for eighteen years, and he had known for the last fourteen that leaving her had been the biggest mistake of his life. He had left her for a twenty-one-year-old Russian model, who had turned out to be the biggest gold-digger on the planet. He had been madly in love with her at the time. Carole had been at the height of her career, doing two and three movies a year. She was always on location somewhere, or promoting a film. He was the whiz kid of Wall Street then, but his success was small potatoes compared to hers. She had won two Oscars in the two years before he left her, and it got to him. She'd been a good wife, but he realized later on that his ego had been too fragile to survive that kind of competition. He needed to feel like a big deal himself, and in the face of Carole's stardom, he never did. So he fell in love with Natalya, who appeared to worship him, and then took him to the cleaners, and left him for someone else.

The Russian model was the worst thing that had ever happened to them, and to him surely. She was staggeringly beautiful, and she'd gotten pregnant weeks after they started their affair. He'd left Carole for her, and married Natalya before the ink was dry on the divorce. She'd had another baby the following year, and then left him for a man with a lot more money than Jason had at the time. She'd had two husbands since, and was now living in Hong Kong, married to one of the most important financiers in the world. Jason hardly knew his two daughters. They were as beautiful as their mother, and virtually strangers to him, despite his visits to them twice a year. Natalya wouldn't let them come to the States to visit, and the New York courts had no jurisdiction over her whatsoever. She was a bitch on wheels, and screwed him over royally in the divorce, a year after Carole and the kids came back from Paris, and moved to L.A. Although Carole had lived in New York with him, while they were married, she had decided to go to Los Angeles. Her work was there, and it seemed like a fresh start after Paris. And after Natalya left, he had tried to go back to Carole. But it was too late. She wanted nothing to do with him by then. He'd been forty-one when he fell in love with Natalya, and having some kind of insane midlife crisis. And at forty-five, when he realized what a mistake he'd made, and what a mess he'd made of his life and Carole's, it was way too late. She told him it was over for her.

It had taken her several years to forgive him, and they didn't actually make friends again until after she married Sean. She was happy finally. And Jason had never married again. At fifty-nine, he was successful, and alone, and considered Carole one of his best friends. And never in his life would he forget the look on her face when he told her he was leaving her, eighteen years before. She looked as though he had shot her. He had relived that moment a thousand times since, and knew he'd never forgive himself. All he wanted now was to know that she was alive and well, and not lying in a hospital in Paris. As he boarded the plane that night, he knew he loved her more than ever. He actually prayed on the flight over, something he hadn't done since he was a boy. He was willing to make any deal he could with God, just so the woman in the Paris hospital wasn't Carole. And if it was, that she would survive.

Jason sat wide awake for the entire flight, thinking about her. Remembering when Anthony had been born, and then Chloe … the day he'd met her … how beautiful she had been at twenty-two, and was even now, twenty-eight years later. They had had ten wonderful years together, until he screwed it up with Natalya. He couldn't even imagine what that must have felt like to Carole. She'd been working on a major movie in Paris when he flew over and told her. It had been a flight like tonight, he'd had a mission then, to end their marriage so he could marry Natalya. And now he was praying for her life. He looked haggard and anxious as the plane landed in a driving rain at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris just before seven A.M. Paris time, the flight had come in a few minutes early. Jason had his passport in his hand as they landed. He couldn't stand the suspense any longer. All he wanted was to get to the hospital as fast as possible and see the unidentified bombing victim for himself.

Chapter 4

Jason had brought nothing more to Paris than his briefcase and a small overnight bag. He had hoped to distract himself with work to do on the plane, but he had never touched his briefcase, and couldn't have concentrated on his papers. All he thought about that night was his ex-wife.

The plane touched down at 6:51 A.M. in Paris, local time, and parked far out on a distant runway. Passengers came down the stairs in the pouring rain to a waiting bus, and then lumbered and lurched toward the terminal, while Jason stood impatiently, desperate to get into town. With no luggage checked, he was in a cab at seven-thirty, and asked the driver in halting French to take him to the Pitié Salpêtrière hospital, where the unidentified woman was. He knew it was on the Boulevard de l'Hôpital, in the thirteenth arrondissement, and he had written it down so there would be no mistake. He handed the slip of paper to the driver, who nodded and said, “Good. Understand,” in a heavy French accent, which was no better or worse than Jason's French.

The ride to the hospital took nearly an hour, as Jason fretted in the backseat, telling himself that the woman he was about to see probably wasn't Carole, and he'd wind up having breakfast at the Ritz, and run into her when she got back. He knew how independent she was now. She always had been, but she was even more so since Sean had died. He knew she traveled frequently to world conferences on women's rights, and had gone on several missions with groups from the UN. But he had no idea what she'd been doing in France. Whatever it was, he hoped it hadn't taken her anywhere near the tunnel at the time of the terrorist attack. With any luck at all, she had been somewhere else. But if so, what were her passport and handbag doing on her desk at the Ritz? Why had she gone out without them? If anything happened to her, no one would know who she was.

He knew how she loved her anonymity, and the ability to roam around freely without fans recognizing her. It was easier for her in Paris, but not much. Carole Barber was recognized everywhere in the world, which was the only thing that encouraged him to believe that the woman at the Pitié Salpêtrière hospital couldn't possibly be her. How could they not recognize that face? It was unthinkable unless something had rendered her unrecognizable. A thousand terrifying thoughts were running through his head, as the cab finally pulled up in front of the hospital. Jason paid the fare with a generous tip, and got out. He looked like exactly what he was, a distinguished American businessman. He was wearing a dark gray English suit, a navy blue cashmere topcoat, and an extremely expensive gold watch. He was still a handsome man at fifty-nine.

“Merci!” the cabdriver shouted at him from the window, giving him a thumbs-up for the good tip. “Bonne chance!” He wished him luck. The look on Jason Waterman's face told him he would need it. People didn't go from the airport straight to a hospital, particularly this one, unless something bad had happened. The driver could figure out that much. And Jason's eyes and worn face told him the rest. He looked like he needed a shave, a shower, and some rest. But not yet.

Jason strode into the hospital carrying his bag, hoping someone spoke enough English to help him out. The assistant manager at the Ritz had given him the name of the head of the trauma unit, and Jason stopped to speak to a young woman at the front desk, and showed her the slip of paper where he'd written her name. She answered in rapid French, and Jason let her know that he didn't understand, nor speak French. She pointed to the elevator behind her and held up three fingers as she said the words “Troisième étage.” Third floor. “Réanimation,” she added. It didn't sound good to him. It was the French term for ICU. Jason thanked her and walked to the elevator in long, quick strides. He wanted to get this over with. He was feeling extremely stressed and could feel his heart pound. There was no one in the elevator with him, and when he got out on three, he looked around, feeling lost. A sign pointed to “Réanimation.” He headed toward the sign, remembering that that was the word the girl had said downstairs, and he found himself at the front desk of a busy unit, with medical personnel scurrying everywhere, and lifeless-looking patients in cubicles all around the room. There were machines buzzing and whirring, beeps from monitors, people moaning, and a hospital smell that turned his stomach after the long flight.

“Does anyone here speak English?” he asked in a firm voice, while the woman he spoke to looked blank. “Anglais. Parlez-vous anglais?”

“Engleesh… one minute…” She spoke a mixture of English and French, and went to find someone for him. A doctor in a white coat appeared, a woman in hospital pajamas with a shower cap on and a stethoscope around her neck. She was about Jason's age, and her English was good, which was a relief. He was suddenly afraid that no one would understand what he said, and worse yet, he wouldn't understand them.

“May I help you?” she asked in a clear voice. He asked for the woman who was the head of the trauma unit, and the doctor at hand said she wasn't there, but offered her assistance instead. Jason explained why he had come, and forgot to add the ex before the word wife.

She looked him over carefully. He was well dressed, and looked like a respectable man. And he looked worried sick. Fearing that he must look more than a little crazed, he explained that he had just gotten off the flight from New York. But she seemed to understand. He explained that his wife had disappeared from her hotel, and he was afraid she might be their Jane Doe.

“How long ago?”

“I'm not sure. I was in New York. She arrived the day of the terrorist attack in the tunnel. No one has seen her since, and she hasn't gone back to the hotel.”

“That is almost two weeks,” she said, as though wondering why it had taken him so long to figure out that his wife had disappeared. It was too late to explain that they were divorced, since he had referred to her as his wife, and maybe it was better this way. He wasn't sure what kind of rights ex-husbands had in France as next of kin, probably none, like anywhere else.

“She was traveling, and this may not be her. I hope it's not. I flew over to see.” She seemed to approve of that and nodded at him, and then said something to the nurse at the desk, who pointed to a room with a closed door.

The doctor beckoned Jason to follow her, which he did. She opened the door to the room, and he couldn't see the patient in the bed. She was surrounded by machines, and there were two nurses standing next to her, blocking his view. He could hear the whoosh of the respirator and the whir of machines. There seemed to be a ton of apparatus in the room as the doctor led him in. He felt like an intruder suddenly, a medical voyeur. He was about to view someone who might not be anyone he knew. But he had to see her. He had to be sure she wasn't Carole. He owed this to her, and their kids, even if it seemed like a crazy thing to do. It did, even to him, like the far extremes of paranoia, or maybe just guilt. He walked behind the doctor, and saw a still figure lying there, with a respirator in her mouth, her nose taped shut, and her head tilted back. She was completely still, and her face was deathly pale. The bandage on her head looked huge, there was another on her face, and a cast on her arm, and at the angle he approached her, it was hard to see her face. He took another step forward to get a better look, and then caught his breath as tears filled his eyes. It was Carole.

His worst nightmare had just come true. He stepped up close to her, and touched the fingers sticking out of the cast, which were black and blue. Nothing moved. She was in another world, far from them, and looked as though she would never return. There were tears running down his cheeks as he stood and looked at her. The worst had happened. She was the unidentified victim from the tunnel bombing. The woman he had once loved and still did was fighting for her life in Paris, and had been there, alone, for almost two weeks, while none of them had any idea what had happened to her. Jason looked stricken as he turned to the doctor.

“It's her,” he whispered, as the nurses stared at him. It had been clear to all of them that he had identified her.

“I'm sorry,” the doctor said in a soft voice, and then gestured to him to follow her outside. “It is your wife?” she asked, no longer needing confirmation. His tears spoke for themselves. He looked destroyed. “We had no way to identify her,” the doctor explained. “She had no papers, nothing on her, nothing with a name.”

