Page 44 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Chapter Thirty-Six

Marrakech was sunny, and warm enough to get away with a sweater—a very welcome change.

As the passengers wandered out of the airport, they visibly relaxed, shedding heavy coats and thick mufflers, speaking in happier tones.

Veronica tipped her face up to the cascade of warmth as they waited for a taxi, smiling at the negative sun that stained her eyelids.

“I thought I loved rain. But this is heaven.”

“We’ve hardly had a single sunny day since we left,” Mariah said, stepping back as the taxi driver loaded her bag into the trunk. “That never happens in Colorado. You’ve lived there all your life, right?”

“I moved there from northern New Mexico,” she said. “Same difference. Sunny, almost always, even in the depth of winter.”

As they drove to the medina, the view reminded her of New Mexico.

A line of blue mountains pinned the horizon at the end of a flat, open span of desert.

Instead of walking stick cacti, there were small groups of palm trees.

People obviously lived among them, dressed in draped bright fabrics, heads covered against that very sunlight, and probably by religious observance.

The earth was reddish, and big homes were built of adobelike materials, walls keeping out the desert.

Within were likely courtyards, just as there were back home.

Home. She hadn’t really thought of New Mexico as home for a very long time.

And yet, it was impossible not to see it here, the enormous impossibly turquoise sky, the reddish earth, the brown faces.

The streets were busy with foreign tourists and women carrying cloth or net bags, their feet in sandals beneath flowing skirts.

Two young men traded conversation on a corner, tapping each other as they told stories.

The taxi driver stopped outside a big square and said, “I can go no farther. Can you make your way?”

Henry said, handing over a fistful of bills, “ Shukran . ”

“I’m starving,” Mariah said as they got out. “Can we eat soon?”

“Let’s get to the riad first,” Henry said, shouldering her backpack along with his own. “Do you have a protein bar or something?”

“Dude, they’re packed with sugar.”

He gave her an unconcerned shrug. “Your choice.”

With a disgruntled sigh, she reached into her cross-body bag and pulled out a wrapped bar, making a show of peeling it and taking a big bite.

Veronica grinned at Henry. He lifted an eyebrow in return.

They made their way through a labyrinth of alleyways, shaded and cool.

They passed shops offering all sorts of things—spices and chess sets and leather bags meant to appeal to tourists, but also a store with small appliances and another with beans, all a jumble of narrow stalls, some brightly lit, like the jewelry shop where an orange cat lounged on the step, his tail flicking up and down, some darker, some illuminated by skylights cut into the roof, covered by grids and clear roofing.

It was the oldest place she had ever been, Veronica thought with some wonder.

She thought of Rachel’s letters, the endless warrens of the market in Mumbai. It was probably very like this, an ancient form of marketplace.

And here, too, it opened to a central plaza where vendors sold foodstuff and household goods. Cats were everywhere. Slumped in the shade, perched on steps, peering through a shop window. “Why so many cats?” she asked.

“They’re good mousers,” Mariah said, reaching out to scratch the ears of a tortoiseshell sprawled over a display of toilet paper. He lifted his head against her fingers as if it was his due.

“Cats are considered ritually clean,” Henry said. “The Prophet had several.”

“I love that,” Veronica said. “I miss having cats.”

“Did your kids have pets growing up?” Mariah asked. “My mom said we were never home enough, and she was probably right.”

“My ex doesn’t like cats, so we had dogs.

” A perfect visual of Sophie’s gray-and-white face rose in her mind, eyes blue as morning.

It choked her unexpectedly, and she had to hold her breath for a second.

“ I had a dog,” she said, thinking of Sophie following her room to room, patiently sleeping at her feet wherever she was, kitchen, living room, bedroom by the side of the bed.

“She died suddenly when I was getting divorced.”

“Terrible timing,” Henry said.

She saw herself taking a walk of shame down the sidewalk between her perfectly planted perennials, each one set in place with her own hands. “It was pretty awful.”

