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wearing only added to her careworn appearance. “We’ll attend services at St. Martin in the Fields and then go on to the National Gallery.” She paused. “Caroline loves art.”
    Lucy glanced at the red-haired girl, who seemed more interested in using a triangle of toast to mop up the egg and bean juice that remained on her plate than in discussing the day’s program.
    Her father, Tom, stabbed the map spread open before him on the table with a stubby finger. “We can take the Northern Line from Goodge Street. It’s just a few stops. Ann doesn’t feel up to much today, what with this jet lag and all.”
    Lucy thought he seemed a practical, take-charge sort of guy, rather like Bill, and she suddenly missed her husband.
    “Fine with me,” said Pam as their breakfasts arrived. She poked her fork at the generous slices of pink meat that were arranged alongside her fried egg. “This doesn’t look like bacon.”
    “English bacon’s different,” said Sue, looking as if she wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. As far as Lucy knew, Sue rarely ate solid food and seemed to exist on little more than black coffee and cocktails.
    Rachel wasn’t so fussy; she was digging right in. “It’s very good.”
    Lucy tasted a forkful of beans and found them not so good. “Live and learn,” she said with a grimace. In the future, she decided, she’d skip the beans.
    “Don’t like the beans?” It was Will Barfield, who was seated with his mother on the other side of their table, next to the wall. “I’ll take them.”
    “Will!” protested Laura. She was dressed today in the same ladylike caramel-colored leather jacket she’d worn on the plane but had added a different scarf, green this time. “Don’t be rude!”
    “He’s not rude,” laughed Lucy, thinking of her son, Toby, and the huge amounts he ate as a teenager. “He’s still growing.” She spooned her beans onto her bread plate and passed it over. “It’s a shame to waste them, and I’m certainly not going to eat them.”
    “Thanks,” said Will, diving in. “You know, I’m not all that interested in this historical stuff,” he said, raising a fork dripping with juicy beans and popping it into his mouth. “I heard the London Eye is really cool. I think I’d like to do that.”
    “Fine with me,” said Pam.
    “But, Will,” protested his mother, slipping a pair of schoolmarmish wire-rimmed reading glasses on her nose and preparing to consult her guidebook. “You can’t come to London and miss the Bloody Tower. I think you’d really like it—they say it has suits of armor worn by Henry the Eighth.”
    Will had plucked a tiny jar of marmalade from the little silver rack and was slathering it onto a triangle of toast. “Nah. I wanna do the Eye and then maybe hike over to the Tate Modern and that Millennium Bridge over the river. I saw it in a movie—it was neat.”
    Laura was studying the map in her guidebook. “Maybe you’re right. The Millennium Bridge is next to the New Globe Theatre. I’d love to see that. It’s a copy of Shakespeare’s theater. Maybe we could even see a play there.”
    Will’s face stiffened. “It’s a pretty long walk, Mom.” Lucy and her friends exchanged glances. It was clear to them that Will was trying to get away from his mother for the day. “Probably too much for you,” he added.
    “I walk all the time,” she said, squashing his rebellion with a look as she removed her glasses and tucked them into a quilted case. “I walk miles every week with the dog.”
    “Okay,” he said, accepting defeat with a sigh and pushing his chair back. “Let’s go.”
    Laura popped happily to her feet. “Have a nice day,” she said to the group in general before following her tall son out of the room.
    Lucy watched them go, spreading a dab of butter on her toast and wondering how this little struggle would play out. It was only the second day of the trip and Will was already chafing at his mother’s attempts to