“I know. She left her bag and passport at the hotel. She does that sometimes, goes out without her purse.” She always had. She stuffed a ten-dollar bill in her pocket and went out. She had done it years before when they lived in New York, although he'd always told her to carry ID. This time the worst had happened, and no one knew who she was, which still seemed hard for him to believe. “She's an actress, a well-known movie star,” he said, although it didn't matter now. She was a woman with a major head injury in the ICU, nothing more. The doctor looked intrigued by what he'd said.

“She is a movie star?” She looked stunned.

“Carole Barber,” he said, knowing the impact it would have. The doctor looked instantly shocked.

“Carole Barber? We did not know.” She was visibly impressed.

“It would be nice if the press doesn't find out. My children don't know. I don't want them to hear about it like that. I want to at least call them first.”

“Of course,” the doctor said, realizing what was about to happen to them. They would have cared for her no differently than they had, but now, when word got out that she was there, they would be besieged by the press. It was going to make life difficult for them. It had been a lot easier while she was just a Jane Doe, a victim of the attack. Having one of America's biggest movie stars in their réanimation unit was going to make life hell for everyone. “It will be very hard to keep the press away, once they know,” she said, looking concerned. “Perhaps we can use her married name.”

“Waterman,” he supplied. “Carole Waterman.” Once upon a time that had been the truth. She had never taken Sean's name, which was Clarke. They could have used that too, and he realized that she might have preferred it. But what did it matter now? All that mattered was her life. “Is she… is she… will she be all right?” He couldn't say the words, and ask if she was going to die. But it looked like a strong possibility. Carole looked terrible to him, and nearly dead.

“We don't know. Brain injuries are very hard to predict. She is doing better than she was, and the brain scans are good. The swelling is going down. But we cannot tell how damaged she will be until she wakes up. If she continues to do well, we will take her off the respirator soon. Then she must breathe for herself, and she must awaken from the coma. Until then, we cannot know how much damage there is, or the long-term effects. She will need re-education, but we are not there yet. We are a long way from it. She is still in danger. The risk of infection, complications, and her brain could swell again. She suffered a very serious blow to her head. She was very lucky not to be more badly burned, and her arm will heal. Her head is our greatest concern.” He couldn't even imagine telling the kids, but they had to know. Chloe had to come from London, and Anthony from New York. They had a right to see their mother, and he knew they'd want to be with her. And what if she died? He couldn't stand thinking about it, as he met the doctor's eyes again.

“Should she be anywhere else? Is there anything else that can be done?”

The doctor looked offended. “We have done it all, even before we knew who she was. That means nothing to us. Now we must wait. Time will tell us what we need to know, if she survives.” She wanted to remind him that her survival was not a sure thing yet. It was only fair to him.

“Did she have surgery?”

The doctor shook her head again. “No. We decided it was wiser not to traumatize her further, and the swelling came down on its own. We took a conservative approach, which I think was best for her.” Jason nodded, relieved. At least they hadn't cut into her brain. It gave him hope that she'd be herself again one day. It was all they could hope for now, and if not, they'd face that when the time came, as they would her death, if that happened. It was an overwhelming thought.

“What are you planning to do now?” he asked, wanting to take action. It wasn't his style to just sit around.

“Wait. There's nothing else we can do. We will know more in the coming days.” He nodded, looking around him at how grim the hospital was. He had heard of the American Hospital of Paris, and wondered if they could get her transferred there, but the assistant manager at the hotel had already told him that this was the best place for her to be, if it was indeed her. Their trauma unit was excellent, and she would get the best possible medical care for a case as serious as this apparently was.

“I'm going to go to the hotel and call my children, and then I'll come back this afternoon. If anything happens, you can reach me at the Ritz.” He gave her his international cell phone number as well, and they put it on Carole's chart with his name. She had a name now even if it wasn't really hers. Carole Waterman. She had a husband and children. But she also had a famous identity that was bound to leak out. The doctor said she would only tell the head of the trauma unit who Carole really was, but they both knew that it was only a matter of time before the press found out. They always did, with things like this. It was amazing no one had recognized her so far. But if someone talked, the press would arrive in swarms, and life would be hell for all of them.

“We'll do our best to keep it quiet,” she assured him.

“So will I. I'll be back this afternoon … and … thank you … for everything you've done so far.” They had kept her alive. That was something. He couldn't even imagine what it would have been like to see her in a Paris morgue and identify her body. It had come close to that, from everything the doctor said. She had been lucky after all. “May I see her again?” he asked, and this time he went to the room alone. The nurses were still there, and stepped aside so he could approach her bed. He stood looking down at her, and this time touched her cheek. The tubes from the respirator covered her face, and he saw the bandage on her cheek and wondered how bad the damage was. The slight burn beside it was already healing, and her arm was covered in salve. “I love you, Carole,” he whispered. “You're going to be all right. I love you. Chloe and Anthony love you. You need to wake up soon.” There was no sign of life from the bed, and the nurses looked discreetly away. It was hard for them to watch, there was so much pain in his eyes. He bent to kiss her cheek then, and remembered the familiar softness of her face. Even all these years later, that hadn't changed. Her hair was fanned out behind her on the bed under the bandage. One of the nurses had brushed it for her, and commented on how beautiful it was, like pale yellow silk.

Seeing her brought back so many memories, all of them good. The bad ones were forgotten now, and had been for a long time. For him anyway. He and Carole never talked about the past when they spoke. They only referred to the kids, or their current lives. He had been very kind to her when Sean died, he felt sorry for her. It was a tough break for her. She had married a man five years younger than she was, and he had died a young man. Jason had come out for the funeral, and been very supportive to her and the kids. And now here she was, fighting for her own life, two years after Sean had died. Life was strange, and cruel at times. But she was still alive. She had a chance. It was the best news he could give their children. He dreaded telling them. “I'll be back later,” he whispered to Carole as he kissed her again, and the respirator breathed rhythmically for her. “I love you, Carole. You're going to get well,” he said with a decisive look, and then walked out of the room, fighting back tears. He had to be strong, for her, and for Anthony and Chloe. No matter how he felt.

He left the hospital and walked to the nearby Gare d'Austerlitz in the pouring rain. He was soaked by the time he found a cab, and gave the driver the address of the Ritz. He looked as grim as he felt, as though he'd aged a hundred years in one day. She didn't deserve what had happened to her. No one did. And Carole least of all. She was a good woman, a nice person, a great mother, and had been a good wife to two men. One had left her for a tart and the other one had died. And now she was fighting for her life after a terrorist attack. If he had dared, he would have been furious with God, but he didn't dare. He needed His help too much now, and as they drove toward the Place Vendôme in the first arrondissement, he begged God for His help telling the kids. He couldn't even imagine saying the words to them. And then he remembered another call he had to make. He took out his cell phone and dialed L.A. It was almost midnight for Stevie, but he had promised he'd call as soon as he knew.

Stevie answered on the first ring. She was wide awake and had been waiting for his call. It had taken too long, in her opinion, unless his plane had arrived late. She should have heard from him by then if it wasn't Carole. She had been sick with fear for the last hour, and her voice shook when she said hello.

“It's her,” he said, without even identifying himself. She knew.

“Oh my God … how bad is it?” Tears ran instantly down her cheeks.

“It's not good. She's on a respirator, but she's alive. She's in a coma from a head injury. They didn't operate, but she had a hell of a blow. She's still in danger, and they don't know yet how damaged she may be.” He gave it to her straight. He was planning to be gentler with his kids, but Stevie had a right to know the whole truth, and she wouldn't have settled for less.

“Shit. I'll get the first plane out.” But it was a ten-hour flight for her, at best, if the winds were good. And a nine-hour time difference against her. She wouldn't be there till the next day. “Have you told the kids?”

“Not yet. I'm on my way to the hotel. There's nothing you can do. I don't know how much sense it makes for you to come.” She didn't need an assistant right now, and maybe never would again. But Stevie was her friend too. She had been a fixture in their family for years, and his children loved her too, as she loved them. “There's nothing any of us can do,” he said with a tremor in his own voice again.

“I couldn't be anywhere else,” she told him simply.

“Neither could I.” He gave her the name of the hospital and told her he'd see her in Paris tomorrow. “I'll get you a room at the Ritz.”

“I can stay in Carole's room,” Stevie said practically. There was no point paying for another room. “Unless you are,” she said cautiously. She didn't want to intrude.

“I booked my own, and I'll get rooms for the kids. I'll try to get them near Carole's room, so we can be close together. We've got some tough times ahead, and so does she. This is going to be a long road, if she recovers. I can't even imagine what it's going to be like if she doesn't.” He was surprised to realize that he wanted her to live, even if she was severely brain damaged. He didn't care if she was a vegetable after all was said and done, he didn't want her to die, for himself or his kids. They loved her in whatever state she was, and he knew Stevie did too. “I'll see you tomorrow. Have a good trip,” he said, sounding exhausted, and then hung up. Although it was three A.M. for her, he called his secretary at home after that, and told her not to tell his son, but to cancel all the appointments and meetings he had planned. “I won't be back for a while.” He apologized for calling her in the middle of the night, but she said she didn't mind.

“It's Miss Barber then?” his secretary asked, sounding crushed. She was one of Carole's biggest fans, as a person and a star. Carole had always been lovely to her on the phone.

“Yes, it is,” he said, in a grim voice. “I'll call Anthony in a few hours. Don't contact him till then. We're going to have a hell of a mess on our hands when the press find out. I just registered her at the hospital under my name, but that won't last. Sooner or later, word will get out, and you know what that's like.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Waterman,” his secretary said as tears filled her eyes. People all over the world were going to be heartbroken for Carole, and praying for her. Maybe it would help. “Let me know if there is anything I can do.”

“Thank you,” he said, and hung up as they reached the Ritz. He looked up the assistant manager he'd spoken to, at the front desk. He was wearing the formal uniform of the hotel, and met Jason with a sober face.

“I hope you have good news,” he said cautiously, but he could see that Jason didn't. It was written all over his face.

“No, I don't. It was her. We have to keep this as quiet as possible,” he said, slipping two hundred euros into the man's hand. It wasn't necessary, under the circumstances, but was appreciated anyway.

“I understand,” the assistant manager said. And then assured Jason that he would give him a three-bedroom suite across from Carole's. Jason told him Stevie would be arriving the next day, and would stay in Carole's rooms.

