Page 12 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Chapter Ten

Veronica realized within five minutes of landing that her employer was more than a little drunk.

Or drugged. It was hard to wake her, and then she was groggy—and cranky—as they made their way through the long snaking customs lines.

Veronica had raised three teenagers and knew to simply refuse to engage, though she made a mental note to have a little chat about it before their next flight.

Once they got through the line, they had to wait for another half hour for their bags. The whole time, Mariah was bleary eyed and bad tempered, snapping at a woman who bumped them as she passed with a big suitcase.

“She’s just cranky,” Veronica said to the woman, who looked alarmed and hurried by. “Maybe don’t spit on the passersby,” she said mildly.

“She ran over my foot! The sore leg.”

“It’s crowded. She didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Don’t,” Mariah said with venom. “You’re not my mom.”

“That’s true. But I am your companion and deserve not to be embarrassed.”

She glared through red-rimmed eyes. “Fine.”

Veronica rescued the bags, and they made their way into the main terminal. “I think it might be a good idea to get a quick meal,” she said. “Some tomato juice for the ... grogginess?”

“Henry is meeting us.”

“Henry?”

“The photographer my mom wanted for the book. They’re old friends.”

Veronica blinked, scanning faces for anyone who looked like a photographer. “Okay. Is he traveling with us?”

“He’s not staying with us, but he’ll do some driving and that kind of thing.”

“Do you know what he looks like?”

“Yeah, they were friends from, like, college days.”

Veronica stood by as Mariah scanned the waiting people. Even this gave her a thrill, seeing so many faces and modes of dress. A swell of excitement penetrated the slight anxiety of arrival and not having a clear plan. She liked a plan.

“I don’t see him.” Mariah exhaled heavily. “There’s a café. Let’s get something.” She set off limping. Veronica pulled the bags, reminding herself that this was not her child, but her employer, and this was what she’d signed on for.

And her own need for caffeine had hardly been touched.

They ordered lattes and tomato juice. Veronica lingered over the pastries, not wanting to overindulge but aware that she was very, very hungry.

She finally chose a flaky-looking Danish with apricot filling and a sugar glaze.

Mariah took her time, too, and finally chose a croissant and an enormous cookie.

She carried the bags and cups while Veronica wheeled the suitcases, and they settled where they could see the open area outside arrivals.

“What does Henry look like?” Veronica asked, taking her pastry out of the white paper bag, leaning in to take a grounding whiff of butter and yeast and the reassuring sweetness of apricot.

Mariah gulped tomato juice, all of it at once like she was chugging a beer, one finger raised.

She slammed it down and took a breath, wiping her face with a paper napkin.

“That was great.” In seconds, her color was better.

It was like watching a video-game character revive.

“Henry’s tall and skinny and kind of eccentric looking.

Not like a war photographer, actually. More like a . .. I don’t know. You’ll see.”

Veronica squinted into the distance, trying to imagine what an eccentric war photographer would look like. “He’s a war photographer, and he’s going to shoot pictures of cafés?”

“He’ll do a great job.”

Veronica took a delicate bite from the edge of the pastry, trying to catch a bit of sugar with the dough.

It crumbled exactly right, dough layered with butter, baked to a perfect crispy brown.

“Mmm,” she said with approval, and took another, bigger bite.

Pretty dry, but decent. Licking sugar off her fingers, she asked, “What is this book, exactly? Do you have an outline, or a prototype or anything? I’m not sure what we’re going to be looking for when we visit the spots on this list.”

“I don’t really know a lot, honestly. I brought all her notes, but I’m not a writer, so ...” She shrugged. “I think Henry knows more.”

Unease settled with prickly edges against her solar plexus. This was the opposite of having a plan. She pinched off a teeny tiny piece of the pastry and settled it in her mouth. It was too small to taste, and she took another one, bigger. “Can you make me copies of all that material?”

“That’s the stuff I already sent you.” She wolfed down bites of her pastry like she might lose the chance if she didn’t hurry up. Brushing her chin and the front of her T-shirt, she said, “Is there, like, a special way to do research?”

“Not necessarily, but it would be good to have some background. History of the place, who owned it first, how it started, why she chose the particular places she wanted to write about.”

“And you downloaded some of her other books, right?”

“Yes.” Veronica picked up the pastry and took another bite, which technically took her over the halfway mark. Fruit spilled into her mouth, slightly spiced with something, and she closed her eyes to see if she could figure out what it was. Nutmeg? No, maybe allspice.

