Page 9 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Chapter Seven

When they boarded the plane, Veronica realized they were seated in first class. First class! She sat in the little pod with its bedding package and just absorbed it for a minute.

She took a photo and sent it to Jenna, then settled in, backpack at her feet so she could reach her stash of gum and lotion and the mints she liked when she flew, not that it had been all that often in her life, honestly.

Her honeymoon to Paris, short and sweet.

A couple of times with Spence to conferences.

He had presented academic talks around the world, but she’d only gone with him to Vancouver, Canada, which was why she had applied for a new passport in the first place, and then a thrilling one to Italy when they celebrated their twenty-year anniversary.

That trip had kindled something deep in her, a longing she’d almost been unable to admit to herself: What if she could see the world, be one of those people who’d been to sixty countries?

How many countries were there in the world, anyway? She googled for the answer as the plane filled around her.

There were 195. So many!

A text popped up on her screen, from Spence. Do you have a minute to talk?

Sorry. On the plane, about to turn off the phone.

Now? You’re really doing this?

She scowled at the screen. She’d told him her itinerary the day before yesterday. Yes, she typed with more than a little satisfaction. I’m really doing it.

You don’t know anything about this woman.

I know enough. She’s paying me to be her companion for a month of international travel. I’ll try to suffer through.

Can you just talk for a minute?

Veronica felt a sting of obligation. They were coparents, after all, and she’d resolved to avoid as much of the nastiness of divorce as possible, even if she was the wronged party.

But the aisles were full of people, and her heart was filled with a sense of anticipation, and she wanted to enjoy it. Sorry. I’ll try you from London.

It’s just the settlement. I really need you to sign that amendment. I’m feeling the pressure.

Veronica felt a thud of embarrassment. Why did she keep thinking he was somebody better than he was? Whatever happened right now was him getting her to sign the paper—including the sex, she was sure.

The alimony award had been substantial, more than she’d expected by twice, but when she protested, her lawyer, a hard-eyed woman of seventy who’d been a divorce attorney for more than forty years, said, “It’s never going to be enough to make up for the financial comfort you’ve lost. Take the money and run. ”

Sorry, she texted. No time. Gotta go.

She turned off the phone and watched bags being loaded on another plane through a window across the aisle. Mindlessly, she found herself about to gnaw on her left thumbnail and stopped in time, tucking it into her palm for safety.

What are you feeling?

So many things. It might not be the easiest job of all time. Mariah seemed both prickly and vulnerable. Clearly, she had been badly injured. Snowboarding was a dangerous sport, even for the young.

Mariah made her think of her own kids, but there was something more to Mariah, an aura of weariness that went beyond sorrow. She was grieving the loss of her mother, obviously, because the trip was all about finishing a project her mother had left behind.

What else was going on there?

As the plane found its altitude, Veronica opened her tablet and pulled up the materials Mariah had sent to her about her mom’s project.

Rachel Ellsworth, Mariah’s mother, had assembled a loose set of notes for a book about cafés.

There wasn’t a huge amount of information, but Veronica could sense a shape to it, in keeping with the woman’s previous work, most of it set in the intersection between travel and food.

She had downloaded a couple of the previous books to get a feel for what Rachel had done, and planned to read them on the plane.

They both seemed written with an eye toward popularity and delving deeply into the culture and background of her subject.

The one she planned to read on the plane explored Mexican food across the southwest, comparing Tex-Mex, Californian, and New Mexico versions of the same foods, with stories and lore and particular restaurants highlighted.

After a little while, she switched to her own project, a thesis on Elsie Turner, a little-known Bloomsbury artist Veronica had abandoned when she got married.

She’d been so eager to create her family that she had turned her back on her academic work without a blink.

Spence was happy enough to have her focus on their family, on him.

Never a great idea, she thought now. Never, ever put all your eggs in one basket.

She’d been thinking of her thesis quite a lot lately. It was exciting to imagine they’d be in London, that she might have a chance to explore Bloomsbury, where the subject of her thesis, Elsie, had lived.

Elsie had been connected to the infamous Bloomsbury group, a network of writers and artists in the early twentieth century.

Elsie had grown up in India until her father had inherited his title from an older brother who died of typhus.

Her life had changed utterly, from the mysteries and heat of the British Raj to the misty, damp world of privilege she entered at the age of fifteen.

Veronica had stumbled over a handful of Elsie’s paintings when she’d been casting about for a subject for her thesis. Elsie had struggled to make her art in a patriarchal world, trying (and failing) to avoid marriage so she could live on her own terms.

Leafing through her original notes, Veronica remembered how moved she’d been by Elsie’s struggle to avoid marriage.

Had her younger self really not noticed the parallel? Veronica had thrown her studies aside to marry, and her spouse really had controlled her life in many ways.

She shook her head.

It was surprising, really, that no one had written about her before, but aside from a handful of footnotes in various other biographies, there wasn’t much.

Veronica’s advisor had discouraged the project, citing the challenges, but she had been insistent.

She’d spent six months in dusty archives, both in Boulder and at Yale, before being swept into Spence’s fantasy of their lives together.

She found herself sighing. It would be impossible to call the choice a mistake, since she’d had three kids she adored, and that graceful home, her beautiful garden.

But now she had a chance to redeem herself as a scholar.

Before leaving home, she’d scanned the research and the bits of writing she’d done on Elsie all those years ago.

Veronica pulled up the file of photographs, showing a dark-haired woman with enormous luminous eyes and the sober mouth of old photos.

I haven’t forgotten you.

The promise was as much to herself as to Elsie.