Jason followed the assistant manager upstairs. He didn't have the heart to see Carole's room, or the evidence of how alive she'd been so recently. Now she looked nearly dead to him. He walked into his suite behind the assistant manager and collapsed into a chair.

“Is there anything I can get you, sir?” Jason shook his head, and the young Englishman quietly left, as Jason stared miserably at the phone on the desk. He had a brief reprieve but knew that in a few hours, he would have to call Anthony and Chloe. They had to know. She might not even live until they arrived. He had to call them as soon as possible. And he didn't want to call Chloe until Anthony woke up in New York. He waited until seven A.M. New York time. He had showered and paced the room until then. He couldn't eat.

At one P.M. Paris time, with lead feet, he walked to the desk, and called his son first. Anthony was up and about to leave for the office for a breakfast meeting. Jason caught him just in time.

“How's Chicago, Dad?” Anthony sounded young and vital and full of life. He was a great kid, and Jason loved having him work for him. He was hardworking, smart, and kind. He was a lot like Carole, only with his father's keen financial mind. He was going to be a great venture capitalist one day and was learning fast.

“I don't know how Chicago is,” Jason said honestly. “I'm in Paris, and it's not so great.”

“What are you doing there?” Anthony sounded unsuspecting and surprised. He didn't even know his mother had gone away. She had made the decision to leave, right after the last time she talked to him, so he had no idea. He'd been too busy to call her in the past eleven days, which was unusual for him. But he knew she'd understand. He was planning to call her that day.

“Anthony …” He didn't even know where to start, as he took a sharp breath. “There's been an accident. Your mom is over here.”

He feared the worst instantly then. “Is she okay?”

“No, she's not. There was a bombing in a tunnel here two weeks ago. I didn't know until a couple of hours ago that she was a victim of the attack. She's been unidentified until now. I came over last night to check it out. She disappeared from the Ritz the day it happened.”

“Oh God.” Anthony sounded as though a building had just fallen on him. “How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad. She has a brain injury, and she's in a coma.”

“Is she going to be okay?” Anthony was fighting tears and felt about four years old as he asked.

“We hope so. She made it this far, but she's not out of the woods yet. She's on a respirator.” He didn't want their son to be shocked when he saw her. Seeing her on the respirator was overwhelming.

“Shit, Dad … how could this happen?” Jason could hear that his son was crying. They both were.

“Rotten luck. Wrong place at the wrong time. I was praying it wasn't her all the way over. I can't believe they didn't recognize her.”

“Is her face messed up?” If it wasn't, he couldn't imagine that anyone on earth hadn't recognized his mother.

“Not really. She has a cut and a small burn on one side of her face. Nothing a good plastic surgeon won't be able to fix up. Her head injury is the problem. We're just going to have to sit this out.”

“I'm coming over. Have you told Chloe?”

“I called you first. I'm going to call her now. There's a six o'clock flight out of Kennedy, if you can get a seat. It'll get you here tomorrow morning Paris time.”

“I'll be on it.” It was going to be an agonizing day for him, waiting to take the flight. “I'll pack now and leave from the office. See you tomorrow, Dad … and Dad …” His voice broke again as he said the word. “I love you … and tell Mom I love her too.” They were both crying openly by then.

“I already did. You can tell her yourself tomorrow. She needs us now. This is a tough fight for her … I love you too,” Jason said, and they both hung up. Neither of them could talk. The prospect of what might happen was too devastating to both of them.

His next call was to Chloe, which was infinitely worse. She burst into tears and got hysterical as soon as he told her. The good news was that she was only an hour away. When she finally stopped crying, she said she'd be on the next plane. All she wanted now was to see her mom.

At five o'clock that afternoon Jason picked his daughter up at the airport. She was sobbing and in his arms the moment she came through the gate, and they went back to the hospital together. Chloe stood clutching her father's arm, as she looked at her mother and cried when she saw her. It was upsetting for both of them, but at least they had each other. And at nine that night, after talking to the doctor again, they went back to the hotel. There was no change in Carole's condition, but she was holding on. That was something at least.

Chloe cried for hours when they got to the hotel. Jason put her to bed finally, and she fell asleep. He went to the minibar then and poured himself a scotch. He sat drinking it quietly, thinking of Carole, and their children. It was the toughest thing they'd all been through, and all he kept hoping for was that Carole would survive.

He fell asleep on his bed, fully dressed, that night, and woke up at six o'clock the next morning. He showered, shaved, and dressed, and was sitting quietly in the living room of the suite, when Chloe woke up, and came out to find him with her eyes swollen. He could tell that she felt even worse than she looked. She still couldn't believe what had happened to her mom.

They met Anthony's plane at seven o'clock, got his bag, and went back to the hotel for breakfast. Anthony looked somber and exhausted, in blue jeans and a heavy sweater. He needed a shave, but didn't bother. They hung around the room until Stevie arrived at the Ritz at twelve-thirty.

Jason ordered a sandwich for her, and at one o'clock they left for the hospital together. Anthony fought valiantly, but broke down as soon as he saw her. Chloe stood crying quietly with Stevie's arm around her, and all four of them were crying when they left the room. The only comfort they had was hearing that Carole's condition had improved slightly during the night. They were going to take the respirator out that evening, and see how she managed, breathing on her own. It was encouraging, but even that presented a risk. If she failed to breathe without the respirator, they would intubate her again, but if that was the case, it didn't bode well for what lay ahead. Her brain had to be alive enough to tell her body to breathe, and that remained to be seen. Jason looked gray when the doctor mentioned it, and both children looked panicked. Stevie quietly said that she would be there when they took her off the respirator, and both children said they would too. Jason nodded and agreed. It was going to be a crucial moment for Carole, to see if she was able to breathe on her own.

They had dinner at the hotel, though none of them could eat. They were exhausted, jet-lagged, frightened, and overwhelmingly upset. Stevie sat with them, as they stared at their plates without touching the food that was on them, and then they went back to the hospital, for yet another ordeal in the nightmare that was Carole's fight for survival.

There was total silence in the car, as they drove back to La Pitié. They were each lost in their own thoughts and their private memories of Carole. The doctor had explained to them that the part of the brain stem that had been damaged controlled her ability to breathe. And whether or not she breathed on her own would tell them if her brain was repairing. It was going to be a terrifying moment for all of them when the tubes came out of her mouth and they turned off the respirator and waited to see what would happen.

Chloe stared out the window of the car, with silent tears running down her cheeks, as her brother held her hand tightly.

“She's going to be okay,” he whispered to her softly, and she shook her head and turned away. Nothing was okay in their world anymore, and it was hard to believe it would ever be again. Their mother had been a vital force in their lives, and the hub of their existence. Whatever Chloe's differences had been with her, they no longer mattered. All she wanted now was her mommy. And Anthony felt the same. There was something about her being so reduced and in such danger that made them both feel like children. They felt vulnerable and frightened beyond belief. Neither of them could imagine a life without their mother. Nor could Jason.

“She'll do fine, guys,” their father tried to reassure them. He tried to exude a confidence he didn't feel.

“What if she doesn't?” Chloe whispered, as they approached the hospital and passed the now-familiar Austerlitz train station.

“Then they'll put her back on the respirator again until she's ready.” Chloe didn't have the heart to pursue her line of thinking any further. Not out loud at least, she knew the others were just as worried as she was. They were all dreading the moment when the doctor would turn the respirator off. Just thinking about it made Chloe want to scream.

They got out of the car at the hospital, and Stevie followed silently behind them. She had been through a similar experience once before, when her father had open heart surgery. The crucial moment had been unnerving, but he had survived. Carole's case seemed more delicate somehow, with the extent of her brain damage unknown, and what long-term effects it might have. She might never be able to breathe on her own. The group looked gray-faced and wide-eyed as they rode up in the brightly lit elevator to her floor, and filed soundlessly into her room, to wait for the doctor to arrive.

Carole looked about the same, her eyes were closed, and she was breathing rhythmically with the help of the machine. A few minutes later the doctor in charge walked in. They all knew why they were there. The procedure had been explained to them earlier that day, and they watched in terror as a nurse took the sealing tape off Carole's nose. Until then, she could only breathe through the tube in her mouth. But now her nose was open, and after asking them if they were ready, the doctor gestured to the nurse to take the tube out of Carole's mouth, and with a single gesture he turned off the machine. There was a hideously long moment of silence as everyone stared at Carole. There was no sign of breathing, as the doctor took a step toward her, with a brief glance at the nurse, and then Carole began to breathe on her own. Chloe let out a sharp cry of relief and burst into tears, as tears rolled down Jason's cheeks and Anthony choked on a sob. Instinctively, Chloe buried herself in Stevie's arms. Stevie was laughing and crying all at once, as she held Chloe in a tight hug. And even the doctor smiled.

“That's very good news,” he said with a reassuring look. For an instant, he thought she wouldn't do it, and then just as they all began to panic, she did. “Her brain is telling her lungs what to do. It's a very good sign.” They also knew that it was possible for her to stay in a coma forever, even with the ability to breathe on her own. But if she hadn't been able to, her chances of recovery would have been even slimmer than they were now. It was a first step back toward life.

The doctor said that they would be watching her closely through the night to be sure that she continued breathing without assistance, but there was no reason to think that her independent respiration would stop again. With every passing moment, her condition was more stable. There had been no sign of life or movement from the still form in the bed, but they could all see her chest rising and falling gently with each breath. If nothing else, there was still hope.

They all stood around her bed afterward for over an hour, enjoying the victory they'd shared that night. And then Jason finally suggested they go back to the hotel. They had all had enough stress for one day, and he could see that his children needed to rest. Watching the respirator being turned off had been traumatic for each of them. They walked out quietly, and Stevie was the last to leave the room. She stopped for a moment next to the bed and touched Carole's fingers. She was still deep in her coma, and her fingers were cold. Her face looked more familiar now without the breathing tube in her mouth and the tape on her nose. It was the face Stevie had seen so often, and that all her fans knew and loved. But it was more than that to Stevie, it was that of the woman she admired so much, and had been loyal to for so many years.

“That was good, Carole,” Stevie said softly, as she bent to kiss her cheek. “Now be nice, make just a little more effort, and try to wake up. We miss you,” she said, as tears of relief rolled down her cheeks, and she left the room to join the others. All things considered, it had been a very good night, although a hard one.

