Page 24 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Chapter Twenty

In her room, Veronica found herself so furious her hands were shaking. She ripped off the dirty blouse she’d put on this morning and turned on the shower, thinking of twenty retorts she could have made to Mariah’s speculations.

She shimmied out of her jeans and underclothes, testing the temperature of the water.

In the mirror, she spied her shoulders, the arc of her collarbone, and for a minute, it amazed her all over again.

She turned to face the mirror. That lovely line of collarbone she was so proud of, but—now she had to admit—she could also see the faint outline of ribs on her upper chest above her breasts, which were deflated by the same weight loss.

Never in her life had she been this thin.

Amber said it was the divorce diet, that you just got so unhappy you didn’t eat, and that wasn’t far from the truth.

But Mariah had unwittingly struck a nerve, too.

In some part of her, didn’t she imagine that if she were thin enough, more like her younger self, that Spence would remember how much passion there had been between them?

Maybe he’d finally wake up and toss Fiona out in the cold.

Veronica had gained weight over the pandemic, but it had been such a joyous time!

The whole family together, baking bread and making elaborate meals.

All of them had taken on a specialty to master—Veronica worked on pies, both sweet and savory (which was how she came to master banoffee), Spence on fresh pasta.

The kids all chose a particular cuisine they liked.

Tim chose Thai, and had indeed perfected a peanut sauce that flavored lunches for months.

Jenna focused on macarons and other French delicacies, and Ben made bread.

When she looked back, her primary memory was cooking with her family to the sound of music on the speakers, their creations filling the air with the scent of love and coziness.

They had also taken long walks, and hiked the multitudes of trails around Boulder, often walking all day, feasting on grapes and crackers and brownies when they stopped for breaks. Her thighs and calves grew strong.

All of them gained weight. Her belly got soft and round, her bottom big enough she had to buy new pants. The bonus was boobs, of course, noticeable enough that Spence bought her undergarments to show off her cleavage, and at night buried himself in the new bounty.

They’d had so much sex during those long, barely structured days, eager to get to bed at night after feasting on whatever dinner they’d enjoyed, and a bottle of wine, and the playlist they took turns making.

Instead of getting tired of each other, Spence and Veronica had renewed their passions, exploring each other in ways they hadn’t had time to do since before the children arrived.

Even now, the memories could make her restless.

They’d been very good in bed together from the very beginning, learning each other’s secrets with exuberance and intent, and although it was a surprise to learn how much more they could discover twenty-five years in, it was a delight. Veronica felt eighteen again.

So she hadn’t minded the extra weight. Spence had gained a bit, too. They were getting into their middle years. It wasn’t surprising, and honestly, hadn’t everyone gained weight during the pandemic?

Everything had seemed so good .

And then a woman’s name kept coming up in conversations, in stories.

Fiona, a visiting poet from Ireland, with the requisite accent.

She looked like a caricature of a Pre-Raphaelite model, red curls tumbling over fragile shoulders, her skin blue white and utterly poreless, her pale eyes big and round.

Veronica never had a whiff of warning about her—the woman seemed as insubstantial as dandelion fluff, not much older than their oldest child. Not her husband’s type.

Spence grew busier and busier and more distant that semester, rarely home for dinner. In her loneliness, Veronica walked her dog, Sophie—at least she was still around!—and had begun to realize she had to find a job.

One night in early January—she could imagine he’d told Fiona that they had to get through one last holiday together—Spence came home, sat her down, and said baldly, “I’m in love with Fiona, and I’m moving out tomorrow.”

He’d matter-of-factly packed a bag and left the house where she’d been happy with him for approximately 9,200 nights. The shock was so sudden, so intense, so impossible that Veronica had admittedly lost her mind for a time.

The Veronica in the mirror today, almost as thin as Fiona herself, was not that woman at all.

But what Veronica hated was that she still couldn’t explain how much she and Spence had loved each other.

How much time they’d spent talking together about a million things, how many times they’d made love, how many meals they shared. It wasn’t the cliché. It wasn’t.

Even now, she didn’t know how he’d so suddenly fallen in love with someone else, fallen hard enough to break up their family.

Her therapist once said, simply, “It happens every day.”

Meeting her eyes in the mirror, she said aloud, “Shake it off.” She’d wanted a new life. She had it.

