The plane was already boarding when they arrived, and Deanna had only a moment to hold the girl’s hand tightly in her own. “I mean it about the motorcycle, darling. Please…”

“All right, all right.” But Pilar was already looking past Deanna, eager to be on the plane.

“I’ll call you. And call me, if you have any problems.”

“I won’t.” It was said with the assurance of not-quite-sixteen years.

“I hope not.” Deanna’s face softened as she looked at her daughter, then pulled her into a hug. “I love you, darling. Have a good time.”

“Thanks, Mom.” She favored her mother with a brief smile, and a quick wave, as her golden mane flew into the passageway. Deanna suddenly felt leaden. She was gone again. Her baby… the little girl with the curly blonde hair, the child who had held her arms out so trustingly each night to be hugged and kissed… Pilar. Deanna took a seat in the lounge and waited to see the 747 begin its climb into the sky. At last she rose and walked slowly back to her car. The valet tipped his cap appreciatively at the dollar she handed him and wondered about her as she swung her legs gracefully into the car. She was one hell of a good-looking woman; he couldn’t quite guess how old she was: twenty-eight? thirty-two? thirty-five? forty? It was impossible to tell. Her face was young, but the rest of her, the way she moved, the look in her eyes, was so old.

Deanna heard him coming up the stairs as she sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair. It was twenty after ten, and he hadn’t called her all day. Dominique, his secretary, had left a message with Margaret at noon: Monsieur Duras would not be home for dinner. Deanna had eaten in the studio while she sketched, but her mind had not been on her work. She had been thinking of Pilar.

She turned and smiled at him as he came into the room. She had actually missed him. The house had been strangely quiet all day. “Hello, darling. That was a long day.”