Chapter 5

The inevitable happened two days after they had all gathered in Paris. Someone, either at the hotel or the hospital, tipped off the press. Within hours there were dozens of photographers outside the hospital, and half a dozen of the most enterprising ones sneaked upstairs and were stopped at the door to her room. Stevie stepped into the hallway from Carole's room, and in language worthy of a sailor, she stopped them cold, and had them thrown out. But from then on, all hell broke loose.

The hospital moved Carole to another room, and posted a security guard outside. But it complicated things for all of them, and made things even harder for the family. Photographers lay in wait for them at the hotel, and stood outside the hospital. There were TV cameras in both places, and flashes in their faces whenever they went in or out. It was a familiar scene for all of them. Carole had always shielded her children from the public, but Carole Barber in a coma, as the victim of a terrorist attack, was world news. There was no hiding from the press this time. They just had to live with it, and make the best of it. The best news of all was that Carole was breathing on her own. She was still unconscious, but they had taken her off sedation, and the doctors were hoping she would show some sign of life soon. If not, it had long-term implications that none of them wanted to face yet. In the meantime, they were constantly hassled by the press. Carole was on the front page of newspapers all over the world, including Le Monde, Le Figaro, and the Herald Tribune in Paris.

“I always loved that picture of her,” Stevie said, trying to make light of it, as they all read the papers over breakfast the next day. They had been in Paris for three days.

“Yeah, me too,” Anthony said, eating his second pain au chocolat. His appetite had improved. They were getting used to going to the hospital together every day, talking to the doctors, and sitting with Carole for as long as they could. Afterward they came back to the hotel, and sat in the living room of their suite, waiting for news. Night visits were discouraged, and she was still in a deep sleep. And all the while, people around the world were reading about her, and praying for her. Fans had started gathering at the hospital, and holding up signs when the family arrived. It was touching to see.

As they left for the hospital that morning, a man in a Paris apartment on the rue du Bac poured his café au lait, put jam on a slice of toast, and sat down to read his morning newspaper as he did every day. He opened it as he always did, smoothed out the creases, and glanced at the front page. His hands shook as he stared at the photograph. It was a picture taken of Carole while she'd been making a movie in France years before. The man staring at it knew it instantly, he'd been with her on that day, watching the shoot. Tears sprang to his eyes as he read the article, and as soon as he finished reading, he got up and called the Pitié Salpêtrière. He was connected to the réanimation unit, and asked for news of her. They said her condition was stable, but that they were not authorized to give out detailed reports over the phone. He thought of calling the head of the hospital, and then decided to go to the Pitié himself.

He was a tall, distinguished-looking man. He had white hair, and the eyes behind his glasses were a brilliant blue. Although no longer young, it was easy to see that he had once been a handsome man, and still was. And he moved and spoke like someone who was accustomed to command. There was an aura of authority about him. His name was Matthieu de Billancourt, and he had once been the Minister of the Interior of France.

He had his overcoat on, and was out the door and in his car within twenty minutes of reading the article in the paper. He was shaken to the core by what he'd read. His memories of Carole were still crystal clear, as though he'd seen her yesterday, when in fact it had been fifteen years since he had last seen her, when she left Paris, and fourteen years since he had spoken to her. He had had no news of her since, except what he read of her in the press. He knew she had married again, to a Hollywood producer, and he had felt a pang even then, although he was happy for her. Eighteen years before, Carole Barber had been the love of his life.

Matthieu de Billancourt arrived at the hospital, and parked his car on the street. He strode into the lobby, and asked the woman at the desk for Carole's room. He was stopped instantly and told that no bulletins could be issued about her, and there were no visitors allowed to her room. He asked to see the head of the hospital, and handed the woman at the desk his card. She glanced at it, saw his name, and immediately disappeared.

Within three minutes the head of the hospital appeared. He stared at Matthieu as though to verify that the name on the business card was real. It was the card from Matthieu's family law firm, where he had been now for the last ten years, since he retired from government. He was sixty-eight years old, but had the look and step of a younger man.

“Monsieur le ministre?” the head of the hospital asked nervously, wringing his hands. He had no idea what had brought him here, but Matthieu's name and reputation had been legendary when he was Minister of the Interior, and one still saw his name in the press from time to time. He was frequently consulted, often quoted. He had been a man of power for thirty years. He had a look of unquestionable command. “What may I do to help you, sir?” There was something almost frightening about the look in Matthieu's eyes. He looked worried and deeply disturbed.

“I am here to see an old friend,” he said in a somber voice. “She was a friend of my wife's.” He didn't want to draw attention to his visit, although asking for the head of the hospital would inevitably attract some notice to him, but he could only hope the man would be discreet. Matthieu didn't want to wind up in the press, but at that point he would have risked almost anything to see her again. He knew it might be his last chance. The reports in the paper said she was still critically ill, and in danger of losing her life after the terrorist attack. “I was told she can't have visitors,” Matthieu explained, and the director of La Pitié Salpêtrière guessed instantly who the patient was. “Our families were very close.” Matthieu looked desperate and grim, which didn't go unnoticed by the short, officious-looking man.

“I am certain we can make an exception for you, sir. Without question. Would you like me to accompany you upstairs to her room? We are speaking of Mrs. Waterman… Miss Barber … are we not?”

“We are. And yes, I would appreciate it if you would take me to her room.” Without another word, the director of the hospital led him to the elevator, which came almost immediately, filled with doctors, nurses, and visitors, who exited, and then Matthieu and the director stepped in. His guide pressed the button, and a moment later they were on her floor. Matthieu could feel his heart beating faster. He had no idea what he'd see when he entered her room, or who would be there. It seemed unlikely to him that her children would remember him, they had been very young at the time. He assumed that her current husband would be there with her. He was hoping they would be out, taking a break.

The director stopped at the nursing desk, and said a few hushed words to the head nurse. She nodded, glanced at Matthieu with interest, and pointed to a door farther down the hall, which was Carole's room. Matthieu followed him without a word, and in an agony of pain and concern for her, in the bleak hospital lighting, he looked his age. The director stopped at the door the nurse had indicated, and opened it, motioning Matthieu inside. He hesitated and then whispered.

“Is her family with her? I don't want to intrude if it's not a good time.” He had suddenly realized that he might walk into an awkward scene. For a moment, he had forgotten that she no longer belonged to him.

“Would you like me to announce you if they are with her?” the director asked, and Matthieu shook his head, and did not offer to explain. The director understood. “I'll check.” He took a few steps into the room, as Matthieu waited outside and the door whooshed closed. He had been able to see nothing in the room. The director emerged a moment later. “Her family is with her,” he confirmed. “Would you like to wait in the waiting room?”

Matthieu looked relieved at the suggestion. “Yes, I would. This must be very hard for them,” he said, as the director led him back down the hall again, to a small private waiting room, which was normally used for an overflow of visitors, or people in deep grief who needed privacy. It was perfect for Matthieu, who wanted to avoid prying eyes, and preferred to be alone, while he waited to see her. He had no idea how long her family would be with her, but he was prepared to stay all day, or even into the night. He had to see her now.

The director of the hospital motioned to a chair and invited Matthieu to sit down. “Would you like something to drink, sir? A cup of coffee perhaps?”

“No, thank you,” Matthieu said, and extended his hand.

“I appreciate your help. I was shocked when I heard the news.”

“We all were,” the hospital director commented. “She was here for two weeks before we knew who she was. A terrible thing.” He looked appropriately reserved.

“Will she be all right?” Matthieu asked, with a look of sorrow in his eyes.

“I believe it's too soon to tell. Head injuries are treacherous and difficult to predict. She's still in a coma, but breathing on her own, which is a good sign. But she's not out of danger yet.” Matthieu nodded. “I'll come back and check on you later,” the director promised, “and the nurses will bring you anything you like.” Matthieu thanked him again, and he left. The man who had once been the Minister of the Interior of France sat as sadly as any other visitor, thinking of someone he loved, lost in thought. Matthieu de Billancourt was still one of the most respected and once-powerful men in France, and he was as frightened as any other visitor to the réanimation floor. He was terrified for her, and himself. Just knowing she was there, in a room so nearby, made his heart stir again as it hadn't in years.

Jason, Stevie, Anthony, and Chloe had been with Carole for hours by then. They took turns sitting in a chair next to her, stroking her hand, or talking to her.

Chloe kissed her mother's blue fingers sticking out of the cast, begging her to come back. “Come on, Mommy, please… we want you to wake up.” She sounded like a child, and then finally she just sat there and sobbed, until Stevie put an arm around her, got her a drink of water, and someone else took her place near Carole's bed.

Anthony was trying to be brave, but could never get past a few words before breaking down. And Jason stood behind them, looking distraught. They kept trying to talk to her, because there was always the remote possibility that she could hear them. And they were praying that might bring her back. Nothing else had so far. Her children and Jason were looking exhausted, jet-lagged and grief-stricken, and Stevie tried valiantly to keep their spirits buoyed, although she was in no better shape than they. But she was determined to do all she could to help, for Carole's sake and theirs. But at heart, she was as devastated as they. Carole was a beloved friend.

“Come on, Carole, you've got a book to write. This is no time to slack off,” she said as though her employer could hear her, when it was her turn in the chair, and Jason smiled. He liked Stevie. She was a woman of substance, and was being wonderful to all of them. He could see how deeply she cared about Carole. “You know, this really is taking the concept of writer's block to extremes, don't you think? Have you thought about the book? I really think you should. The kids are here too. Chloe looks terrific, she has a new haircut, and a ton of new accessories. Wait till you get the bill!” she said, and the others laughed. “That ought to wake her up,” Stevie commented to them. It was a long afternoon, and it was obvious that nothing had changed. They desperately wished it would. It was an agony watching her still form and deathly pale face.

“Maybe we should go back to the hotel,” Stevie finally suggested. Jason looked like he was about to faint. None of them had eaten since that morning, and barely then. He was gray, and Chloe was crying more and couldn't seem to stop. Anthony didn't look much better, and Stevie was feeling weak herself. “I think we all need food. They'll call us if anything happens, and we can come back tonight,” she said practically, and Jason nodded. He wanted a drink, although he wasn't much of a drinker. But at least right now it was some form of relief.

“I don't want to go.” Chloe sat and sobbed.

