“What sort of shoes did you wear at your wedding?” she asked Fee over brunch, nibbling carefully—because now of all times was not the time to start gaining weight—at a medium-sized portion of asparagus frittata.

“I didn’t wear shoes,” said Fee. “I went barefoot, which seemed like a romantic idea at the time, but turned out not to be so smart, because the sand was cold and you’d be surprised how many sharp stones and broken shells there are around.” She peered, mock sternly, at her daughter over her coffee mug. “Take your mother’s advice, honey. On your wedding day … wear shoes.”

“Seriously, Mom,” said Emma.

“I am serious,” said Fee. “I ended up filching a Band-Aid from the shaman—he had a whole store of them, which I thought was interesting—and begging for your father’s socks to stave off frostbite. It was not pretty.”

“Okay.” Emma tried again. “Then what shoes did you wear to the registry office?”

“I don’t know. Probably a pair of patriarchy-friendly high heels because I wanted to please your granny Atwater by trying to look respectable for the occasion, and high heels were the only way you could in those benighted days. No, wait.” She thought for a moment. “It’s coming back to me now. It was just around the time Lady Diana was getting together with Prince Charles, and she was always trying to pretend she wasn’t taller than him, so she’d made flat shoes socially acceptable for the first time. I was actually able to be comfortable on my wedding day at the same time as making Granny Atwater happy, and I remember thinking, God bless you, Lady Di, and God help you, too, marrying in to that crowd. And I was right on both counts, sadly.”

“You should wear high heels sometimes, Mom,” said Emma. “You have nice legs—you should show them off. Wouldn’t Dad like you to?”

“I don’t know,” said Fee. “I’ve never asked him.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “We’re not into playing dress up, if that’s what you’re asking,” she added helpfully.

“Mom!” There were times, Emma felt, when having an American-born family therapist for a mother was overrated. “Of course I’m not.”

“Well, you can ask, honey, if you want,” said Fee. “You do know that, don’t you? You can ask me anything about anything.”

Anything but shoes, Emma thought a little sadly; but to have voiced the thought would only have hurt her mother’s feelings.

“Okay!” A whirl of intensity, Lulu burst in, a smudge on her cheek and her hair wilder than ever, hugging to herself a selection of photographs printed on old-fashioned card. “I’ve narrowed it down to these, so one of them must be of her. Let’s take a look.”

“Not necessarily, sweetie,” said Fee. “There were a lot of them in the family at one time, remember. But hand me my glasses, and we’ll look anyway. We’re looking for Grandma Jo,” she explained to Emma. “Lulu’s been back up in the attic, and it seems she thinks she’s found her.”