The trip today was to visit an address in Brick Lane. It had been listed with the cafés, just an address, with no identifying remarks or insights. Henry parked as close as he could, but it was still a bit of a walk, the streets busy.

Veronica wasn’t sure what she’d expected of the storied neighborhood, long popular with Indian and Bangladeshi immigrants, but it wasn’t this explosion of graffiti and street art, tourist shops selling Brick Lane junk, and tourists in tennis shoes and puffy coats taking selfies.

They passed many cafés offering foods from various regions, curries and Bengali specialties and something she thought might be Middle Eastern.

“None of these are on your mom’s list?”

Mariah shrugged. She wore a thin pink puffer jacket that set off her blond hair and blue eyes. She moved more easily today, her cane a more natural part of her gait than it had been. Maybe she’d needed the rest.

Veronica was glad to be out, but her texts had been filled with drama this morning. Amber couldn’t find a place to live, and Jenna was still freaking out over her dad’s threat to pull support.

Although , Veronica had texted to her daughter, you are twenty-five years old. I think you could pay your rent if you put your mind to it .

I mean, of course! Jenna replied. But I’m already working. If I get another job, when would I have time to study?

Veronica quelled her sense of irritation.

When she was in college, she’d sometimes juggled three jobs and lived in a hovel with three other people.

Not that hovels could be found in Boulder these days, but the point was the same.

Maybe you didn’t get to have everything exactly the way you wanted it.

She was, after all, a living example of that. Maybe you can find a cheaper apartment.

And bail on my friends?

I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard for them to find another roommate.

Why are you being like this? It feels like you don’t even care!

I care, Veronica texted. But I don’t have any way to help you.

Aren’t you making money? Can’t you help?

The request caught her like a splash of ice water. Jenna, you know I have no money after the divorce.

Not even one month’s rent?

No. I have to pay my own rent.

Fine , Jenna texted. Enjoy your grand tour .

Although Jenna meant to bring her down, it did just the opposite. Veronica intended to do just that. She would absorb everything that was in front of her, gobble up every single minute of this rare, fantastic chance to travel. Live.

Like now, as they walked toward a grocery store with fruit stands outside, sheltered beneath awnings. A woman filled a bag with avocados. Veronica stopped. “Oooh. Can we go in here?”

Mariah gave her a long silent look. “You go ahead. I saw a shop back there.” She turned before Veronica could speak.

Veronica realized that it was a grocery store.

“Shit,” she said to Henry. “I’ve been trying not to act differently because I know about what happened to her, and I just stepped right in it, didn’t I?”

Henry watched as Mariah’s pink coat receded. “I think she’s fine,” he said, inclining his head. “She has some of her spark back today.”

“Hmm,” Veronica said.

Henry smiled. “Been a victim of that spark?”

“Yep. She can be . . .”

“Yes.” He gestured. “Let’s go look around.”

It was a large supermarket with an Indian flavor.

Veronica browsed the produce, finding fruits she’d never seen, and giant versions of others.

She picked up a hand of ginger that was more like an arm, and next to it, a reddish root that turned out to be turmeric.

She’d seen it in Boulder, of course, that center of all foodstuffs and cooks who loved to dazzle their guests with the new and most challenging and interesting items around.

The root was a beautiful color, and smelled sharply astringent.

“I wonder how to change the grated amount for the powdered. It makes me want to try it,” she said. “Just to see what it’s like.”

Henry’s hands were tucked lightly in his jeans pockets, the photographer’s vest giving him a dash of adventure. In the neon lighting, his eyes were more green than light brown, like a cat. “I am not called to cook anything, but I’d be happy to eat if you want to experiment.”

“Sadly, I have no place to cook right now.” She eyed a pile of tidy garlic, and some red onions, her brain tossing together possible meals even if she couldn’t cook. “You don’t like cooking?”

“Not really. I mean, I’ve never really learned.”

“Maybe you should take some lessons.”

“Maybe,” he said.

She grinned up at him. “That sounds very definite.”

“Cooking seems so fussy, all the ingredients, and the temperatures and the different pans and cuisines.” He lifted his camera and took shots of the scene, the piled-up ginger and turmeric, the apples and grapefruits.

He held the camera lightly in big hands.

They were well tended, with oval nails, neatly filed.

