ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS
PARIS
NOVEMBER 2001
“So you did go backpacking in college,” Annie said when her mother stopped to catch her breath. “In a sense.”
She noticed then how narrow the space between Laurel and Gus as they sat on the couch. What had they talked about in the ninety minutes Jamie and Annie were sipping wine downstairs? What had they decided?
“Except you told me that you went to Banbury,” Annie said. “Not Paris.”
“Oh, we went to Banbury. As soon as I realized that’s where Win was.”
Laurel stood and began pacing, hands planted firmly in the back pockets of her jeans. From across the room, Gus watched, eyes shining. At once Annie thought of a quote from Edith Wharton: “Each time you happen to me all over again.”
Was that what Laurel was doing? Happening all over again? It’d been so long. Her mother was—Annie had to say it—middle-aged, clinging to the last vestiges of her forties. Then again, there was a lot of time left in the game.
Maybe … Annie thought just as her mother had so long ago. Just maybe …
“So then what?” Annie asked. “You took me to Banbury. You were single. Gus was if not single, at least unmarried. But nothing happened, given you ended up back where you started. In Boston. Finishing up at Wellesley.”
“He refused to see me,” Laurel said. “Had some intermediary tell me to ‘bugger off.’”
“That was my sister-in-law,” Gus said. “Though I put her up to it.”
“Why would you put her up to it?” Annie asked.
“Fear. Nothing more. The reports of Pru’s return were widespread. Everyone in the village remembered the young girl who lived at the Grange so they were all atwitter when she came back to inspect her land, toting a scrummy baby and sporting a diamond ring on her finger.”
A diamond, as it turned out, that wasn’t nearly as large as the first. It was a diamond Laurel purchased for herself, so no one would hassle her. Unwed mothers were still a stigma, pretty girls forever hit on, particularly when traveling alone.
“After I heard this,” Gus said. “And saw for myself, from afar, I found I was spent. I couldn’t go through it again.”
“You refused to see her,” Annie said to Gus. Then to her mother: “And you went back to Boston. For a second time.”
Laurel nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. She tried to blink away the tears forming on her lashes.
“So when did Charlie die?” Annie asked. “How?”
“Can’t we just…” her mom said. “Can’t we just say he died? That there was an accident and leave it at that?”
“Tell her,” Gus said, his voice like gravel. “Now. She deserves to know the truth.”
“I know. God, I know.” Laurel pushed her hands against her eyes and let out a small, strangled breath. “It’s so damned hard.”
She looked at the ceiling, for a minute, and then to Annie.
“If I’d stayed in Banbury,” Laurel said. “If I’d stayed in Paris. If I hadn’t stayed with Charlie. If I never went back to Boston. If I’d never met Edith Gray at all. What would’ve prevented that?” She pointed toward the door. “What would’ve ensured this?”
She pointed to Annie, and then to Gus.
“That’s a lot of ifs,” Annie said. “And they explain nothing. What happened?”
Laurel paused and opened her mouth. With this gesture she also opened every last part of her that had previously been closed. To Annie, to others, and even to herself.
Finally, Laurel began to speak. This time she wouldn’t hold anything back.