“Come on, Clo.” Anthony put his arms around her and gave her a hug. “Mom wouldn't want us to be like this. And we have to keep up our strength.” Earlier Stevie had suggested a swim at the hotel when they went back, and it sounded good to him. He needed exercise to deal with the intense tension they were under. Stevie was longing for a swim herself.

She finally got them rounded up and out the door of the room, with a nod to the nurse. It was no mean feat to move them, since none of them really wanted to leave Carole, nor did she, but she knew they had to keep their spirits as buoyant as they could. There was no telling how long this would go on, and they couldn't afford to fall apart. They would be of no use to Carole if they did, Stevie was well aware of that. So she made it her responsibility to take care of them. It took forever to get them to the elevator. Chloe had forgotten her sweater, and Anthony his coat. They went back one by one, and then finally got into the elevator, promising each other that they would be back in a few hours. They hated leaving her alone.

From his seat in the private waiting room, Matthieu saw them leave. He didn't recognize anyone in the group, but knew who they were. He heard them speak to each other in American accents. There were two women and two men. And as soon as the elevator doors closed, he approached the head nurse again. Normally, all visitors were forbidden, but he was Matthieu de Billancourt, venerated former Minister of the Interior, and the head of the hospital had told her to do whatever Matthieu wished. It was clear that the rules didn't apply to him, and he didn't expect them to. Without saying a word, the head nurse led him into Carole's room. She lay there like a sleeping princess, with IVs in her arm, as a nurse watched over her, and checked the monitors attached to her. Carole lay perfectly still and deathly pale, as he looked at her, and then gently touched her face. Everything he had once felt for her was in his eyes. The nurse stayed in the room, but discreetly turned away. She sensed that she was seeing something deeply private to both of them.

He stood for a long time, watching her, as though waiting for her to open her eyes, and then finally, his head bowed, with damp eyes, he left the room. She was as beautiful as he had remembered her, and appeared untouched by age. Even her hair was still the same. They had taken the bandage off her head, and Chloe had brushed her mother's hair before she left.

The former Minister of the Interior of France sat in his car for a long time, and then he buried his face in his hands and cried like a child, thinking of everything that had happened, all he had promised and never given her. His heart ached for what should have been, and hadn't. It was the only time in his life he had failed to keep his word. He had regretted it bitterly for all the years since, and yet even now, he knew there had been no other choice. She had known it too, which was why she had left. He didn't blame her for leaving him, and never had. He had too many other responsibilities at the time. He only wished he could speak to her about it now, as she lay in her deep sleep. She had taken his heart with her when she left, and owned it still. The thought of her dying now was almost more than he could bear. And all he knew, as he drove away, was that whatever happened, he had to see her again. In spite of the fifteen years since he'd last seen her, and everything that had happened to both of them since, he was still addicted to her. One look at her face had intoxicated him again.

Chapter 6

Five days after the arrival of Carole's family in Paris, Jason asked for a meeting with all of her doctors to clarify her situation for them. She was still in a coma, and other than the fact that she was no longer on a respirator and was breathing for herself now, nothing had changed. She was no closer to consciousness than she had been in nearly three weeks. The possibility that she would never wake up again was terrifying all of them.

The doctors were kind, but blunt. If she didn't regain consciousness soon, she would be brain-damaged forever. Even now it was an ever greater possibility. Her chances for recovery were getting slimmer by the hour. Their concerns for her put words to Jason's worst fears. Nothing could be done medically to alter her situation. It was in the hands of God. People had woken up from comas after even longer, but with time her chances of recovering normal brain function were diminishing. The entire group was in tears when the doctors left the waiting room where they'd met. Chloe was sobbing, and Anthony was holding her, with tears running down his cheeks. Jason sat in tearful silence, and Stevie wiped her eyes and took a breath.

“Okay, guys. She's never been a quitter. We can't be either. You know how she is. Carole does things on her own schedule. She'll get there. We can't lose faith now. What about going somewhere today? You need a break from all this.” The others looked at her like she was insane.

“Like where? Shopping?” Chloe looked outraged, and the two men were dismayed. They had done nothing but go back and forth between the hospital and the hotel for days, and their misery was acute in either place. So was Stevie's, but she tried to rally the group.

“Anything. The movies. The Louvre. Lunch somewhere. Versailles. Notre Dame. I vote for something fun. We're in Paris. Let's figure out what she'd want us to do. She wouldn't want you all sitting here like this, day after day.” Her suggestion was met with a total lack of enthusiasm at first.

“We can't just leave her here and forget about her,” Jason said, looking stern.

“I'll stay with her. You guys do something else for a couple of hours. And yes, Chloe, maybe shopping. What would your mom do?”

“Get her nails done and buy shoes,” Chloe said with an irreverent look and then giggled. “And wax her legs.”

“Perfect,” Stevie agreed. “I want you to buy at least three pairs of shoes today. Your mom never buys fewer than that. More is okay. I'll make a manicure appointment for you at the hotel. Manicure, pedicure, leg wax, the works. And a massage. A massage would do you gentlemen some good too. What about booking a squash court at the health club at the Ritz?” She knew they both loved to play.

“Isn't that weird?” Anthony asked, looking guilty, although he had to admit he'd been craving exercise all week. He felt like an animal in a cage just sitting there.

“No, it's not. And you can both take a swim after you play. Why don't you all have lunch at the pool, and go from there? The boys play squash, Chloe gets her nails done, then massages for everyone. I can book the massages in your rooms, if you prefer.” Jason shot her a grateful smile. In spite of himself, he liked the idea. “What about you?”

“This is what I do,” she said easily. “I sit around and wait a lot, and organize things.” She had done the same for Carole when Sean was sick, and she would be at his bedside for days, especially after chemo. “A few hours off won't hurt anyone. It'll do you a lot of good. I'll stay with her.” They all felt guilty every time they left her alone at the hospital. What if she woke up while they were gone? Unfortunately, it didn't look like an imminent possibility. Stevie called the hotel, and booked the appointments for them, and literally ordered Chloe to stop at the Faubourg Saint Honoré on her way to lunch. There were plenty of shoes there, and even stores for the men. And as if they were children, she shooed them out of the hospital twenty minutes later and sent them on their way. They were grateful to her when they went. And she went back to sit quietly in Carole's room. The nurse on duty nodded to her. They had no language in common, but were familiar to each other by now. The woman caring for Carole that day was about Stevie's age. She wished she could have talked to her, but approached the still form on the bed instead.

“Okay, kiddo. No shit. You've got to get your ass in gear now. The doctors are getting pissed. It's time to wake up. You need a manicure, your hair is a mess. The furniture in this place looks like shit. You need to go back to the Ritz. Besides, you have a book to write.” Thanksgiving was only days away. “You have to wake up,” Stevie said with desperation in her voice. “This isn't fair to the kids. Or to anyone. You're not a quitter, Carole. You've had plenty of sleep. Wake up!” It was the kind of thing she'd said to her in the dark days right after Sean had died, but Carole had bounced back quickly then, because she knew Sean wanted her to, but this time Stevie didn't evoke his name. Only the kids'. “I'm getting sick of this,” she added as an afterthought. “I'm sure you are too. I mean, how boring is this? This Sleeping Beauty routine is really getting old.”

There was no sound or movement from the bed, and Stevie wondered how much truth there was to people hearing loved ones talk to them when they were in comas. If there was any, she was banking on it. She sat and talked to her employer all afternoon, in a normal voice, about ordinary things, as though Carole could hear her. The nurse went about her business, but looked sorry for her. By then the nursing staff had lost hope, and the doctors were right behind them. Too much time had gone by now since the bombing. The possibility of her recovering was dwindling by the hour. Stevie was well aware of it, but refused to be daunted by it.

At six o'clock, after eight hours at her bedside, Stevie left her to go back to the hotel and check on the others. They had been gone all day, and she hoped it had done them good. “Okay, I'm leaving now,” Stevie said, just as she did when she left work in L.A. “No more of this shit tomorrow, Carole. Enough is enough. I gave you the day off today. But that's it. You've had all the time you're going to get. Tomorrow we go back to work. You wake up, you look around, you eat breakfast. We do some letters. You have a shitload of calls to make. Mike has been calling every day. I've run out of excuses about why you're not talking to him. You have to call him yourself.” She knew she sounded like a nutcase, but it actually felt better talking to her as though she were there somewhere, listening to what Stevie said. And it was true, Carole's friend and agent, Mike Appelsohn, called every day. Ever since the press had broken the news, he'd been on the phone to them twice a day. He was devastated. He had known her since she was a kid. He had discovered her himself in a drugstore in New Orleans. He had bought a tube of toothpaste from her, and changed her life forever. He was like a father to her. He had turned seventy that year, and was still going strong. And now this had happened. He had no children of his own, just her. He had begged to come to Paris, but Jason had asked him to wait, a few more days at least. This was hard enough as it was, without others joining them, however well intentioned. Stevie was grateful that they didn't mind her being there, but she was helpful for them. Like Carole, they would have been lost without her. It was just her way. Carole had other friends too, in Hollywood, but because of the amount of time they'd spent together, and the things they'd been through during the past fifteen years, Carole was closer to her assistant than to any of them.

“Okay, so you got it? Today was your last day of just sleeping your life away. No more lying around here on your ass, making like a diva. You're a working girl. And you have to wake up and write your damn book. I'm not going to do it for you. You'll have to write it yourself. Enough of this lazy-ass shit. Get a good night's sleep tonight, and tomorrow you wake up. That's it. Time's up. This vacation is over. We're over it. And if you ask me, as far as vacations go, it sucked.” The nurse would have laughed if she'd understood. She smiled at Stevie as she left. She was going off duty herself in another hour, and home to her husband and three kids. All Stevie had was a boyfriend, and the comatose woman lying on the bed, whom she dearly loved. She felt totally drained when she left. She had been talking to Carole all day. She hadn't dared do that when the others were around, other than a few words of endearment here and there. She hadn't planned this, but once they were gone, she decided to try it. They had nothing to lose. It couldn't do any harm.