Surprising how much pain the memory still caused. Veronica felt it in her chest, pressing against her heart, filling her lungs with congested loss; in her gut, the shame of it. And there, like lava running along the edge of a black rock, hatred.

It startled her. The emotion was quite, quite clear. Not the anger she had believed it was, not frustration—hatred, clear and burning.

She took a breath, focusing on the beauty of the patterns of sunlight cast by screens overhead, patterns of ornate grids, flowers, concentric circles.

It made her think of the stained-glass windows at Notre-Dame.

“I read somewhere that these kinds of shapes express the same sacred geometry as the medieval windows in cathedrals.”

“I can see that,” Mariah said. “Did you guys go to Notre-Dame?”

“No,” Veronica said. “We did a Hemingway tour.”

“I figured you went out when I was sleeping.”

Henry looped an arm around Mariah’s neck. “And you were right.”

She laughed.

They made more turns, left, right, then into a tiny clear alley and up to a doorway, carved and elegant, where the space opened into reception.

When they were escorted to their rooms, the journey echoed the medina, another winding trip, up some stairs and down and around, walking along areas open to the floors below, and light coming in from above.

Little areas were set with chairs or settees in bright colors, pink and blue and patterned, in velvet and stripes and motifs she didn’t know how to name.

And everywhere were tiles, on the floors and walls and posts and tables.

Intricately laid in patterns of rectangles and diamonds and flowers and color.

The opulence lit something in her deepest heart, and she thought of Rachel expressing the “so muchness” of India and how much she’d loved it.

The extravagance thrilled Veronica, made her feel more and more alive with every step.

She stopped in an alcove to admire a chair with a yellow cushion. Sunlight fell in angular blocks across it, the very picture of serenity. Sit here, it said. Breathe.

“I feel kind of drunk in here,” she said.

Henry touched her hand, the back of his knuckles to the back of hers.

“We’re all close together,” Mariah said, opening a door that led to a lavishly appointed bedroom that overlooked a patio with bougainvillea growing in pots, and greenery tumbling from overhead. Again the roof was covered with grid-work and glass, which probably helped shield the area from the heat.

Two other doors opened to the same space. “You can pick,” Mariah said.

“Oh, that’s okay. You choose.”

“I’ve been here about twenty times,” she said, a soft smile making her look younger. “You haven’t.”

She thought of Sophie’s beautiful old face, and the walk of shame, and the ridiculous surprise of this entire trip. Maybe she could just accept the gift. “Okay,” she said. “Thank you.”

All three rooms were beautiful, of course, appointed with brass and gold and tile and velvet.

The bathrooms were a delight, tiled with flower patterns meeting stars meeting the soothing stretch of flat rectangles.

She chose the room with all the details and colors and a deep tub tiled in turquoise and dark blue.

Who would she be in this room? How would it change her?

“How long are we here?”

“Three days,” Mariah said. “Then to India.”

She would be sad, Veronica knew, but she wouldn’t think about that yet. Today, she would be here, in this place, with these people and see what happened. Out of her bag, she took the copy of One Thousand and One Nights she’d picked up in Paris and laid it on the nightstand. It looked just right.

They agreed to take some downtime, closing their doors to the patio.

Despite her delight, Veronica was tired, and crawled between the crisp linens to nap.

When she woke up in the red room with its stars and moons and brass lamps and red chandelier, she felt like Scheherazade. What story would she tell to stay?

She washed her face and neck with a cool cloth, looking at her face in the mirror. In the soft light, she looked younger, happier. The circles beneath her eyes were gone, and even her mouth looked fuller, as if she’d relaxed.

An intrusive thought about the apartment and Spence and Jenna refusing to help her knocked into her consciousness, and she physically shook her head.

Not now . It would be Christmas in two days and she wanted to forget all the trouble and drama back home.

When would she ever be back in this magical place?

She sent a quick text to Ben, asking him how he was feeling, and one to Jenna, telling her not to forget to get her things out of the apartment.

