This was the second day that the helicopter had patrolled the street during her breakfast, yet Irene Dunne had no idea what they wanted. She kept her focus on the hummingbirds. Seventy times a second they beat their wings – she remembered the number from a nature documentary on TV. The beautiful green things! As lovely as old Christmas-tree ornaments.

Mrs. Dunne took half a piece of unbuttered wheat toast from the glass plate she’d set on a small, wrought-iron table. She had spent her life watching her weight, and wouldn’t end up with cottage-cheese thighs now. Even at seventy-five. Not Mrs. Dunne.

She was always called Mrs. Dunne by Holly’s friends, and by the children at the doctor’s office.

"Mrs. Dunne, would you . . ."

"Mrs. Dunne, can I . . ."

"Mrs. Dunne, do you have . . ."

Sometimes even Hal had jokingly called her Mrs. Dunne. In the nursing home, not long before he died, he’d said, "Mrs. Dunne, you’re as beautiful today as you were fifty years ago."

She looked back through the sliding balcony door into the living room of Holly’s apartment. Though she didn’t know that the rugs were Bokara, or that the miniature creatures on the glass-topped coffee table – an ivory monkey, a rat nibbling a corn cob, a plump grasshopper – were rare Japanese netsuke, Irene could hear Holly proudly claiming to have expensive taste. There was a lot of glass furniture, along with mirrored walls in the dining area and in the large bedroom. Bright shining surfaces everywhere, as if her daughter had nothing to do but dust.

At first sight the building itself, located between Santa Monica and Sunset Boulevard, had reminded Irene of a great ocean liner that Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers might have sailed on in one of their movies. Outside, the stucco walls looked as if someone had poured lush heavy cream over them, while inside the halls were sage green, sleek and elegant. Of course they sported mirrors, too. People in West Hollywood must like admiring themselves.

Mrs. Dunne had never visited Holly here, and she still felt like an intruder on her third day. Her daughter, at least, was a good housekeeper. Tony Nakamura, from down the hall, had said that they shared the same cleaning lady. An odd looking boy – no, man. High cheekbones, slanting eyes, but frizzy red-black hair. He’d been Holly’s friend since she bought her condo five years ago. But they’d known each other before that. Tony, a florist, ran Paramount’s flower shop, the last in-studio shop of its kind in Hollywood. He seemed proud of the fact.

Irene tried not to remember his first telephone call. She hadn’t recognized the voice at the other end of the line, and, as if it might help, had slipped off her right earring (she’d never been able to let anyone put a needle through her earlobe) and pushed the receiver closer to her head, at least giving the phone another chance. She’d looked down at the gold-plated earring in her hand. Inexpensive costume jewelry, but comfortable. A small gold disk, like the sun.

Then Tony Nakamura introduced himself once more and took a deep breath – she’d heard that clearly enough, and would never forget it – before explaining that Holly had been killed on location somewhere in Arizona. During filming. An accident. She couldn’t quite make out the words. He was crying.

Irene turned her attention back to the hummingbirds. Four, she counted. Not as many as yesterday’s half dozen. Of course she agreed to come out west, she would attend to her daughter’s things. "Estate" had been Tony’s word. Then lawyers from the studio telephoned, something about insurance; none of it made sense. Her daughter, her only child, had been killed in a pointless accident, yet people wanted to talk about money.

She’d rarely had the occasion to take planes – a trip to Florida one winter with Hal, and years before that, a visit to Holly after she settled in Los Angeles. Yet when Irene’s flight took off, the speed of the ascent seemed oddly familiar. Most days since Hal’s death she felt that she was hurtling through time, passing by places, people, with an unnerving speed that left her exhausted. The flight’s descent, more troubling than its take off, had filled her eyes with tears. Her life was about to crash, she felt this terrible rushing momentum every day now.

When Tony met her at the airport, he’d mentioned that on weekends he often ate breakfast with Holly on her balcony. Irene wanted to go back in time to one of their breakfasts, hear what they were saying, see what Holly had worn. She felt embarrassed by the notion, which seemed too much like the kind of time-travel dream that filled the science-fiction novels Holly had read during high school. Yet she wanted that freedom just the same. She was overwhelmed with sadness that a moment in the past – a lovely long breakfast, for that was how she saw it – was closed to her, except for Tony’s memory; the moment, the breakfast, once existed, even if she hadn’t known about it until yesterday.

There had been no funeral, as Holly’s will stipulated, no hovering priest. Her body was cremated, and the ashes . . . Irene stopped, she couldn’t imagine disposing of them. She hadn’t talked with Holly for several weeks, since the end of September. She remembered the exact day because it was the six-month anniversary of Hal’s death and she’d been to the cemetery that morning. When one of her daughter’s films was in production, they rarely spoke; otherwise, Holly telephoned every weekend, usually on Sunday evening. Dutiful, predictable.

Over the years Irene had learned not to ask questions or offer suggestions. Not to mention recipes, either – Holly never cooked, preferring to live on take-out – or money, or men friends. New clothes were safe, along with shopping of any kind, restaurant meals, and neighbourhood gossip. She mustn’t complain about looking after the house, or admit that she’d lugged backdoor screens up the basement stairs. Then annoyance would colour Holly’s voice. She was alone, alone. Anyone who hadn’t been seventy-five couldn’t understand how she felt; she hadn’t felt this way at seventy-three. If only Hal were here – but perhaps it was best that he’d died before Holly’s accident. No parent should have to bury a child, everyone knew that.

Even when Hal lay dying, he’d sometimes clasped Irene’s hand and said, "My partner in crime." He hadn’t cared for excitement, just peace and quiet. Amazing, how you could have a fine life of tuna sandwiches. At the cemetery back home, the Canada geese had become regular visitors, making a mess of the grass. Irene had heard from another mourner, three gravestones over from Hal’s, that the cemetery guard owned a large dog he let loose at the end of the day, after the last visitor, to chase the geese away.