"You won't have to… I'll be with you all the days of our lives."

"Thank God for that. Listen, do you think we made a baby tonight?"

"I hope so." I craned my neck to look up at him, but his face was obscured in the murky light. Slipping out of his arms, I pushed myself up until my head was next to his on the pillows. I bent over him, took his face between my hands, and kissed him.

When we finally drew apart, I said with a small smile, "But don't worry if we haven't. Think of all the fun we're going to have trying."

I knew immediately that my mother was going to pick a fight with me. I suppose that over the years I have acquired a second sense about her moods, and I recognized she was not in a very pleasant one this morning.

Perhaps it was the set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, the way she held herself in general, so rigidly, with such tautness. In any case, her body language telegraphed that she was spoiling for a fight.

I was determined not to react, not today, the Fourth of July. I wanted this to be a happy, carefree day; after all, it was our big summer celebration. Nothing was going to spoil it.

She was so uptight when I greeted her on the doorstep that I had to steel myself as I kissed her on the cheek. She was not going to be easy to deal with; all of the signs were there.

"I don't know why you have to have your barbecue so early," she complained as she came inside the house. "I had to get up at the crack of dawn to make it out here."

"One o'clock is not so early, Mother," I said quietly, "and you didn't have to arrive at this hour." I glanced at my watch. "It's barely ten-"

"I wanted to help you," she shot back, cutting me off. "Don't I always try to help you, Mallory?"

"Yes, you do," I answered quickly, wishing to placate her. I eyed the bag she was carrying; she had not said anything about spending the night when we had spoken on the phone yesterday, and I hoped she wasn't planning to do so. "What's in the bag?" I asked. "Are you sleeping over?"

"No, no, of course not!" she exclaimed.

She had such a peculiar look on her face, I wondered if the mere idea of this was distasteful to her. However, I did not say a word, deeming it wiser to remain silent.

She added, "But thanks, anyway, for asking me. I have a dinner date tonight. In the city. So I must get back. As for the bag, I have a change of clothes in it. For the barbecue. I do get so creased driving out here." She glanced down at her black-gabardine trousers. "Oh, dear!" she cried. "I hope this dog isn't going to cover me with hairs."

Trixy, ever friendly, was jumping up against her legs. Stifling a sudden flash of annoyance with my mother, I automatically reached for the dog and picked her up.

"The Bichon Frise doesn't shed, Mother." I said this as evenly as I possibly could, exercising great control over myself.

"That's good to know."

"You've always known it," I retorted, unable to keep the acerbity out of my voice.

She ignored this. "Why don't I go into the kitchen and start on the potato salad."

"Oh, but Diana's going to make that."

"Good heavens, Mallory, what does an Englishwoman know about making an all-American potato salad for an all-American celebration like Independence Day? Independence from the British, I might add."

"You don't have to give me a history lesson."

"I'll make the salad," she sniffed. "It's one of my specialties, in case you've forgotten."

"Fine," I answered, eager to promote a peaceful atmosphere. My mother began to move in the direction of the kitchen, obviously anxious to start preparing the famous potato salad.

I said, "I'll take your bag up to the blue guest room; you can use it for the day."

"Thank you," she replied, walking on, not looking back.

I stared after her slim, elegant figure, wondering how my father had resisted the temptation to strangle her. Then I hoisted the bag and, still holding Trixy, ran upstairs to the blue room. I came back down immediately, still carrying the puppy, and in the hall outside my little office I kissed the top of her fluffy white head and put her down.

"Come on, Trixola," I muttered, "let's go and attack her, shall we?"

Trixy looked up at me and wagged her tail, and as I so often am, I was quite convinced she understood exactly what I'd just said. I laughed out loud. Trixy was such a gay little animal; she always brought a smile to my face and made me laugh.

As I hurried toward the kitchen with the dog trotting behind me, I was more determined than ever not to let my mother ruin my day. I wondered whether she purposely wanted to upset me or was merely in a bad mood and taking it out on me. I wasn't sure. But then, that was an old story when it came to my mother and me. I never really knew where I stood with her.

I found her positioned at one of the counters, slicing the chilled boiled potatoes I had made earlier. She had a cup of coffee next to her, and a cigarette dangled from her mouth. It took a lot of self-restraint on my part not to admonish her; I hated her to smoke around us, and most especially when she was working in the kitchen.

"Where are the children and Andrew?" she asked without looking at me.

"They've gone to the local vegetable stand, to buy fresh produce for the barbecue. Corn, tomatoes, the usual. Mother, do you mind not smoking when you're preparing food?"

"I'm not dropping cigarette ash in the salad, if that's what you're getting at," she answered, still sounding peevish.

Once again, I endeavored to placate her. "I know you're not. I just hate the smoke, Mom. Please put it out. If not for your own health or mine, at least for your grandchildren's sake. You know what they're saying about secondhand smoke."

"Lissa and Jamie live in Manhattan. Think of all the polluted air they're breathing in there."

"Only too true, Mother," I snapped. "But let's not add to the problem of air pollution out here, shall we?" I knew my voice had hardened, but I couldn't help myself. I was furious with her, angered that she was taking such a cavalier attitude, and in my house.

My mother swung her beautifully coif fed blonde head around and stared at me over her shoulder.

There was no doubt in my mind that she recognized the unyielding expression which had swept over my face. Certainly she had seen it enough times over the years, and now it had the desired effect. She stubbed out the cigarette in the sink and threw the butt into the garbage pail. After gulping down the last of her coffee, she carried the bowls of potatoes over to the kitchen table and sat down. All of this was done in a blistering silence.

After a moment or two, she said slowly, startling me with her dulcet tones, "Now, Mallory darling, don't be difficult this morning. You know how I hate to quarrel with you. So upsetting." She proffered me the sweetest of smiles.

I was flabbergasted. I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut instantly. She was the most exasperating woman had ever met, and once again I felt that old, familiar rush of sympathy for my father.

In her own insidious and very clever way, she had somehow managed to twist everything, had made it sound as if I had been the one itching for a fight. But experience had taught me there was nothing to be gained by taking issue with her or trying to present my point of view. Silence or acquiescence were the only viable weapons that could defeat her.

I walked over to the refrigerator and brought out the other ingredients for the potato salad, all of which I had prepared at six o'clock this morning, long before her arrival. There were glass bowls of hard-boiled eggs, chopped celery, chopped cornichons, and chopped onions; these I placed on a large wooden tray, along with the salt and pepper mills and a jar of mayonnaise.