The transatlantic flight gave Pamela a wonderful opportunity to try to catch up on her reading. Her current selection, manifesting itself as a large, dust-covered tome, was by German scholar Wenzel Benedikt, and consisted mainly of his hypotheses on propaganda's effect on capitalism, communism, and nationalism. The book was long-winded, pompous, and frankly boring, so it was no surprise that the woman was not truly reading the words on the pages before her. No, instead she had trained her thoughts on her daughter.

Samantha Elizabeth Manson. It was a regal name, one not fitting for the 20-year-old. Pamela had been trying most of her adult life to tame her…anomaly…of a daughter who broke off from everything the bourgeois life mandated. The large tome in Pamela's hands snapped shut with a resonating bang, the only indication of the woman's inner fury and turmoil on the subject. Samantha had always been a rebellious girl; starting when she was very young, insisting on calling herself Sam, no matter how much her mother protested that it was too boyish for a proper young lady; then when she started to paint her nails, eyes, and lashes with black makeup. Pam had dealt then. This little defiant act had gone too far. Oh, why couldn't Samantha have fallen for that nice, rich Californian boy? His father ran a prestigious hotel chain that made two million each week!

Nay, Samantha had claimed he was too haughty, too snobbish, that she wanted to fall in love on her own. Her daughter had gone on to reject every suitor that her mother had painstakingly handpicked. Perhaps, in part, this most recent of offences was partially Pamela's fault. Perhaps she had attempted to coax her daughter into florid ball gowns one too many times. Perhaps she shouldn't have tried to reform Samantha's punk-rock tendencies. Perhaps she should not have forced her daughter to attend pageants, balls, and operas day in and day out. Nevertheless, regardless of who was at fault, never should Samantha have sunk to such a low!

Pamela never knew Samantha had a daughter.

With, of all people, Daniel Fenton. The lowlife boy she and her husband had been fighting against since Samantha had been fourteen. That her grandchild remained secreted from Pamela for so long infuriated the woman. How could Samantha have hidden an issue this large from her parents? In truth, Pam had remained uninformed of the child (conceived out of spite and rebellion, no doubt,) because her conclusion would be exactly the one she had come to; Samantha had not told her own mother, and this was an attack on the woman. After all, why else would Samantha want a child at 20 years old? Not once did Pamela think that Sam and Daniel might actually be "in love," nor did she even consider the fact that the two were married (straight out of high school, which Pam had protested vehemently,) making their relationship "none of her damn business" as Samantha maintained. Both ideas were preposterous.

These most intimate of happenings were something that a mother and daughter should openly share, at least once! Bah! Samantha should never have dated that uneducated, poor, hedonistic beast of a boy! The woman's knuckles turned white as her hands clutched the ends of the armrests. Livid, Pamela looked out of her window. Still only the endless blue ocean, though land was getting closer by the second. Breath exploded out her in violent relief. Good. She wouldn't have to face her problem for a few more moments. Since Jeremy, her husband, had informed her of what he had found, Pamela had been a wreck. The conference she had been attending was suddenly unimportant. She had hailed her private jet (as the Manson's were never known for frugality) and was flying home from Spain not even a half hour after Jeremy had told her, sans the caviar and champagne normally included in the itinerary.

Samantha had always been closer to her father, and in the past, this had made Pam quite jealous. She was almost sure that Jeremy had known about the child for quite some time, making her even more furious. Part of her, however, was grateful that Samantha had confided in her father first. Jeremy would have to deal with the immediate after-effects of this impetuous and stupid decision.

There was a ding as the "fasten seat belts" sign lit up in red. A stewardess walked up to Pam. "Mrs. Manson? We will be arriving in Amity Park shortly."

Pamela curtly nodded, sending the young woman away. Now she would have to face Samantha.

So be it.