Young, attractive, an excellent secretary, my mom worked for a congressman in his local office, right in our neighborhood. One Saturday he had something he wanted done before he returned to D.C. She had to go to his summer house. She made me go with her. I didn’t want to. Why did I have to? She was adamant, unusually so. I remember a daunting place an hour's drive away - polished wood, lots of glass, high ceilings. He let us in and they worked in his study. I sat outside the room. I can still see the open door, the two of them on either side of an enormous desk, and a book in my hand, that I'd likely brought with me, but not the title.