But that was all very well for Jasmine to say, whose family had even fewer advantages than Michelle’s. Lulu was due back at the pub in less than an hour; and the letter where Grandma Jo finally found her love was one that deserved a certain ceremony. She replaced the small envelopes inside the large one, laid the package on the shelf, and left the attic.

“Hi, honey.” Fee was coming in from the garden, a bowl of freshly picked tomatoes in her hand. If she had noticed the volume of time that Lulu was spending in the attic lately, she gave no sign. “Would you like a cup of tea? Your father’s on his way home—he’s off to Greece first thing tomorrow, so we’re having an early supper.”

“Umm …” Lulu had been avoiding seeing her parents together lately. Neither of them approved of the Crown & Sceptre—her mother because she thought they worked her too hard; her father, he said, because its beer made him yearn for the rich, full flavor of yesterday’s dishwater—and when together they tended to gang up on her about it.

“Do stay, sweetie,” said Fee. “He asked me the other day if he’d been fantasizing having a middle daughter as well as an extra wife. I think he thinks you’re mad at him.” She set the tomatoes on the table and frowned at Lulu. “You’re not, are you?”

“No.” Although occasionally irritated by her father, Lulu did not on the whole get seriously angry with him. But it was true that she had seen less of him lately than she had of her mother; and, having been challenged, her instinct was to become defensive. “Although he can talk about not being around—he’s never here.”

“Would you have liked a dad who was around more?” Setting out plates of food, Fee looked up a little anxiously at her daughter. “My dad wasn’t there much, either, he was always off flying somewhere, but I never really thought about it—he was sort of there when he was there, and I always knew he loved me, which was the important thing. Would you have liked a dad who came home every evening like other dads?”

“No, Dad’s fine.” Or rather, thought Lulu, but knowing better than to voice the thought aloud, he was fine when he was not trying to talk her into a career choice. “Well, he’s fine if you like that sort of thing.”

“Good, because it’s kind of late to trade him in at this point.” Fee inspected the table—pink ham, brown bread, scarlet radishes and tomatoes, green salad leaves, and a jar of many-colored zinnias from the garden. “I used to cook,” she said a little doubtfully. “But with summer food you don’t really need to. Anyway, it’s far too hot tonight to slave over a stove.”

“Claire cooks proper meals.” David Atwater, tramping in on heavy feet, exuded masculine bonhomie. “Soup for a starter, homemade meat pies with mashed potatoes and gravy, and suet pudding and custard for dessert. Winter and summer alike, she says it’s what she was put on this earth to do.”