Quietly, she opened the doors to the patio and let in a breeze.

Soon they would go find some dinner, but she had some time to simply enjoy this space.

She settled on the wide settee and propped an embroidered pillow in her lap, gazing out at the tumble of scarlet flowers, listening to the soothing sound of the fountain.

It was easier to look at her life from this distance.

All the things that had been causing her so much pain seemed suddenly so small and strange and far away.

Although she’d been afraid she’d be bereft without the close company of her children, she found she was doing all right on her own.

She’d survived them growing up and landed in this new chapter of her life.

And while she was angry at both Spence and her landlord, those seemed small and far away, too.

Sitting here was what mattered.

A gray cat sat beside the table, cleaning its paw, completely at home. Where did they come from, these cats? She had no idea, but it delighted her. Cats killed scorpions, she thought, remembering something from childhood. Mice and rodents and big bugs. Useful creatures.

And beautiful. The sleek fur and curl of paw, the thorough way it cleaned every single molecule of the space between its claws. A cat seemed just right in this world.

She thought of Rachel’s letters home from India.

It was fortuitous that Veronica could come to these places naively, as Rachel had.

If she had come to all these locations with impressions already formed, it would be hard to treat them with a fresh eye.

The idea of trying to get those observations on the page gave her a sense of excitement, a stirring somewhere deep in her DNA.

Henry appeared at the door with a tray in his hands. “Are you busy?”

“Not at all. Just daydreaming.”

He’d traded heavy boots for leather sandals, and the sight of his naked arches gave her a jolt. “I ordered some tea and snacks to see us through to dinner. Mariah is still sleeping, but we can order her more when she wakes.”

The carved silver tray held a selection of apricots, dates, olives, almonds, and bread. Her stomach growled, right on time, and she laughed. “I guess I can’t protest that I’m not hungry.”

“Good.”

She delicately filled a saucer with three dates, two apricots and four almonds. “I love dates,” she said.

“I remembered.”

She’d bought some in London, at the grocery store, but these dates were moist and enormous and filled her mouth with a recognition that she’d never eat dates with the same understanding again.

She closed her eyes, focusing. “Oh my God,” she whispered, “this is one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. ”

He watched her eat. When she swallowed, he picked up another date and offered it to her. “They’re fresh.”

She held out her hand, but he shook his head slowly, his eyes going golden, and held the fruit between his fingers. A shimmer lit her body, and she leaned forward and opened her mouth. His thumb grazed her lip. She blinked, chewing, and reached for an apricot, holding it out for him.

He leaned in to take it, deliberately closing his mouth over her fingers. “Mariah will be here any minute,” she said.

“She will,” he agreed, and picked up another date. She slurped at his finger and laughed, then bit it lightly. He glanced over his shoulder. “I’d kiss you, but for all that she’s being laid-back, I’m not sure Mariah would be all that happy about something between us.”

“I agree,” she said, leaning forward decisively, the action making her shirt gape at the top. She wished for her pandemic cleavage, but maybe a glimpse of breast would be good enough.

He seemed to enjoy it.

Their knees brushed. Veronica covered his almost naked foot with her entirely naked one, and electricity shot between them, almost shocking.

And then, of course, Mariah’s door opened, and the girl came rolling out, all muscular energy—and her limp, quite pronounced today.

Her expression was sad, or maybe it was only the angle of the light against that scar cutting through her cheek.

Veronica wondered that it hadn’t been more carefully repaired by plastic surgery—or was this the best they could do?

Maybe not everything was fixable.

The phrase settled in her body. Maybe not everything was fixable. She thought of her life, the divorce, the fact of children not stepping up the way she hoped, the mess of Christmas for everyone back home, her own struggle to keep her appetites under control.

Under control. She wanted everything to be in her control, and maybe it just wasn’t. The thought brought release, a sense of ... possibility. If everything was not in her control, maybe she could spend more time enjoying whatever was right in front of her.

She blinked. What would that even feel like?