Page 41 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Pleasure ran through her body as she took her glove off. His hand was warm, enormous, enfolding hers completely. She liked the way he led them through the crowd, and wondered if they’d even be able to sit down.

But inside, it was much less crowded. A young man asked if they wanted a table, and Henry said to Veronica, “Good?”

“Great.”

The table was small, tucked against a wall, but offered a good view of the dining room and a bank of windows. “Ah,” Henry said, “do you see the plaque on the wall above the banquette?”

Above a booth occupied by two men having a fierce conversation, their heads close together, was a brass rectangle. “Yes.”

“That’s one of the places he wrote. Hemingway.”

Veronica allowed herself to imagine the young writer bent over his paper, scribbling away.

She wondered if he’d preferred pencils or pens—which led to wondering when portable pens were even invented—and whether he liked lined or unlined paper.

It gave her a sense of excitement, that this person, so long now gone from the earth, had started his journey here.

“It’s unexpectedly thrilling,” she said.

“I mean, some of his molecules might still be hanging around in here.”

“Could be.”

A waiter came by asking if they wanted drinks, but Veronica said they needed a minute, realizing that she’d responded in French without thinking about it. It was coming back. “I don’t really want a martini or anything like that,” she said, “but you have whatever you want.”

He scanned the menu. “I’m not much of a hard-liquor guy.”

“Not even in Algiers?” she said.

He laughed as she’d hoped, and his eyes twinkled when he said, “Not even in Algiers.”

“You’re completely ruining my imaginary vision of a hardened war correspondent.” She scanned the menu, too. “What do you think, then?”

“How about kir?”

“Yes! Perfect.”

“And a profiterole. We’ll split it, have a couple of bites, just to say we have.”

“I’m going to waddle home, I swear,” she said, and allowed the menu to fall. “But yes.”

After they ordered, Henry said, “People turn to booze in war zones to shut things off. I tried the gin answer as a young photographer, but for me, it doesn’t work. I just can’t find the switch to forget, and instead I ruminate and replay endlessly.”

“I get that.” She admired the shape of his cheekbone against the soft light, thinking of him as a young man. “It just doesn’t seem to give me the big thrill other people get from it. Now, give me some pizza rolls, and I’m there.”

“Pizza rolls?”

“Yes,” she said. “The pepperoni ones.” The waiter returned. “Merci.” She sipped the drink. “I grew up in a house with a working mom and not a ton of money—a little MTV, some pizza rolls or maybe some ramen noodles, and a can of root beer, and life was seriously great.”

He laughed. “Youngster. I was overseas when MTV got big.”

“Oof, so you are really old.”

He measured her across the table, his eyes bright. “Am I?”

To her amazement, she blushed ever so slightly. To cover, she said, “By the time you were overseas you were eating oysters on the half shell, right?”

“Hardly. You’ve not seen junk food addiction until you’ve seen a college guy two hundred miles from home.”

“Like what?”

“The usuals—chips and candy bars and pizza.” He leaned forward, dropping his forearms on the table, which put them much closer together.

“But when I was a kid I didn’t want anyone to know what we were eating at home.

Working-class Italian family, and although everybody likes spaghetti and lasagna, they don’t think trippa is so great. ”

“There’s a lot of judgment around food. Classism, really, if you think about it.”

“Such as?”

“Well, like your tripe, and my pizza rolls. I learned to cook using Hamburger Helper because hamburger was a dollar a pound, and my mom could make it quickly when she got off work—as a waitress, by the way, working with food all day to come home and make more food for the family.”

He looked over his shoulder with mock furtiveness and turned back with a glitter in his eye. “What’s the worst thing you still eat as an adult?”

Veronica laughed, loud enough to draw a mini scowl from the men across the way. “So many,” she said, sotto voce. “My kids are so humiliated that I like sweet-potato casserole.”

“The kind with the little marshmallows on top?”

“Yeah.”

He let go of a soft moan. “Man, I love that stuff. My aunt Rita used to make it every Thanksgiving.”

“Yes. But I have to admit ...” She glanced to her left and peered around Henry’s shoulder. “My worst failure as a foodie is that I love”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“Miracle Whip.”

“Not Miracle Whip!” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can no longer be seen in your company.”

For one second, she thought she’d revealed too much, and then he laughed. “I hate it, but I have something I bet you don’t like.” He leaned in. “Bologna. With pork rinds. On white bread.”

“Ooh, that’s pretty disgusting.”

He grinned. “It’s a gift. I also love cheap hotdogs. The cheaper the better.”

She nodded in perfect agreement. “How about those little casseroles with beans and wienies?”

“God, yes! And boxed macaroni and cheese with the packets.”

“SpaghettiOs!” she cried.

“White Castle,” he said, and kissed his fingers.

She laughed. “We didn’t have those, but, baby, I ate my share of Taco Bell tacos.”

“Now that’s not a bad food, really. It’s basically meat and lettuce and corn tortillas. Not so junky.”

She raised her brows.

