her somewhat somber look was the only concession shewould give to mourning clothes. They were none too effec-tive, however, as a few curly tendrils at her temple and infront of her ears had escaped their pins and danced merri-ly on her face in the soft spring breeze, defying the impres-sion of the dark suit and black accessories.Samantha tapped her foot even more impatiently as,glancing at the narrow platinum watch on her slim wrist,she thought,
Damn, where is that man?
Looking up, shesaw the long, midnight-blue Cadillac glide to a stop oppo-site her at the curb. Before she took the few steps requiredto reach the car, the driver had jumped out of the frontseat and was holding the door to the back open for her.As he touched her elbow lightly to help her enter, she saidcrossly, "Where have you been?""Sorry, Miss Sam, but the traffic's pretty heavy," hemurmured. She glanced out the window to note the truthof his excuse, realizing she had been so deep in thoughtwhile she waited she hadn't even noticed."Yes, I see, I'm sorry I snapped, Dave. I'm going homenow."Dave smiled to himself as he pulled the big car into thestream of traffic. It was like her to apologize for snappingat him. She was self-willed, haughty, and imperious mostof the time with her family and friends, but rarely ever didshe speak sharply with the employees.Dave had been with the Dennings fifteen years now, heas chauffeur and his wife, Beth, as a cook. They respectedMr. Denning, liked his petite, delicate, second wife, andwere fond of her young half-sister Deborah. But they bothadored Sam, this rebellious, redheaded firebrand, from theday she had come to the big house on Long Island to stay.Dave smiled again as he drove the car expertly through