“Something along those lines.”
Unlike her daughter, Laurel never would’ve graduated college without a legitimate career path. Not that fake researcher wasn’t growing on Annie. But when she first declared her major some two or three years ago, it was a half-assed rebellion, a test, which Laurel readily passed. Her mom put up exactly no fight.
“Annabelle, I’m having a very hard time with your engagement,” Laurel said, chin and voice trembling. “Eric is a lovely person but when I look at what you’re missing…”
Annie thought of Mrs. Spencer, a woman who had had her own apartment in Paris at age twenty, over a hundred years ago. She tried to picture her mom at twenty but it felt like trying to read a book in the dark.
“Maybe I’m not missing anything,” Annie said, to her mom and to herself.
“Maybe not. Listen, I’m not a perfect parent. Even now I’m trying to figure things out. I want you to be independent. I want you to see the world and experience the awesome. But I also want to save you from the pain. These desires, mostly they conflict.”
Annie wondered if her mother regretted it.
If Laurel regretted putting every ounce of everything into her daughter and her job. See the world? Experience the awesome? Perhaps Laurel had done these things before becoming a mom, but twenty years was a long time to hold the same pattern.
“I love you,” Annie said, for lack of anything better.
It was all she had left. Annie was hungry. And exhausted. And not sure where to go from there, their two minds unlikely to meet. Annie was having a hard time seeing her mother right then. She didn’t even know where to look.
“You’re a great mom,” she said.
This, if nothing else, was true.
“Oh. Thanks,” Laurel mumbled. “I try.”
“Seriously. The best. All my high school friends thought so.”
“Good Lord,” Laurel said with a laugh. “The endorsement of teenagers usually means you’re the opposite of a great mom.”
“Don’t worry, you were adequately strict. But nice. Normal. And people like horses.”
“The horses have saved the day more than once.”
Laurel walked toward the closet. She reached down to grab a pair of flats, which were lined up beside the rest of her shoes. Above them hung a row of carefully pressed slacks. Meanwhile, Annie’s clothes sat in a towering mound atop her suitcase.
“I have to go into London tomorrow,” Laurel said. “Only for the day. We’ll do a real sightseeing trip when this is all over, but do you want to join me? You can explore while I have another soul-sucking powwow. Other lawyers. Ugh. So, whaddya say?”
“Um, I don’t know,” Annie replied, surprised to be thinking of Gus, and of the duchess. “Ya know I’ll pass. Hang out here.”
“I thought you’d seen the sum total of Banbury proper?”
“Yeah. But.” Annie shrugged. “I don’t feel like schlepping around London alone. I’d rather go together, when we have more time.”
“Okay. But I’ll miss you.” Laurel said this distantly, her face not on Annie but turned toward the window, and the Banbury Cross outside. “Should we get something to eat? I’m famished. What about that place you mentioned earlier?” She flipped back around. “Do they serve dinner?”
“No!” she snapped. “No. I mean, they serve dinner but I ate there for lunch. Let’s try something else. Didn’t Nicola mention a nice restaurant in a neighboring town?”
“She probably did, though I tune out ninety percent of what she says.” Laurel tilted her head toward the door. “Shall we?”
“Sure, but can we stop by the lobby first? I want to shoot Eric a quick e-mail. Tell him about my day.”
“You poor thing. Thanks to my endless meetings, that’s going to be the dullest e-mail between two lovebirds since the dawn of time. Or the dawn of e-mail. ‘Dear Eric, today I did nothing while my mother committed various acts of child neglect.’”
“Actually,” Annie said with a smile. “The day wasn’t so bad.”
With that, Annie grabbed her bag, taking with her not only a wallet, but The Missing Duchess, visions of Mrs. Spencer, and the feeling of words left unsaid.
Eleven
Subject:
Earl of MEU
From:
[email protected]
Date:
Oct 30, 2001 11:32
To:
[email protected]
The Earl of Winton?
If that doesn’t sound like a sack of crap, I don’t know what does. Be careful, Annie. You’re a trusting girl. Too sweet for your own good. That’s how you ended up with me, I’m pretty sure.