The waiter brought their profiterole at that moment, as if to underline the horrors of the conversation. Veronica looked at the exquisite creation and started laughing. Henry grinned. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Not a word.”

Outside the bar, they paused. “Ready to head back?” Henry asked.

She looked at her watch. “It’s only seven thirty.”

“That is the answer I was hoping for.” He took her gloved hand in his, and they walked toward the shine of the cathedral in the dark. The whole city sparkled, living up to its moniker of the City of Light. “We can head for a metro station farther down and take the train back. Good?”

“Great.”

“How long were you in Paris before?”

“Three days was all we could afford. Enough to hit the highlights, but that was about it.”

“The Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, that kind of thing?”

“Oh, no. No way Spence wanted any museums. I was dying to visit the Musée d’Orsay, but he didn’t want to spend our honeymoon in museums.”

He frowned. “I had the impression he was a professor.”

“Yeah, philosophy,” she said. “But really, he’s a ski bum at heart.”

His brows rose. “Really. What does he think about your traveling with Mariah?”

“Uh ... wow,” she said, and laughed. “I haven’t told him, I guess.” She pressed her lips together. “I’ve been pretty pissed off at him, and I didn’t want him to stand in my way. But I wonder if—” She broke off.

“If?”

“He would be nicer if he knew. He’s done some money things while I’ve been traveling that are—” She shook her head. “Mean.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“That’s probably too personal. Sorry.”

“Not at all. Too bad we don’t have time to get to the d’Orsay tomorrow.”

“Another time. This is a pretty packed trip.”

“You’ll have to come back.”

She nodded noncommittally.

“You don’t think you will?”

First I have to pay my rent, she thought. “We’ll see. There’s a lot going on back home.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she said firmly. “Where do you live now?”

“In Denver.”

“What?” She stopped dead. “I thought you were based in Europe or something. You met us at the airport!”

“Has this not come up before? I was in Europe, but when Mariah was so badly hurt, I came to Denver to help out. I ended up really liking the city.” He paused.

“Ironic, because it was a sticking point between Rachel and me. She didn’t want to leave her sister, and I didn’t want to live in a sprawling Midwestern city. ”

“It’s not the Midwest!” she cried. “It’s the mountains.”

“That’s what she said.” He gave her a regretful smile. “In my world, there are no other cities in the US besides New York, and maybe LA.”

“Oh, so a place snob, huh?”

“Guilty. The sad thing is, that stubbornness probably cost me a good relationship.”

“You loved her?”

“I did. I think you would have liked her, too. She was funny and bohemian and, well, she raised Mariah. You can see a lot of how she was right there.”

“Mariah’s pretty mighty. I can imagine how she was before the injuries.” She looked up. “I’m sorry, though, that you lost a good relationship over stubbornness.”

“I’m probably romanticizing. It’s easy to look back and think, coulda, shoulda, woulda .”

“Yeah.” The idea rolled around in her mind. Had she romanticized her marriage? She honestly didn’t think she had, but what, then, had gone wrong? What had turned him into this caricature of a bad ex? “I feel like I made a lot up about my marriage, but maybe I didn’t. It’s just so hard to know.”

“Maybe all of it is true,” he said.

A sense of spaciousness blew through her at that. Maybe he really had been a good husband, and now he was a really bad ex. She didn’t have to decide right now.

They walked in the beautiful glittery dark, followed by the ghosts of their past.

In a flash she realized it didn’t have to be that way. That this moment, right now with Henry, who was smart and interesting and made her feel alive, could just be about her. And him.

She halted, taking in the pinpoints of light, the river, even the sharp cold. “The past is the past,” she said. “Tonight, though, you and me are in Paris. We are alive.” She looked up at him. “We are attracted to each other. Or at least, I’m attracted to you.”

A very small smile played around the edges of his mouth. “It is definitely mutual. What should we do about that?”

“Maybe you could start by kissing me.”

“I would like that.” He bent down and gathered her face in his hands, and when she lifted her chin, he kissed her.

She wanted to keep her eyes open, looking at the expanse of his eyebrows, the ruggedness of his cheek, but his mouth was lusher than she’d expected, and he was very skilled at kissing, and in the end all she wanted to do was sink into him, all the way, giving herself up to the place their bodies joined.

He tilted his head, and she opened to him fully, and they kissed deeply, kissed a little wildly, making soft noises.

His arms dropped and pulled her closer, and she ran her hands under his coat, wishing she had taken off her gloves.

He pressed her lightly against the lamppost, and without breaking the kiss, she pulled off the gloves and let them fall on the ground, worth it when she found the hot skin of his back, the knobs of his spine.

Her own coat fell below her hips, but he cupped her bottom, pulled her into his thigh.

In the dark of a Paris night, with the damp smell of the river running behind them, they fell into each other, drunk on the moment, on each other. Every cell in her body danced.

“Look at the old people making out!” a boy catcalled in English.

It made Veronica laugh. Henry called out over his shoulder, “You only wish you had this woman, fools.” As one body, they turned toward the subway. Without breaking stride, Henry captured her gloves from the sidewalk and handed them to her.