So good.

Spying someone in the crowd, Mariah waved vigorously. “There’s Henry.”

The man was well over six feet tall, with darkly tanned skin and salt-and-pepper hair grown a bit too long. Veronica would not have called him skinny, though. Rangy, long limbed.

Mariah leaped up and greeted him with a little cry. He wrapped her in a bear hug. They clung to each other for a long moment, and Veronica noted the tears on Mariah’s face. This was someone important.

In a gravelly voice, Henry said, “How’re you holding up?”

“It’s only been three weeks since you’ve seen me,” Mariah said wryly. She gestured toward Veronica. “This is my assistant. She was asking me about the background of the places we’re shooting.”

His attention shifted. Without expression he held out a big hand. No jewelry, no watch. “Henry Spinuzza,” he said. His voice was intensely deep, resonant, and his face showed the years he’d spent in the elements—creases around his eyes, cheeks weathered.

“Veronica Barrington. Nice to meet you.”

“You’re not what I was expecting in a companion,” he said, gaze direct.

“Yeah. I get that.” But she didn’t know what else to add.

“Are you ready?” His accent was New Jersey, softened but still distinct. “We should have a window after the morning traffic.”

Mariah allowed herself to be helped up, but she swayed a little unsteadily. He grasped her elbow and glanced toward Veronica, eyebrows up in a question. Veronica nodded.

Mariah reached back and grabbed the rest of the Danish. “You’re not going to eat this, right?”

“No. Go ahead.”

She did, wiping her fingers quickly on the last of the napkins.

In addition to having Mariah lean on him, Henry dragged one of the bags, which freed Veronica to look around.

She took in the various languages and accents, so many different kinds of people.

A young woman in a bright-pink hijab spoke a quick lyrical language into her phone.

A straw-thin businessman in a blue suit and pointed shoes huffed around her.

Men with placards, looking as serious as bodyguards, stood near the exit doors.

She peered into kiosks and saw candy she’d never heard of lined up in rows, and made a mental note to try them, and an advertisement for a biscuit she wasn’t sure was sweet or savory.

Outside, the air was wet and cold. Veronica was glad of her lightweight, very warm ski jacket, a piece of clothing that had cost half of her now-rent.

It was totally worth it as they moved slowly for the sake of Mariah, who was also cloaked in a high-end puffer coat.

At last they arrived at a midsize SUV-style car, black and ordinary.

Or so she thought until she saw the Range Rover name on the tailgate.

Interesting. Her life did not usually include first-class flights or luxury vehicles.

Henry loaded the back with their bags. Veronica started to get into the back seat, but Mariah stopped her. “I need to lie down.”

“Of course.” She opened the front door, but of course the steering wheel was on the opposite side, and with an embarrassed chuckle, she rounded the car and got in. Mariah was already spread out in the back, her coat over her face. Veronica half grinned, thinking she’d be snoring any second.

Henry glanced over the seat and shook his head. “Pills?” he asked.

“Maybe? I think she has a flask, too.”

“I can hear you,” Mariah said. “Yes, to both.”

“Can you not kill yourself, please?” Henry said into the rearview mirror.

“I’m careful,” Mariah mumbled.

“That’s what they all say. And they’re just as dead.”

“Fine,” she said with a growl. “I’m not dead, though, so can you let me sleep off this hangover?”

Henry gave a curt nod, adjusted the mirror, and pulled out. “Do you mind if I play music?”

It surprised her that he’d even ask. “Of course not. It’s your car.”

He plugged in his phone and a mellow brand of jazz emerged. Of course it would be cool. She smiled.

“What?” he asked. “Does this bring back memories?”

“Not at all.” She tried to think of a way to say what she thought without sounding like an idiot. “Just”—she spread a hand toward the radio—“I’m so not surprised that you’d like something hip like jazz.”

He slowed at the entrance to the parking structure, waiting for traffic, glancing over. His eyes were a clear hazel-y green. “Am I hip?”

“Maybe,” she ventured. “You’re a photographer in London. You’re driving a pretty fancy car. That’s seems kind of hip.”

He shifted, pulling into traffic. “I guess. I don’t live in London, though. I’m just here for this.”

“The book, you mean?”

“Partly. It’s really for Rachel.”

“Mariah’s mother?”

He nodded. “She’d want somebody to be in Mariah’s corner.”

“Are you familiar with the project?”