“Or ride one.”

“Or ride one.” But it was a useless parroting, and Deanna found herself, for the first time in a long time, wanting to scream.

She glanced at her daughter for a moment as she drove and then looked straight ahead again. “Why does it have to be this way? You’re leaving for three months. We won’t see each other. Couldn’t it be pleasant between us today? What’s the point of this constant haggling?”

“I didn’t start it. You brought up the motorcycle.”

“Do you have any idea why? Because I love you, because I give a damn. Because I don’t want you killed. Does that make any sense to you?” There was desperation in her voice, and finally anger.

“Yeah, sure.”

They rode on in silence to the airport. Deanna felt tears sting her eyes again, but she would not let Pilar see them. She had to be perfect, she had to be strong. The way Marc was, the way all his damned French relatives pretended to be, the way Pilar wanted to be. Deanna left her car with the valet at the curb, and they followed the porter inside, where Pilar checked in. When the clerk handed back her passport and ticket, she turned to her mother.

“You’re coming to the gate?” There was more dismay in her voice than encouragement.

“I thought that might be nice. Would you mind?”

“No.” Sullen, and angry. A goddamn child. Deanna wanted to slap her. Who was this person? Who had she become? Where had the sunny little girl who loved her gone? They each held tightly to their own thoughts as they walked toward the gate, collecting appreciative glances as they went. They were a striking pair. The dark beauty of Deanna in a beautifully cut, black wool dress, her hair swept into a knot, with a bright red jacket over one arm; Pilar in her youthful blaze of blonde, tall and slender and graceful in a white linen suit that had met with her mother’s approval as she came down the stairs. Even her grandmother would approve-unless she found the cut too American. Anything was possible, with Madame Duras.