Page 17 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Chapter Fourteen

The rooms were quiet when Veronica got up. It was still dark outside, but her phone told her it was seven a.m. She made some oatmeal out of the packets she’d picked up, and some instant coffee and settled in to read her texts and emails.

Such as they were. Jenna had texted a handful of ordinary things, about her exam and a new shirt she bought, and a wish for a good time. Her friend Amber had sent a flurry, too, which was unusual.

hope ur having a good time, so jealous

court today

bad news

assfuck judge threw the book at me

full damages

have no idea what Ima do

know ur prolly asleep. sorry. hope u dont have notifications on (better not, u idiot). really thought I might get some kind of leniency given the extenuating circumstances, and family court is usually pretty good to moms, but the bitch thinks I’m a lowlife and I knew that but still

glad one of us caught a break.

Do Not Call Me

just wanted to vent xoxoxoxoxo

eat a scone for me

Sipping coffee in the dark coziness of the sitting room in a ritzy hotel in London, Veronica felt a wash of guilt.

She’d met Amber at a court-ordered support group.

Every single step of the way, Veronica had always had a better result than Amber.

She landed substantial alimony while Amber struggled to even get child support from her deadbeat ex.

Veronica only had to attend three months of support group, while Amber wore an ankle bracelet.

Veronica found an apartment in a nice building for a ridiculous amount of rent, and Amber had finally qualified for a rent-assisted apartment, but because of the bracelet, Amber couldn’t leave Boulder.

That made finding a job and a place to live doubly difficult.

Taking a breath, Veronica typed, Oh, I Hate This For You ! To hell with that judge and loser ex and the whole stupid system—I wish I was there so you could cry on my shoulder

She smiled and continued typing. No, that’s a lie and you know it. I’m glad I’m here. I have 1000 texts from Spence, but I decided I’m not going to read them today.

I will you call you when the times match, you idiot.

She shut the phone down. Ate her oatmeal and finished her coffee. Only then did she look at Spence’s texts. There were seven. They all said the same thing: I can’t pay this much alimony. I’m drowning.

Seven times in a row.

Sorry, she texted. The court decided, not me .

He did not reply, because it was the middle of the night in Colorado. What a relief! She headed for the shower, feeling bold and smart. And then feeling like hell because Amber’s situation was so different. She’d paid so much more than Veronica had.

It wasn’t fair.

And yet, she had no idea what she could do about it.

It was heaven to be able to blow out her hair, get her modest makeup on, and look presentable in her jeans and sweater.

She wanted to spend some time with the book Mariah’s mother had planned.

Flipping pages in a yellow notepad until she found a clean sheet, she started listing the important points from the file Mariah had sent.

Here in London, the itinerary was fairly thin—a stop in a café called Café Guli and an address in Brick Lane, which of course Veronica had heard of.

A little wisp of curious excitement lifted her spirits.

Maybe they could wander around a little, although that might be hard with Mariah’s mobility issues.

She frowned. What were Mariah’s limitations, anyway? It was hard to tell, and as a companion, Veronica needed to understand what the issues were.

Back to the notes. After London was a short jaunt to Paris, with directions. Russell Square—Kings Cross—Eurostar—Gare du Nord, Paris.

A lot of time was allotted for London. Had the time been built in to allow for Mariah’s injuries? And who had planned the route? Maybe it had been the aunt.

It would be helpful to have this information.

In the meantime, she pulled up her own research on Elsie Turner. She’d lived somewhere nearby, as had Virginia Woolf and her sister Vanessa Bell, a painter.

Of course, there might be nothing left, although even on her little walk yesterday, it felt like there were identifiable buildings from other centuries.

Using the hotel Wi-Fi, she looked up maps of the area and sent them to her phone, feeling a strange new hum in her brain.

It took a minute to recognize what it was—the scholarly part of her brain, buzzing with sustenance.

How long had it been? Decades and decades.

Just as the sky was lightening to show another dark day, Mariah came out of her room—with a guy. He was a tousled sort, a haze of beard on his jaw. He gave Veronica a wave as he made his way to the door and let himself out.

Veronica blinked. “Where did you find him?”

She stretched, leaning on the threshold for support. “Cute, right? At the pub down the street.”

Veronica struggled with what to say. “You just went down to the pub and found a guy and brought him back? Is that like, Tinder or something?”

“Wow.” Mariah grinned, showing a dimple in her left cheek. “I mean, it could have been.” She rubbed her back against the doorjamb, scratching. “But he was the bartender.”

“Oh.” It seemed so ... shocking. Or maybe bold. Mariah wanted what she wanted, without apology. Veronica found her voice. “He was cute.”

Mariah wiggled her shoulders. “Henry will be here around ten so we can head out, if that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

“I’m going to take a shower.”

Without even thinking, Veronica asked, “Do you want breakfast?”