Stevie closed her eyes and laid her head back as the cab took her to the hotel. The now-familiar paparazzi were outside the Ritz, hoping to get shots of Carole's kids, and Harrison Ford and his family had just arrived from the States. Madonna was due the next day. For reasons of their own, they were spending Thanksgiving in Paris. So was Carole's family, and depressed about it, given the tragic reason they were there. Stevie had already spoken to the head caterer, to organize a real Thanksgiving dinner for them in a private dining room. It seemed like the least she could do. The marshmallows for the sweet potatoes were impossible to find here. She had had her boyfriend, Alan, FedEx them to her from the States. She was keeping him posted by phone every day, and like everyone else, he wished Carole well and said he was praying for her. He was a good guy, Stevie just couldn't imagine herself married to him, or anyone else. She was married to her job, and to Carole, more than ever now at her time of extreme need, and with so much at risk.

The others were in much better spirits that night, and at Carole's urging, they had dinner downstairs at the Espadon, the hotel's main restaurant. It was bright and cheerful and busy, and the food was fabulous. Stevie didn't join them. She had a massage, ordered soup from room service, and went to bed. They all thanked her for the activities she'd planned for them that day. They felt almost human again. In a burst of nervous energy, Chloe had bought six pairs of shoes and a dress at Saint Laurent. Jason couldn't believe it, but he'd bought two pairs of John Lobbs at Hermès while he waited for her, and although Anthony hated shopping, he bought four shirts. Both men had bought some extra clothes, mostly sweaters and jeans to wear at the hospital, since they had brought so little with them. They felt refreshed after swimming and massages. And Jason had beat his son at squash, a rare occurrence, and major victory for him. In spite of the horrifying circumstances that had brought them to Paris, they had had a decent day, thanks to Stevie, and her positive outlook about everything. She was wiped out herself when she went to bed, and was sound asleep at nine o'clock.

The hospital called at six o'clock the next morning. Stevie's heart sank when she heard the phone ring. It was Jason. They had called him first. A call at that hour could mean only one thing. He was crying when Stevie answered.

“Oh my God …,” Stevie said, still groggy, but she was instantly alert.

“She's awake,” he said, sobbing. “She opened her eyes. She's not speaking, but her eyes are open and she nodded at the doctor.”

“Oh my God … oh my God…” It was all Stevie could say. She had thought she was dead.

“I'm going over. Do you want to come? I thought I'd let the kids sleep. I don't want to get their hopes up, till we see how she is.”

“I'm coming. I'll be dressed in five minutes.” And then she laughed through her own tears. “She must have heard me.” She knew her eight-hour monologue wasn't what had done it. God and time had finally done their work. But maybe her words hadn't hurt.

“What did you say to her?” he asked, wiping the tears of relief off his face. He had lost hope at the doctor's conference the day before. But now, she was awake. It was an answer to their prayers.

“I told her that we were sick of this shit, and to get off her dead ass and get back to work. Something like that.”

“Good job,” he said, laughing. “We should have tried that before. You must have made her feel guilty.”

“I hope so.” This was going to be one incredible Thanksgiving gift for all of them.

“I'll knock on your door in five minutes,” Jason said, and hung up. When he did, she was wearing jeans and a sweater, and carrying the heavy coat she had brought. She was wearing the cowboy boots she often wore to work. She had found them in a thrift shop and loved them. She said they were her lucky boots. They sure were now. She had been wearing them the day before too.

They chatted excitedly on their way back to the hospital, and passed all the landmarks that were all too familiar to them now. They could hardly wait to see her, and Jason reminded Stevie that the doctor said she wasn't talking yet. That might take a while. But she was awake. Everything had turned around overnight. In the silent hospital, they raced to her room, where the security guard stood outside. He nodded to them both as they went in, and assumed their early-morning arrival wasn't a good sign. It was a cold sunny morning, and the most beautiful day of Stevie's entire life, and for Jason it was second only to the birth of his children. This time Carole had been born again. She was awake!

Carole was lying on the bed with her eyes open when they walked in, with the doctor in charge of her case standing at her side. She had just arrived. They had called her first, and she came right in. She smiled at Stevie and Jason, and then down at her patient. Carole met the doctor's eyes as she spoke to her in heavily accented English, but didn't respond. She made no sound, and didn't smile. She just watched, but when told to, she squeezed the doctor's hand. The pressure was slight, and she shifted her eyes to her two visitors when she heard them, but didn't smile at them either. Her face was expressionless, like a mask. Stevie spoke to her as though she were the same person she always had been, and Jason leaned down to kiss her cheek. Carole didn't react to that either. And eventually, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep again. The doctor, Jason, and Stevie left the room to talk outside.

“She's not responsive,” Jason commented, looking worried. Stevie was thrilled, determined not to look a gift horse in the mouth. This was a start, and a hell of a lot better than where she'd been.

“This is only the beginning,” the doctor said to Jason. “She may not recognize you yet. She may have lost a great deal of memory. Her cerebral cortex and hippocampus were affected, both of which store memories. We can't be sure what's left, or how easy it will be for her to access them again. With luck, her memory and normal brain function will come back to her. But it will take time. She has to remember everything now. How to move, how to speak, how to walk. Her brain had a tremendous shock. But we have a chance now. Now we begin.” She looked greatly encouraged. They had almost given up on her ever gaining consciousness again. This proved to all of them that miracles really did happen, when you least expected them. She smiled at Stevie then. “The nurses tell me that you spoke to her all day yesterday. You never know what they hear, or what makes a difference.”

“I think it was just time,” Stevie said modestly. Long overdue in fact, from their perspective. It had been a nightmarish three weeks for Carole, and an agonizing week for them. But at least she'd been unaware of what was going on. They had had to face the terror of losing her, fully conscious. They had been the worst days of Stevie's life. It put a whole new spin on the meaning of life.

“We want to do some more CT scans and MRIs today, and I'll send a speech therapist in to see how she responds. It's possible that she just can't remember the words yet. We'll give her a little push to get her started. I want to find someone who speaks English,” the doctor said. Stevie had told them she spoke French, but they wanted to re-educate her in her own language. Doing it in French would have been much harder.

“I can work with her if someone shows me how,” Stevie volunteered, and the doctor smiled at her again. This was an enormous victory for her.

“I think you did fine work with her yesterday.” The doctor was generous with her praise. Who knew what had awakened her?

Jason and Stevie went back to the hotel then to tell Anthony and Chloe. Their father woke them both, and they had the same reaction Stevie had when he called her. Raw terror was on their faces and in their eyes the moment they woke up.

“Mom?” Anthony said, looking panicked. He was twenty-six years old, and a man, but she was still his mommy.

“She's awake,” Jason said, crying again. “She can't talk yet, but she saw us. She's going to be okay, son.” Anthony burst into sobs. None of them knew how okay yet, but she was alive, and no longer in a coma. It was definitely a start, and a huge relief for them.

Chloe threw her arms around her father's neck and laughed and cried all at once, like a child, and then she jumped out of bed and did a little dance. And then ran over to give Stevie a hug.

They were all laughing and talking at breakfast, and at ten o'clock they went back to see her. She was awake again by then, and looked at them with interest as they walked into the room.

“Hi, Mom,” Chloe said easily as she walked over to the bed and took her hand, and then bent to kiss her mother's cheek. There was no visible response from Carole. If anything, she looked surprised. But even her facial expressions were limited now. The bandage had been off her cheek for several days, but the gash she'd gotten had left a nasty scar, which was the least of her problems. They were all used to it by now, although Stevie knew Carole would be upset when she saw it, but that wouldn't be for a while. And as Jason had said, a good plastic surgeon could deal with it when they got home.

Carole lay on her bed, watching them, and turned her head several times to follow them with her eyes. Anthony kissed her too, and her eyes were filled with questions, and then Jason came to stand beside her and held her hand. Stevie stood back against the wall, smiling at her, but Carole didn't seem to notice her. It was possible that she couldn't focus yet from a distance.

“You've made us very happy today,” Jason said to his ex-wife with a loving smile, as he kept her hand in his own. She looked at him blankly. It took her a long time but she finally formed a single word and said it to him.

“Tii… rr … ed … tired.”

“I know you're tired, sweetheart,” he said gently. “You've been asleep for a long time.”

“I love you, Mom,” Chloe added, and Anthony echoed her words. Carole stared at them as though she didn't know what that meant, and then spoke again.

“Waa … ter.” She pointed to the glass with a weak hand, and the nurse held it to her lips. It reminded Stevie suddenly of Anne Bancroft in The Miracle Worker. They were starting way back at the beginning. But at least they were headed in the right direction now. Carole said nothing directly to any of them, and said none of their names. She just watched them. They stayed with her till noon, and then they left her. Carole looked exhausted, and her voice, the two times she spoke, didn't sound like her own. Stevie suspected she was still hoarse from the respirator, which had been removed not long before. Her throat sounded sore, and her eyes looked huge in her face. She had lost a lot of weight, and had been thin before. But she was still beautiful, even now. More so than ever, however wan. She looked as though she could have been playing Mimi in La Bohème. She seemed like a tragic heroine as she lay there, but hopefully for all of them, the tragedy was over.

Jason met with the doctor again late that afternoon. Chloe had decided to go shopping again, this time to celebrate. Retail therapy, as Stevie called it. And Anthony was at the gym, working out. They felt a lot better, and less guilty about returning to normal activities and life. They had even eaten a huge lunch at Le Voltaire, which was Carole's favorite restaurant in Paris, as they knew well. Jason said it was a celebration lunch for her.

The doctor in charge said that Carole's MRI and CT scans looked good, as they had for a while. There was no visible damage to her brain, which seemed remarkable. The initial small tears in the nerves had already healed. But there was also no way to assess how much memory loss she'd sustained, or to predict how many of her normal brain functions would return. Only time would tell. She was still acknowledging people when they spoke to her, and had said a few more words that afternoon, most of which related to her physical state and nothing else. She had said “cold” when the nurse opened the window, and “ow” when they took blood from her arm, and again when they readjusted her IV. She was responsive to pain and sensation, but she looked blank when the doctor asked her questions that went beyond yes and no. When they asked her her name, she shook her head. They told her it was Carole, and she shrugged. It was of no apparent interest to her. And the nurse said that when they called her by name, she didn't respond. And since she didn't know her own name, it was unlikely that she remembered theirs. More important, the doctor was fairly certain that for the moment Carole had no recollection of who they were.

Jason refused to be discouraged by it, and when he reported it to Stevie later on, he said it was just a matter of time. He had a firm grip on hope again. Maybe too firm, Stevie thought. She had already acknowledged to herself the possibility that Carole might never be the same again. She was awake, but there was a long way to go before Carole would be herself, if she ever would be again. It was still a question with no answer.

