she glances at my father , waiting for him to rise and murmur his polite thanks , an echo of hers , to follow her back to the salty little cottage and the dank little room with the pale blue blanket on their double bed , but its as if he hasnt heard her and she stands for a second or two at a loss , like some actress whose co-star has forgotten his cue , and improvisation is not one of her strengths .