Mariah didn’t answer immediately. She stood by the door, unmoving, and looked out the window.

Veronica felt suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry, was that wrong? I have a daughter your age, and I find myself falling into the role I’d play with her.”

Mariah tucked her long hair behind her ears.

Her eyes when she looked at Veronica were the clear pale blue of a winter sky.

“I don’t need a mom,” she said, “but I would like breakfast. Scrambled eggs and oatmeal and some kind of fruit, and a big pot of coffee. Get something for yourself, too. We have a lot to do today.”

“Oh, I had a big meal last night when I got back. I’m okay.”

“I’m gonna need you to eat something, V.”

Not Ronny, which she hated. V. She liked it. “Okay. I’ll eat.”

During the room service meal—Veronica had ordered a slice of toast and one egg, scrambled—Mariah ate heartily and gulped down copious amounts of coffee with cream and sugar.

Her skin had that youthful luminosity that faded with time, and the vigorous outdoorsy good looks that would sell a million copies of Outside magazine.

“What’s the agenda today?” Veronica asked.

“I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think we’re starting with a Parsi café in Southall.”

“So, how did you even get started on this project?” Veronica asked.

She twisted her mouth wryly. “I have been a pretty obnoxious patient, frankly. My mom’s sister, Jill, thought it would be a good thing for me to get away from home around Christmas to do something kind of productive.

” She buttered her toast generously. “And one night I found this weird file in my mom’s office.

” She took a bite of toast, raised her eyebrows.

“It’s like a Nancy Drew setup, right? The Case of the Parsi Cafés . ”

“I’m surprised you know about Nancy Drew.”

She gave a dismissive shrug. “My mom had a whole set. They’re probably still in the basement, actually.”

Veronica nodded. She’d had a set, too, but Jenna had never cared about reading them. She’d keep that to herself, trying to keep the employee-employer balance rather than mother-daughter. “What was her connection to India?”

“I don’t know a lot. She lived there when she was young, a study-abroad thing. She was pretty heavily influenced by Indian styles of cooking after that, particularly north Indian and Parsi.”

“I’m not familiar with Parsi cooking.”

“I’m not, either, honestly, so we can figure it out together.”

“Do you like to cook, Mariah?”

She snorted. “Nope. I like to eat, though.”

Someone knocked on the door and Veronica got up. It was Henry, freshly shaved and casual in a chambray shirt and a photographer’s vest with a million pockets, and a camera backpack over his shoulder. “Hello, again,” he said in that velvety voice.

“Hello.” Veronica tugged up her sleeves as he passed, smelling oak and sandalwood. “We’re just finishing up. Do you want a cup for some coffee?” She paused in the kitchen, awaiting his answer.

“Sure,” he said, taking the empty chair with his back to the window. He took up a lot of space with long legs and elbows and shoulders.

“How was your ‘assignment’?” Mariah asked, putting the quotes in the air.

“It was fine,” Henry said, shrugging.

Veronica handed him a cup, and forced herself not to ask if he wanted cream and sugar. It wasn’t her job to wait on him. But maybe it would have just been nice?

Stop. She sat down and eyed the rest of her toast.

“What’s the first stop today, Henry?” Mariah asked, brushing crumbs from her palms.

“Café Guli. We can wander around in the area, if you like. Your mom liked it there.”

“I remember,” Mariah snapped. She shoved away from the table. “I have to braid my hair.”

Veronica watched her go. “How long since her mom died?”

“You don’t know?”

“No. What?”

He shook his head. “It’s her story to tell. But it’s been about sixteen months, maybe a bit more.”

“Young,” she said.

“Yes,” he said gruffly.

She stood and placed the plates on the tray. “I’ll get a coat.”

“I don’t mean to be curt,” he said. “It’s just ... sensitive.”

His apology surprised her. “I’m sure she’ll tell me when she trusts me enough.”

“Maybe.”

A loud bang sounded from outside, followed by a flurry of shouting. Henry jumped up to look through the window. “Nasty crash in the intersection,” he said.

“Do you call 911 here?”

“It’s 999, but I see a bunch of people with their phones out.”

She joined him at the window. A small car had tried to dart by a truck and hit another car head-on. All three vehicles occupied the intersection. A pain ran through Veronica’s midsection. “That doesn’t look good for the little car.”

“No,” he agreed, and turned away from the window. “I don’t think we’ll be driving today. We’ll have to take the tube.” He pulled out his phone and punched some buttons.

“You think Mariah can manage?”

“Yes,” he said emphatically. “She needs to get back to her life.”

Mariah appeared, combed, washed, presentable. “What do I need to do?”

He stood. “We’re taking the trains today. Give you some exercise. Grab the cane.”

She frowned darkly. “And pain pills. Are the tube stations filled with stairs?”

“Some of them. But you’ll do all right.”

“Will I?” She looked mulish.

“You will,” he said. “Let’s go.”