There was a leak to the press at the hospital again that day, and the next morning, the press reported that Carole Barber was out of her coma. She had already been off the critical list for several days. She still remained a hot news item. And it was obvious to Stevie that someone at the hospital was getting paid for news about Carole. It wouldn't have been unusual, even in the States, but it seemed disgusting to her anyway. It came with the territory of being a star, but seemed like a high price to pay. There were allusions in the article to the fact that she might be permanently brain-damaged. But the photograph they ran with the story was gorgeous. It had been taken ten years before, in her prime, although she still looked damn good now, before the bombing anyway. And all things considered, she looked pretty good for a woman with a brain injury and who had survived a bomb at close range.

The police came to visit her, once they knew that she was awake. The doctor let them speak to her briefly but within minutes, it was evident to them that she had no memory of the bombing or anything else. They left with no further information from her.

Jason and the children continued to visit Carole, as did Stevie, and she continued to add words to her repertoire. Book. Blanket. Thirsty. No! She was very emphatic on that one, particularly when they came to take blood, and she pulled her arm away the last time and glared at the nurse and called her “bad,” which made them all smile. They took her blood anyway, she burst into tears, looked surprised, and said “cry.” Stevie talked to her as though she were normal, and sometimes Carole just sat and stared at her for hours, saying nothing. She could sit up now, but she still couldn't put words into a sentence, or say their names. It was clear by the day before Thanksgiving, three days after she'd awakened, that she had no idea whatsoever who they were. She recognized no one, not even her children. They were all upset by it, but Chloe was the most distressed.

“She doesn't even know me!” Chloe said with tears in her eyes when she left the hospital with her father to go back to the hotel.

“She will, sweetheart. Give her time.”

“What if she stays like that?” She voiced their worst fear. No one else had dared to say it.

“We'll take her to the best doctors in the world,” Jason reassured her, and he meant it.

Stevie was worried about it too. She continued to have conversations with Carole, while her friend and employer looked blank. She smiled once in a while at the things Stevie said, but there wasn't even a spark of memory for who Stevie was in her eyes. Smiling was new for her. And laughing was too. It frightened Carole the first time she did it, and she instantly burst into tears. It was like watching a baby. She had a lot of ground to cover, and hard work ahead. The speech therapist was working with her. They had found a British one who pushed Carole hard. She told Carole her name and asked her to repeat it many times. She hoped that the patterning would cause a spark, but thus far nothing did.

On Thanksgiving morning Stevie told her what day it was and what it meant in the States. She told her what they would have at the meal, and Carole looked intrigued. Stevie hoped it had jolted her memory, but it hadn't.

“Turkey. What's that?” She said it like she'd never heard the word before, and Stevie smiled.

“It's a bird we'll eat for lunch.”

“Sounds disgusting,” Carole said, making a face, and Stevie laughed.

“Sometimes it is. It's a tradition.”

“Feathers?” Carole asked with interest. It was down to basics. Birds had feathers. She remembered that much at least.

“No. Stuffing. Yum.” She described the stuffing to her, as Carole listened with interest.

“Hard,” she said then, as tears filled her eyes. “To talk. Words. Can't find them.” She looked frustrated for the first time.

“I know. I'm sorry. They'll come back. Maybe we should start with dirty ones. Maybe that would be more fun. You know, like shit, fuck, ass, asshole, the good ones. Why worry about turkey and stuffing?”

“Bad words?” Stevie nodded, and they both laughed. “Ass,” Carole said proudly. “Fuck.” She clearly had no idea what it meant.

“Excellent,” Stevie said with a loving look. She loved this woman more than her own mother or sister. She truly was her best friend.

“Name?” Carole asked, looking sad again. “Your name,” she corrected. She was trying to stretch herself. The speech therapist wanted her to speak in sentences, and most of the time she couldn't. Not yet.

“Stevie. Stephanie Morrow. I work for you at home in L.A. And we're friends.” There were tears in her eyes as she said it, and then she added, “I love you. A lot. I think you even love me too.”

“Nice,” Carole said. “Stevie.” She tried out the word. “You are my friend.” It was the longest sentence she'd formed so far.

“Yes, I am.”

Jason walked in then to give Carole a kiss before their Thanksgiving dinner at the hotel. The kids were at the Ritz getting dressed, and had gone swimming again that morning. Carole looked up at him and smiled.

“Ass. Fuck,” she said, and he looked startled, and then glanced at Stevie, wondering what had happened, and if Carole was losing it again. “New words.” She smiled broadly.

“Oh. Great. That should be useful.” He laughed and sat down.

“Your name?” she asked. He had told her before, but she had forgotten.

“Jason.” For a moment he looked sad.

“Are you my friend?”

He hesitated for a moment before he answered, and tried to sound normal and somewhat casual when he did. It was a heavy moment, and indicated again that she remembered nothing of her past. “I was your husband. We were married. We have two children, Anthony and Chloe. They were here yesterday.” He sounded tired, but mostly sad.

“Children?” She looked blank, and then he realized why.

“They're big now. Grown-ups. They are our children, but they're twenty-two and twenty-six years old. They've been here to visit you. You saw them with me. Chloe lives in London, and Anthony lives in New York, and works with me. I live in New York too.” It was a lot of information for her all at once.

“Where do I live? With you?”

“No. You live in Los Angeles. We're not married anymore. We haven't been for a long time.”

“Why?” Her eyes dove deep into his as she asked. She needed to know everything now, in order to find out who she was. She was lost.

“That's a long story. Maybe we should talk about that another time.” And neither of them wanted to tell her about Sean. It was too soon. She didn't even know she'd had him, she didn't need to know she had lost him two years before. “We're divorced.”

“That's sad,” she said. She seemed to understand what divorced meant, which Stevie found intriguing. She got some concepts and words, and others seemed to be completely gone. It was odd what was left.

“Yes, it is,” Jason agreed. And then Jason told her about Thanksgiving too, and the meal they were going to have at the hotel.

“Sounds like too much food. Sick.” He nodded and laughed.

“Yeah, you're right, it is. But it's a nice holiday. It's a day to be thankful for good things that have happened, and the blessings we have. Like you sitting here talking to me right now,” he said with a tender look. “I'm grateful for you this year. We all are, Carole,” he said as Stevie started to leave the room discreetly, but he told her she could stay. They had no secrets from each other these days.

“I am thankful for both of you,” she said, looking at the two of them. She wasn't sure who they were, but they were good to her, and she could sense their love for her flowing toward her. It was palpable in the room.

They chatted with her for a while, and a few more words came back to her, most of them related to the holiday. The words mince pie and pumpkin pie sprang out of nowhere, but she had no idea what they were. Stevie had only mentioned apple pie to her, because the hotel couldn't do the others. And then finally, Stevie and Jason got up to leave.

“We're going back to the hotel to have Thanksgiving dinner with Anthony and Chloe,” Jason explained with a gentle look at Carole as he held her hand. “I wish you were coming with us.” She frowned when he mentioned the hotel, as though trying to pull something elusive out of her mental computer but it just wouldn't come.

“What hotel?”

“The Ritz. It's where you always stay in Paris. You love it. It's beautiful. They're making a turkey dinner for us in a private dining room.” They had a lot to be grateful for this year.

“That sounds nice,” Carole said, looking sad. “I can't remember anything, who I am, who you are, where I live… the hotel… I don't even remember Thanksgiving, or the turkey or pies.” There were tears of sorrow and frustration in her eyes, and seeing her that way tore at their hearts.

“You will,” Stevie said quietly. “Give it time. It's a lot of information to try and get back all at once. Go slow,” she said with a loving smile. “You'll get there. I promise.”

“Do you keep your promises?” she asked, looking Stevie in the eye. She knew what a promise was, even if she didn't remember the name of her hotel.

“Always,” Stevie said, holding up her hand in a solemn oath, and then ran two fingers in an X across her chest, as Carole broke into a smile and spoke in unison with her.

“Cross my heart! I remember that!” she said victoriously. And Stevie and Jason laughed.

“See! You remember the important stuff, like ‘Cross my heart.’ You'll find the rest,” Stevie said with a loving look.

“I hope so,” Carole said fervently, as Jason kissed her forehead and Stevie squeezed her hand. “Have a nice dinner. Eat some turkey for me.”

“We'll bring you some tonight,” Jason promised. He and the children were planning to come back after the meal.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Stevie said as she leaned down to kiss Carole's cheek. It was a little strange doing it because to Carole, Stevie was a stranger now, but she did it anyway, and Carole caught her hand in her own as she did.

“You're tall,” she said, and Stevie grinned.

“Yes, I am.” She was taller than Jason, in high heels, and he was over six feet. “So are you, but not as tall as I am. Happy Thanksgiving, Carole. Welcome back to the world.”

“Fuck,” Carole said with a grin, and they both laughed. There was a spark of mischief in her eyes this time, and along with deep gratitude for the fact that Carole was awake and alive, she could only hope that Carole would once more be herself, and that the good times would come again. Jason had already left the room by then, as Stevie grinned at her.

“Fuck you,” Stevie said. “That's a good one to know too. Very useful.”

Carole smiled broadly and looked into the eyes of the woman who was her friend and had been for fifteen years. “Fuck you too,” she said clearly, and both women laughed, as Stevie blew her a kiss and left the room. It wasn't the Thanksgiving any of them had expected to have, but it was the best one of Stevie's life. And maybe Carole's too.

Chapter 7

Matthieu came to see Carole on Thanksgiving afternoon, by sheer happenstance, while her family and Stevie were having their Thanksgiving meal at the hotel. He had been cautious about coming to visit her. He didn't want to run into them. He still felt awkward about that, whatever the circumstances now. And things had been so desperate at first, he didn't want to intrude on them in the midst of their shock and grief. But he had read in the newspaper that she was awake and doing better, so he had come again. He couldn't resist.

He walked slowly into the room and looked at her, drinking her in. It was the first time he had seen her awake. And his heart leaped as he saw her. There wasn't even a flicker of recognition in her eyes. He wasn't sure at first if it was due to the distance of time, or the blow to her head. But after all they'd meant to each other, he couldn't imagine that she didn't remember him. He had thought of her every day. It was difficult to believe that, in her normal state, she wouldn't do the same, or at least recall his face.

She turned toward him with surprise and curiosity as he walked into the room, and didn't remember ever seeing him before. He was a tall, handsome white-haired man with piercing blue eyes and a serious face. He looked like a person of authority, and she wondered if he was a doctor.

