Page 69 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Six Months Later

The day was the very best of Colorado weather—cloudless azure sky, thin breeze, temps in the low eighties predicted, though it was still cool this morning. Veronica inhaled the fresh, dry air and stretched happily.

Her new apartment, on the ground floor of an old Victorian not far from Mariah’s house, came with an old-fashioned cutting garden.

Veronica had had to sign an agreement that she would take care of the flowers, a sweet little gift from the universe that she accepted happily.

Just now, the irises were blooming extravagantly, late because of several spring snows.

The blossoms were purple and yellow, peach, the classic blue, and even one gorgeous red one.

She didn’t even know irises came in red.

This morning, she collected blooms for a party to celebrate Mariah’s twenty-sixth birthday.

The guest of honor was already here, slicing strawberries in the kitchen as Veronica came back in.

She’d cut her hair to her shoulders, a simple change that made her look more adult, and she wore a red sundress, the fabric laced with gold that emphasized her tanned arms. “These strawberries are so amazing.” She offered one, and Veronica snapped it up with her lips.

“Ew,” Mariah laughed. “Slobber.”

“You look great,” Veronica said, filling a vase with water.

“You, too! I’m so glad you didn’t use the fabric from Delhi to make pillows.”

Veronica let Mariah talk her into having a sundress made from the dazzling fabric. The vivid colors made her complexion sing in ways that were startling and thrilling. “You were right.”

Henry came in from the farmer’s market down the street, carrying a net bag of fresh lettuces, celery, and fruit.

He, too, had cut his hair, preserving some curls but bringing his look into the twenty-first century.

He’d taken a studio in an arty district, where he was experimenting with altered photos and montages that expressed a single idea—light in dark places was one of them; another was hands reaching for something, her favorite.

On her wall hung a trio of framed images from their trip, all Henry’s elegant, moody character work.

One was of Mariah in India, the day at the Sikh temple, her hair slipping out beneath her scarf, her eyes uplifted and filled with wonder.

Another was of herself in Morocco, staring simply at the camera, troubled but strong.

The final was of her and Mariah together, laughing over something at the table at Café Farroukh.

She had her own photo of Henry in her bedroom, tousled and sexy in her bed in Marrakech, shirtless and wry.

“Do you want me to make a salad?” he asked.

“Sure.”

Veronica had invited her children to visit her new apartment for the first time.

Their relationship upon her return had been deeply strained, but Veronica realized they’d been grappling with the big shift in their lives, too.

It turned out Spence’s money panic was real.

He’d lost the house that had been in his family for a hundred years, and his situation was so terrible the kids were all scrambling for ways to pay for the rest of their college educations.

She was devastated for Ben, the only one who hadn’t finished his undergrad, but he seemed to embrace it all with happiness.

He’d dropped out of college entirely and was traveling, inspired, he said, by his mother.

When she first returned from India, Veronica had stayed with Mariah.

She hadn’t spoken to Spence at all. It wasn’t worth the angst, and she’d given him way too much power in her life.

He’d been unworthy of that trust. The idyll of family, tradition, stability had proved to be an illusion.

Family wasn’t a bloodline. It was a unit, built piece by piece.

Now, someone else lived in the house she had so loved. She hoped they’d discover some of the flowers she’d planted, but she didn’t have any control. Life switched and turned upside down all the time. It was sad, and she would always miss that beautiful place, but it was time for a new life.

Staying with Mariah had worked out well for both of them for a few months.

Mariah had enrolled in an intensive outpatient treatment program for sufferers of PTSD, and it had given her an armory of tools.

When Veronica saw that she was stable, she’d looked for a place on her own.

This place had been perfect, and in the same neighborhood.

Mariah thought she might sell her mom’s house, but it was a decision both Jill and Veronica urged her to wait on. Time enough.

The publishing company had been happy to look at Veronica’s proposal, but in the current cutthroat market, they were unwilling to give her an advance to write it, even with the promise of Henry’s photos.

They asked her to write it, then resubmit when she was finished.

It was a little disappointing, but honestly, she would have been panicked about accepting an advance when she wasn’t sure what she was doing.

This gave her time to develop the ideas and write them without pressure.

In the meantime, she was working on the possibility that Rachel’s tragic love affair could make a novel, which she had discussed deeply with Mariah for her approval. Mariah was very enthusiastic, so Veronica was exploring the idea. It was wildly satisfying.

To actually support herself, she had found work at a greenhouse, and while it wasn’t a ton of money, she had some savings from the travel payments. It was enough to make it work.

“Veronica, can you help me?” Henry asked from the doorway.

She smiled. They’d plotted this bit together for Mariah’s birthday. In her bedroom was a very large photo collage/montage that Henry had worked on for several months, not at all a scrapbook, but done in his thoughtful, new arty voice. “You like it?”

“It’s amazing,” she said, and stepped close to stand on her toes and kiss him. “ You’re amazing.”

“I have another for you, too.”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“Yeah, I just like you.”

This was smaller, wrapped simply in plain paper. It was a photo of Veronica that last night in India, her lip swollen, her hair untamed, her eye starting to blacken. Hazy light surrounded her as she gazed into the camera, at Henry, her eyes shining with calm and the kindling of lust.

“What a shot,” she said quietly, feeling everything she’d felt that moment, the whole power of the journey tipping over to change her, irrevocably.

“It’s my favorite,” he said in his rumbling voice, shifting her hair over her shoulder. It was growing out, long and not quite curly but never straight. “I have it in my room, too.”

The relationship continued to be the easiest thing in her life. He was a kind, honest, clear-sighted person with integrity and good sense, which meant she could trust him completely. He’d given her plenty of space to explore her new life, and never pressured her.

She clasped it to her chest. “Thank you, Henry.”

He kissed her, and she never failed to be surprised at the lusciousness of his mouth. “You are the best kisser in the world.”

“Am I?” He kissed her again.

“Nope, nope, nope,” she said. “We’re going to have guests any second.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting your kids.”

“Me, too. But I’m afraid you’ll be overshadowed by the great Mariah Ellsworth.”

“That’s right. They’ll be dazzled by the Olympian.”

“They’re all the same age,” she said. “That seems weird. I feel like I have a better relationship with Mariah.”

“You were probably more yourself with her.”

“Hmm. Maybe so.” She touched his craggy cheek. “I love you, you know.”

He softened, touching her cheek in return. “I love you.”

“We got lucky, didn’t we?”

“Was it luck? Or are we just grown-ups who know what we want?”

“That too,” she said. “Either way, I am so glad I met you.”

“Ditto,” he said with a wink, and took her hand.

“Let’s show Mariah the—what should we call this kind of work? It’s not a photo, and it’s not a painting. Artwork?”

“Sure,” he said, and carried it out into the other room.