She brushed the noticing away, slightly embarrassed. Celestine, she thought, referring to the spicy sex maven in that Kristy MacColl song.

“It is complicated,” she agreed.

“There are some open-air markets in Mumbai you would enjoy. We’ll have a kitchen there. I’ll have to look them up.”

“I would totally love that.”

After a long, easy circle around the store, Veronica had a few things in a basket, and pulled a card out of her phone case to pay. It was rejected.

She tried it again. Same result.

“Maybe your bank blocked it because you’re in a new place,” Henry suggested. “Let me.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to. It’s just—”

“My pleasure,” he said, and met her eyes. “You can cook for me sometime.”

The words were light, but his hazel eyes seemed very bright. Stop. He’s just being nice. “Okay.” She let him pay.

Her phone buzzed.

Will be about an hour, the message from Mariah read. You guys look for the address, and we can eat when I’m done.

Veronica relayed the message. “We can find lunch when she’s done.”

According to her phone map, the address was a few blocks south of their current location. “What are we supposed to do when we get there, though?”

Henry shrugged. “This is the next clue. We have to follow it.”

“ The Case of the Mysterious Address ,” Veronica said, thinking of Mariah’s reference to the girl detective. “Just call me Nancy.” She frowned. “I can’t think of her sidekick’s name.”

“I’m no sidekick, lady.”

Veronica laughed. “Fair. Veronica and Henry and the Case of the Mysterious Address .” Despite the gloomy day, her spirits felt light. “Do you have any theories about what this whole mystery is about? You knew Rachel pretty well.”

“She never talked about her time in India. To be honest, she was opaque at the best of times.”

“It’s hard to get a handle on what she had in mind, just from her notes and this scavenger hunt.”

“I bet. Did you get any of the letters from Jill?”

“Not yet.” They turned the corner, and on the wall in front of them was an enormous mural of a woman. Around her neck were graffiti tags, and script-covered doors all the way down the block. “The mural is gorgeous.”

“And it will be gone tomorrow.”

“That’s sad, isn’t it?”

“Not everything is meant to last forever.”

“Or anything, really,” she said.

“Right.” He paused. “This is the address.”

It was a narrow shop between two larger ones—one a fabric shop, the other a bodega offering the usual mix. The window of the bodega boasted a multicolored cat, fast asleep amid cartons of laundry soap. Handwritten specials advertised loo paper, canned beans, wine.

The shop in the middle was empty, and looked as if it had been for a long time. No signage was left behind to show what it had been. Veronica lifted her cupped hands to peer into the gloom. Just an open room with a concrete floor, a ladder on one side. “Can’t tell anything about it.”

“Maybe they’ll know next door.”

She hurried to follow him as he set off for the fabric store. He greeted the man inside in what sounded like Arabic. The man, wearing a button-down shirt and well-cut trousers with a kufi on his head, responded in kind, and then, “How may I help you?”

“We’re looking for someone, and they might be connected to the shop next door. Do you know what it was?”

“Oh, sure. It only closed during COVID. It was a little bookstore with books in Urdu, Hindi, and Bengali.”

“Who ran it?” Veronica asked.

“Mrs. Irani,” he said. “She returned to India when her father fell ill, and I believe she stayed there.”

“What was the name of the store, sir?” Veronica asked.

“The South Asia Book Emporium. It was quite wonderful.”

A bookstore! Veronica imagined a shop filled with towering shelves packed with history and travel and culture. “I wish it was still there!”

He bowed ever so slightly.

“Thank you,” Henry said.

Veronica wrote the name down when they got outside on the street. “Hate to see a bookstore that’s closed.”

“Agreed,” he said. “But why did Rachel have a bookstore on the list?”

“Maybe she wanted to do some research for her recipes? Or something to do with the cafés?”

“Possibly. But why this little shop in this faraway neighborhood?”

“Good question.” Veronica looked up at the marquee over the store, but whatever signage had been there was gone. “Rachel didn’t seem to care if things were obscure.”

“That’s true. But she wasn’t deliberately opaque, either. There must be some reason she wrote down this address. I wonder if Ms. Irani is connected to the café we visited yesterday.”

“Maybe.” Her phone buzzed, and she glanced down. “Mariah. She’s looking for us.”

“I’ll text her the address of the café. We can meet there.”