“Hello, Carole.” He was the first to speak. He spoke to her in heavily accented English, unsure if she still remembered her French, which for now she didn't.

“Hello.” It was obvious that she didn't recognize him, and it nearly broke his heart, given all they'd felt for each other. She looked blank. “I've probably changed a lot,” he said. “It's been a long time. My name is Matthieu de Billancourt.” Nothing registered on her face, but she smiled pleasantly at him. Everyone was new to her now, even her ex-husband and kids, and now this man.

“Are you a doctor?” she asked clearly, and he shook his head. “Are you my friend?” she said carefully, although realizing full well that if not, he wouldn't be there. But it was her way of asking him if she knew him. She had to rely on others for that information. But he was startled by the question. Just seeing her again, he was in love with her. For her, there was nothing left. He couldn't help wondering what she had still felt for him before the accident. But clearly, nothing now.

“Yes… yes… I am. A very good friend. We haven't seen each other for a long time.” He readily understood that her memory had not returned, and he was careful about the information he gave her. He didn't want to shock her. She still looked very frail, propped up in the big hospital bed. He didn't want to say too much because her nurse was in the room. He didn't know if she spoke English, but he was cautious just in case. And he couldn't tell secrets anyway to a woman who didn't remember ever seeing him before.

“We knew each other when you lived in Paris.” He had brought her flowers, and handed the large bouquet of roses to the nurse.

“I lived in Paris?” It was news to her. No one had mentioned that to her yet. There was so much she didn't know about herself it frustrated her constantly. He could see it in her eyes. “When?” She knew she lived in Los Angeles now, and had lived in New York with Jason, but no one had mentioned Paris.

“You lived here for two and a half years. You left fifteen years ago.”

“Oh.” Carole nodded, and asked no more questions, she just watched him. There was something in his eyes that rattled her, it was like something she couldn't reach, but could see in the distance. Carole wasn't sure what it was, if it was good or bad. There was something about him that was very intense. She wasn't frightened by it, but she felt it, and couldn't identify the feeling by name.

“How do you feel?” he asked politely. It seemed safer to talk about the present than the past.

Carole thought about it for a long time, looking for the word, and then found it. The way he spoke to her, like an old friend, she had a sense that she knew this man well, but wasn't sure. It was a little like Jason, but different. “Confused,” she said in answer to his question about how she felt. “I don't know anything. Words. I can't find them. Or people. I have two children,” Carole said, still looking surprised. “They're grown up now,” she explained, as though reminding herself. “Anthony and Chloe.” She looked proud that she remembered their names. She was retaining all they told her. It was a lot to absorb.

“I know. I knew them. They were wonderful. And so were you.” She was still as beautiful as she had been. It was amazing to him how little time had touched her, although he noticed the scar on her cheek and didn't mention it. It looked very fresh to him. “You will remember. Things will come back to you.” She nodded, but looked unconvinced. There was still so much missing and she was well aware of it.

“Were we good friends?” she asked him, as though searching for something. Whatever it was, she couldn't access it. She couldn't find him in her head. Whatever he had been to her was gone, along with all the other details of her life. Her mind was a clean slate.

“Yes, we were.” They sat in silence then for a little while, and finally, he cautiously approached the bed and gently took her hand in his. She let him, not knowing what else to do. “I'm very glad that you're getting better. I came to see you while you were still asleep. It's a great gift that you're awake.” She knew it was to the others too. “I've missed you, Carole. I thought about you for all these years.” She wanted to ask him why, but didn't dare. It sounded too complicated for her. Something about the way he looked at her made her feel anxious. She couldn't identify the feeling, but it was very different from the way Jason looked at her, or her children. They seemed much more direct. There was something hidden about this man, as though there was much he wasn't telling her but saying it with his eyes. It was hard for her to read.

“It's nice of you to visit,” she said politely, finding a phrase that seemed to come out all at once. It happened that way sometimes, and at other times she had to struggle for a single word.

“May I come to see you again?” She nodded, not sure what else to say. Social subtleties were confusing for her, and she still had no idea who he was. She had a sense that he'd been more than a friend, but he didn't say they'd been married. It was hard for her to guess who and what he'd been in her life.

“Thank you for the flowers. They are beautiful,” she said, searching his eyes for the answers he didn't put into words.

“So are you, my dear,” he said, still holding her hand. “You always were, and still are. You look like a girl.”

She looked surprised then as she realized something she hadn't thought of before. “I don't know how old I am. Do you?” It was easy for him to make the calculation, by adding fifteen years to the age she'd been when she left. He knew she had to be fifty, although she didn't look it, but he didn't know if he should say it to her.

“I don't think it matters. You're still very young. I'm an old man now. I'm sixty-eight.” His face showed his age, but his spirit didn't. He was infused with so much energy and strength that his looks belied his age.

“You look young,” she said kindly. “If you aren't a doctor, what do you do?” she asked. He still looked like a doctor to her, minus the white coat. He was wearing a well-cut dark blue suit, and a dark gray topcoat over it. He was well dressed, with a white shirt and somber tie, and his mane of white hair was well cut and neat, his rimless glasses typically French.

“I'm an attorney.” He didn't tell her what he'd been before. It didn't matter anymore.

She nodded, watching him again, as he raised her hand to his lips and gently kissed her fingers. They were still bruised from her fall. “I'll come to see you again. You must get well now.” And then he added, “I think about you all the time.” She had no idea why. It was so frustrating to remember nothing of her past, not even how old she was or who she was. It gave everyone an advantage over her. They knew everything she didn't. And now this stranger who knew a piece of her past too.

“Thank you” was all she could think of to say to him, as he gently put her hand back on the bed. He smiled at her again, and a moment later, he left. The nurse in the room had recognized him, but she said nothing to Carole. It wasn't her place to comment on former ministers visiting her. She was a movie star, after all, and probably knew half the important people in the world. But it was obvious that Matthieu de Billancourt was enormously attached to her and knew her well. Even Carole could sense that.

The others came back that evening after their dinner. They were in good spirits, and Stevie had brought her a sample of everything that had been on their plates, and identified all of it to her. Carole tasted it with interest, said she didn't like the turkey, but thought the marshmallows were very good.

“You hate marshmallows, Mom,” Chloe informed her with a stunned look. “You always say they're garbage and you wouldn't let us eat them when we were kids.”

“That's too bad. I like them,” she said with a shy smile, and then held her hand out to her youngest child. “I'm sorry I don't know anything right now. I'll try to remember.” Chloe nodded as tears filled her eyes.

“That's okay, Mom. We'll fill you in. Most of it isn't important.”

“Yes, it is,” Carole said gently. “I want to know everything. What you like, what you don't, what we like to do together, what we did when you were a little girl.”

“You were away a lot,” Chloe said softly, as her father shot her a warning look. It was way too early to talk about that.

“Why was I away a lot?” Carole looked blank again.

“You worked very hard,” Chloe said simply, as Anthony held his breath too. He had heard it for years, and those conversations between his mother and sister never ended well. He hoped it wouldn't happen now too. He didn't want Chloe upsetting their mother at this point. She was far too fragile still, and it would be too unfair to accuse her of things she didn't know. Carole had no way to defend herself.

“Doing what? What did I do?” Carole glanced at Stevie as she asked, as though the young woman could fill her in. She had already sensed the bond between them, even if she knew no details, and remembered neither her face nor name.

“You're an actress,” Stevie explained to her. No one had said that to her yet. “A very important actress. You're a big star.”

“I am?” Carole looked stunned. “Do people know me?” The whole concept seemed foreign to her.

They all laughed, and Jason spoke first. “Maybe we should keep you humble and not tell you. You're probably one of the most well-known movie stars in the world.”

“How weird.” It was the first time she had remembered the word weird, and they all laughed.

“It's not weird at all,” Jason said. “You're a very good actress, you've made a hell of a lot of movies, and won some very major awards. Two Oscars and a Golden Globe.” He wasn't sure she'd remember what those were now, and the look on her face said she didn't. But the word movies sparked a memory for her. She knew what they were. “Everyone in the world knows who you are.”

“What's that like for you?” she turned and asked Chloe, and looked like her old self for a minute. Everyone in the room held their breath as she waited for Chloe's answer.

“Not so good,” Chloe whispered. “It was hard when we were little.” Carole looked sad for her as she said it.

“Don't be silly,” Anthony interrupted, trying to lighten the mood. “It was great having a movie star for a mom. Everyone envied us, we got to go to cool places, and you were gorgeous. You still are.” He smiled at his mother. He had always hated the friction between them, and Chloe's resentment as they grew up, although it was better in recent years.

“Maybe it was cool for you,” Chloe snapped at him. “It wasn't for me.” She turned back toward her mother then, as Carole looked at her with compassion and squeezed her hand.

“I'm sorry,” Carole said simply. “It doesn't sound like fun to me either. I would want my mom around all the time if I was a kid.” And then suddenly she looked at Jason. She had just remembered another important question. It was terrible not knowing anything. “Do I have a mother?” He shook his head, relieved to have changed the subject for a moment. Carole had just returned from the dead after weeks of terror for them, he didn't want Chloe upsetting her, or worse, starting a fight with her, and they all knew she was capable of it. There were a lot of old issues there, between mother and daughter, less so between mother and son. Anthony had never resented his mother's work, and had always expected less of her than Chloe did. He had been far more independent, even as a child.

“Your mother died when you were two,” he explained. “Your father died when you were eighteen.” She was an orphan then. She remembered the word instantly.

“Where did I grow up?” she asked with interest.

“In Mississippi. On a farm.” She remembered none of it. “You were discovered and went to Hollywood at eighteen. You were living in New Orleans, when they found you.” She nodded, and turned her attention back to Chloe. She was more concerned with her now than with her own history. That was new. It was as though she had come back as someone different, subtly different, but perhaps forever changed. It was too soon to know. She was starting with a clean slate, and had to rely on them to fill her in. Chloe had done that with her usual honesty and bluntness. It had worried all of them at first, but Stevie suddenly thought it might be for the best. Carole was responding well. She wanted to know everything about herself, and them, both good and bad. She needed to fill in the blanks, there were so many of them.

“I'm sorry I was away a lot. You'll have to tell me about it. I want to hear all about it, and what it was like for you. It's a little late, you're all grown up. But maybe we can change some things. How is it for you now?”