“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“There’s nothing to tell, really. During college I did the, um, backpacking-through-Europe thing.”
“You,” Annie said, amused. “You, who wouldn’t let me join Girl Scouts because of the camping requirement? You went backpacking? Voluntarily?”
“I know. It was a bit of an ill-fated trip.” Laurel shook her head. “In multiple ways. I came to Oxfordshire because … well, because I had the vague notion of some people I should see here, folks who might be family.”
“The people associated with the land you’re trying to sell?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Did you track them down?”
“Not really. The trip was a waste. I never found what I wanted, which is how most poorly planned odysseys end up. I left here feeling pretty dejected.”
“Well, at least you got some free property out of it.”
“Yes. At least there’s that.”
“Is that when you bought the book?” Annie asked. “The Missing Duchess? When you visited Banbury?”
“I don’t remember exactly.” Laurel’s eyes flittered away. “Probably, though. The duchess was big talk in this town, her own tourist attraction, though she’d died by the time I came through.”
“So you remember the book.”
“Yes. No. I mean. It’s not … it’s hard to explain, Annie.”
“You lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie. It’s hard to explain.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that. I thought lawyers never found anything hard to explain.”
“I was a different person then. Seeing the book.” Laurel bit down on her lip, then exhaled. “It’s not about the book. It’s about the memories the book brings up.”
“Proust,” Annie said.
“Excuse me?”
“Proust talked about the importance of memory when reading, the effect of setting and circumstance.”
“Did he? Well, you would know,” Laurel said with a smile. “I guess that’s why I paid the big bucks for your schooling.”
“Yes, so I can have knowledge of dead writers. A very useful life skill. It is so very perplexing that I don’t have a job.”
Annie didn’t mention that the knowledge came not from her spendy education but from chatting with a stranger in a bar.
“How have I never heard of you backpacking through Europe?” she said. “I mean … what? I can’t imagine you doing anything that free-spirited. Mostly you’re all business, all the time.”
“I did go to college in the seventies,” Laurel said. “We were all a little looser in those days. Or we tried.”
“But you graduated from an all-girls school with insane academic standards,” Annie pointed out. “How many ‘loose’ people could there have been at Wellesley? Or at Georgetown Law?”
“There were a few. And many more who were trying to be free spirits but didn’t necessarily pull it off. Ah, tales of misspent youth. Before you get married, make sure you have a few tales of your own.”
“I still don’t get it,” Annie said, her mother’s story nagging at her. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to beat a dead horse but—”
“You know I hate that expression.”
“How come you haven’t brought this up before?” Annie asked. “How did you not mention it on the plane ride to London, or during dinner last night, or even over coffee this morning? You’re a nostalgic person. You get teary-eyed about horses and summer interns. Then there’s this book, which stirs up all kinds of bittersweet memories. I say this with all due respect, but what the hell, Mom?”
Laurel inhaled deeply, as if to speak, then held her breath there, locked safely behind her chest. For the first time Annie saw not a rigid, rule-abiding horsewoman but instead a person with a past.
“Was he with you?” Annie asked, the answer suddenly so obvious. “When you came through Banbury with your friends? Was he backpacking, too?”
“Who?” Her mom blinked.
“My father. Who else?”
“No. God no. He was nowhere near my life then.”
“Then what is it?” Annie stood. “What happened?”
“Annie, if you ever decide to have children—”
“Of course I’ll have children!” she snapped. “Eric is dying to become a father!”
Laurel frowned.
“Not now or anything,” Annie added hastily. “But, Mom, we’re doing it. We’re getting married. You’re not going to talk me out of it.”
“I understand that,” Laurel said with a nod. “Listen, sweetheart. Teaching your children to be their own people, to exist outside of you, is tough. You want them to avoid repeating your past mistakes but you’re also wary of forcing them to repeat the good stuff, too. That comes with a whole set of expectations that doesn’t work for anyone.”
“Which is why you didn’t mind that I majored in English, instead of finance like you.”