Three hours later, as the yacht made its way around the headland and into the small bay where my mother’s villa was, Dauphine hadn’t spoken a single word to me. She’d packed almost all her animals, which told me she was making a statement that she wouldn’t be coming back on the boat any time soon. My chest was aching with guilt. Despite the businesslike and light tone of Josie’s resignation letter, letting me know what a wonderful time she’d had with Dauphine and that a job opportunity awaited her back home, I couldn’t help feeling like I was doing the wrong thing by letting her go and also that she was probably really upset. Did I believe she had a job offer? Certainly, it was possible. Anyone would be a fool not to hire her. But somehow, I knew that wasn’t the reason. The reason was all me. And I couldn’t help the grudging respect I had for her drawing a line in the sand and leaving in the wake of what had happened between us.

Evan had apparently taken Josie to the train station on the way to Sofia Antipolis, and they’d left early to beat the traffic.

My mother was expecting us for lunch on her terrace, so as soon as Paco dropped anchor, Dauphine and I, and her bags, took the tender to the small concrete jetty where one of my mother’s house managers who doubled as security, stood waiting with Jorge, her private secretary. Jorge, skinny and always impeccably dressed, had an effeminate air and was, as far as I could tell, utterly ageless. He’d looked and dressed exactly the same since he’d started in this post over twenty years ago. Arriette used to joke that he was a vampire. My mother’s house manager, Albert, was part of a husband and wife team that did everything from groceries to maintenance and lived on the property. Albert had aged. But he still looked fit and strong.

I threw the line up to Albert and he tied us up to the heavy iron mooring cleat before giving us a hand up.

“Right on schedule,” Jorge praised after we’d all said our greetings. Albert and I grabbed Dauphine’s bags and headed up the stone steps cut into the cliff.

My mother waited at the top by the wrought iron gate to her villa. She wore white palazzo pants, a brightly colored tunic top, and pearls at her throat. Her hair, still expensively blonde and shot through with silver, was perfectly wound up in her signature chignon. She threw out her hands in welcome. “Ma petite!” she exclaimed, grabbing my daughter into a tight embrace and then kissing her on each cheek. She set her back and looked her up and down. “You are a treat for these eyes. I’ve missed you!”