Page 38 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Chapter Thirty-One

Veronica found twenty books she wanted to buy at the English portion of the bookstalls, from fiction to history to garden design.

She allowed herself two, an English edition of the Arabian Nights, in honor of their journey to Marrakech, and the one that Henry insisted she read, A Moveable Feast , the Ernest Hemingway classic.

She’d protested at first. “I’m not a fan. He was such a ... scion of the patriarchy,” she said.

Henry laughed. “You’re not wrong. He was also a great writer. This is my favorite of his books, aside from The Old Man and the Sea .”

“Of course you like him,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re a manly kind of guy, aren’t you, with a dangerous career and eyes that have seen too much?”

He grinned, undaunted. “You’re not wrong there, either.” He lifted a finger. “How about you let me read a passage and then you decide?”

“Okay.”

He flipped through the pages, and found what he was looking for, then read two paragraphs in his deep voice about regret that pierced her. Before she could openly weep, she snatched the book from his hands. “You win.”

“Of course. If you hate it, I’ll double the purchase price. But you won’t.”

A sliver of sun broke through the cloud cover, gilding her hands and the book as if it were some sacred text, and who knew, maybe it was.

But as she paid for the worn leather volume, standing with Henry on the banks of the Seine with the smell of chestnuts in the air and a belly full of sweet foods, she felt entirely happy. It moved in her body like a song.

Mariah hobbled up to them, displaying her find. “Epidemics,” she said.

“Are you interested in diseases?” Veronica asked, accepting her change. “ Merci. ”

“No, but it looks kind of cool. Plague and smallpox and leprosy. I guess future editions will include COVID. Which was very interesting, you have to admit.”

“In a way,” Veronica agreed. Tugging a lock of windblown hair from her mouth, she asked, “Where did you spend it?”

“The pandemic?”

“Yes.”

“It was boring for me,” Mariah said. “No competitions for a couple of years, although it was cool to have such empty slopes.”

“How about you, Henry?”

He shook his head slightly. “I was headed home from Egypt when everything was grounded. I ended up spending a year in Greece.”

“That doesn’t sound terrible,” Veronica said.

“It was, though. I lost an uncle and my grandfather, and I couldn’t go to their funerals.”

She remembered that his family was near New York City. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He gave his usual shrug. “That’s how life rolls.”

She was glad of the chance to take the metro again, so she could study people without notice.

This train was filled with a diverse crowd, their languages and accents flowing like music around her, Brits and Americans and Africans and Asians; students of all backgrounds, and tourists speaking a dozen languages to each other.

She lingered on one tall, very thin man dressed in a robe made of printed orange cotton, wondering what his apartment looked like and who lived with him and what he did for work.

He got off the train a few stops in, and Veronica switched her attention to a young woman, round and blond, her feet in Dr. Martens. She texted the entire journey.

When they emerged from the metro, Henry directed them to Café Farroukh.

It had vines and bougainvillea painted on the plastered exterior, and a large window lined with plants in clay pots.

If it had been in her neighborhood back home, Veronica would make it a regular stop.

Inside was even more appealing. The fragrance of mingled spices and roasting meat and onions filled the air—she could pick out garlic and cumin and something just out of reach.

“Wow,” Mariah said. “Sure you can’t manage a bite or two?”

Henry patted his stomach. “Not me.”

“I don’t know,” Veronica said. “It smells amazing.”

Mariah let go of a small whoop and held up a hand for a high five. Veronica laughed and raised her own hand, alarmed when Mariah nearly overbalanced when their palms slapped. She caught her by the upper arm. “You good?”

“Fine,” she said, shaking her off.

Henry lifted an eyebrow. “Let’s make this short, maybe take a taxi back. It’s been a long day already.”

“Back off, people. I’m good.” Mariah smiled at the young man who approached them with menus. In English, she asked, “Can we have a table for three?”

The server inclined his head. Veronica had not spoken French much in decades, but she could manage this small amount. “ Une table pour trois, s’il vous plait. ”

“ Oui, ” he said, and took them to a booth by the window.

It wasn’t busy, likely due to the hour—post-lunch, predinner.

Veronica pulled her little notebook out and started jotting down notes.

The floor was black and white tile, and the tables had the same checkered tablecloth covered with glass as the London café.

The ambiance was quite winning, and next to her, Henry shot a series of photos, his shutter a whir.

But this menu, while still Middle Eastern, was quite different from the Parsi café menus she’d been studying.

“We need to taste the bread, see if it’s the same as the bun in London,” she said, scanning the offerings.

“And the fresh lime soda. That’s such a great beverage. I’m going to learn to make it at home.”

“They use a spice that’s pretty intense,” Henry said. “Takes a little experimentation.”

She grinned. “I’ll remember that.” He sat across from her this time, next to Mariah, and the light made his eyes the color of pears. For a moment, she was caught in them, surprised when he didn’t look away.

She said, “I would gladly sample every lamb dish on this menu, but I would die of my stomach splitting open.”

Henry stood. “I’m going to find out if the owner is here. This would be a good time of day to talk to someone.”

“Did you see the story on the back side of the menu?” Mariah asked. “I can’t read it, but maybe you can.”

Veronica flipped it over and started reading. It was slow at first as her brain tried to arrange the French into a form she could digest. As the story cleared, she said, “Oh, wow. This is really good.” She put the menu down and took a photo of the entire story so she could come back to it later.

“What does it say?”

“Paraphrasing: Café Farroukh was established in 1997 when Chamani Irani emigrated from Bombay to Paris and brought many of her family traditions with her. When she married a dashing Egyptian, the two combined their cultural food traditions to come up with a unique and popular cuisine that has been a Paris favorite for over two decades. Chamani returned to India when her husband died, and the restaurant continued in the capable hands of her daughter, Nav.”

Henry approached the table, a woman beside him. “Our hostess,” he said, gesturing toward a strikingly beautiful woman in her twenties with enormous dark eyes and thick, black hair caught in a barrette. She wore an apron over a T-shirt and jeans. “This is Navaz Osman.”

“Hello,” she said in English. “How may I help you? You’re searching for information on my family?”

“We are,” Veronica said. “Can you sit with us?”

“Yes, thank you.” She slid in next to Mariah, who looked like a sturdy sunflower next to a rose.

To Veronica’s surprise, Mariah said, “We think my mother might have been friends with someone in your family back in India.”

“I don’t know if I will be much help. I was born in Paris.”

“Is the café named for someone, do you know?” Veronica asked.

“My grandfather. He had a Parsi café in Mumbai years ago, Café Guli.” She pointed to the menu with the story. “I know he moved to Delhi.”

Café Guli matched the name of the London café. “Did your mother have siblings?” Veronica asked.

“There were four of them. Three girls and a boy. Something happened to the brother, but my mother would never speak of it.”

A shiver of excitement ran up Veronica’s arms. “Was it linked to the family leaving Mumbai, do you think?”

“Yes, I think so.” She glanced toward the window to the kitchen, twirling rings on her fingers. “She would not like me talking about this.”

“Is she here now?”

“No, no. When my father died, she wanted to return to India. She lives in Delhi now.”

Henry said, “Would she talk to us, if we went there?”

She shrugged, made a noise. “Who knows? She does what she wishes, my mother.”

“Can you give us her phone number or email or something?”

Navaz pressed her lips together, looking from Veronica to Henry, who sat beside her, then over to Mariah. She touched Mariah’s hand. “My mother would not be pleased if I did that.”

Disappointed, Veronica nonetheless understood. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to us.”

“I should return to my duties,” she said. “Allow me to send out our favorites.”

Veronica and Mariah exchanged a glance. “Please do.”