from below rises to cool the entire house.rn”And it doesn’t cost her a cent!” Andrearnfinished admiringly.rnThe conversation turned briefly tornshow business, for me a well-timed reminderrnthat Andrea Marcovicci, whom Irnknow almost entirely so far as a singer andrnmusician, is in addition a distinguishedrnactress whose life and career remainrndeeply embedded in the theatrical andrnfilm worlds. (Bringing together thernthreads of previous careers — on Broadwayrnand off, Shakespeare in the Park,rnWoody Allen films, and made-for-televisionrnmovies — to effect something marvelouslyrnoriginal and strikingly uniquernmay well be her greatest achievement.)rnWlicn the wine was gone and no one hadrnanything left to contribute on the subjectsrnof Henr}’ Jaglom and John Simon,rnAndrea proposed a swim in the lake, andrnshe, Shelly, and I went to change.rnThe presence of Andrea Marcoviccirndoes not conduce to an acute awarenessrnof one’s further surroundings. Havingrnglimpsed water through the screen ofrntrees, I’d imagined a secluded path of arnhundred feet or so, descending from Mrs.rnCarroll’s back door to the waterside. Inrnthe guest bathroom, I removed shirt andrnsummer slacks, hung them fronr a hookrnon the inside of the door, and drew on myrnbathing suit. A pile of neatly folded towelsrnwas at hand, but I remember what myrnmother had to say about taking bath towelsrnto the beach. And it was only a hundredrnfeet down there, an^avay. I left thernbathroom and padded on bare feetrnthrough the house to the kitchen, wherernShelly, Andrea, and her mother awaitedrnme in street clothes —and I stood appalledrnin virtual nudit}’, wearing only arnSpecdo swimsuit at the center of Mrs.rnCarroll’s elegant house! Of course,rnthey’d put their clothes back on over theirrnsuits for the walk of several hundred yardsrndownhill, past neighboring houses to thernlakeside. Playfully, Andrea tossed mc arnbeach towel to catch. I snatched at it likerna pug dog catching a bonbon in midairrnand draped the thing around my neck inrna desperate effort to achieve what I hopedrnwas the debonair look.rnThe beach was private, a strand ofrnwhite sand further improved by a bathhouse,rnsnack bar, floating dock, andrnmarkers. Lush green hills surroundingrnthe glinting brown lake respired the hunrid,rnclinging atmosphere. We orderedrnfrom the snack bar and stood chatting onrnthe sand with a couple about to swim tornthe far shore, while waiting for the orderrnto come up. Wlren Andrea admired thernfins the’ were using, the woman broughtrnher the Zoom box-end so she could orderrna pair off the Internet to take with her onrnvacation in Hawaii in August. We sat at arntable under an umbrella to eat lunch; afterwrnard, Andrea said we must swim now,rnas she had to drive into town on errandsrnfor her mother. The danger of swimmingrnafter eating was, she insisted, arnmyth. Slightly encumbered by half arnturkey sandwich I joined the Spains onrntheir swim across the lake. The trip overrntook under ten minutes, allowing me tornestimate the distance at about a quartermile.rnThe water, spotted by raindrops,rnhad a soft feel, and the stony yellow bottomrnwas visible most of the way. On thernreturn voyage, I suffered a stitch in myrnside and rolled onto my back to relieve it,rnwhile praying Andrea knew whereof shernspoke. (I hadn’t ridden all the way fromrnWyoming to drown at her feet.) Wlienrnthe sHtch passed, I rolled onto my bellyrnagain, finished the trip freestyle, andrnemerged to find Andrea Marcoviccirnstanding to her knees in water and smilingrnat me —a vision nearly as beatific asrnthat of St. Peter beaming through parhngrnclouds of rose and gold.rnAt the house Andrea, after studyingrnMrs. Carroll’s shopping list, announcedrnshe’d been given her marching orders.rnNext Friday and Saturday evenings, Jul)-rn7 and 8, she and Shelly were booked tornperform “Our Songs” at the Cuildhall inrnEast Hampton, On the way out throughrnthe kitchen Andrea paused to discard twornmoldy peaches left out on the end of therncountertop. “There’s some clingingrnpeaches / you can help yourself,” I couldrnnot resist offering, at further risk of becomingrna serious nuisance. She blew mcrna parting kiss across the Landau top of herrnmother’s elderly Cadillac: “Until wernmeet again!” I might call after her returnrnto California between July 19th and thern31st. “After that I want to be left alone,rnlike Garbo.” I assured her, as I untied thernhorse from the bush and stepped up tornthe saddle, I expected to be in the mountainsrnfor the month of August, grillingrntrout over a campfire and drinking JimrnBeam from the bottle —no time or opportunit)^rnto intrude on anybody’s privacy.rnCome to think, it was going to takernfrom now until September 1 just to getrnhome.rnAndrea blew me a final kiss as, with arnsong in my heart, I turned the horse’srnhead toward the setting sun and put himrnfonvard at a trot. Andrea Marcovicci: F,ver’rncowboy’s living dream . . .rnWILL FUTURE GENERATIONS READ Chronicles’!rnPerhaps a better question would be:rn”Will Chronicles be there for futurerngenerations to read?”rnIf you believe that the answer should be “Yes,” then help us securernthe future of Chronicles by remembering us in your will. Whenrnyou next review your will or living trust, ask your attorney to addrna provision making a bequest to:rnThe Rockford Institute.rnYour bequest can be either a fixed dollar amount or a percentagernof your estate.rnFor more information, write or call:rnChristopher CheckrnExecutive Vice PresidentrnThe Rockford Institutern928 North Mam StreetrnRockford, nUnois 61103rn(815)964-5811rn^^fem-^SM^Aeii^^lfjr^?&»,t^^Sii^S^^_^^*S.^^l^KWWi^SÂ¥A^Ma’^fflaiW^^£?^ ‘^tfttr«^^ws,u>mw?i%/-n^*s^’^^s;rn58/CHRONICLESrnrnrn