Page 10 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Across the screen of imagination flashed a memory of her dining room, the windows looking out onto the garden of rare irises—now gone—she’d hunted down over decades, the glow of that table she’d polished so earnestly. She had to take a breath to ease the pinch in her chest. “I don’t know what to tell you,” she said. “I’m on minimal alimony as it is.”

“It’s only you!”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Maybe if you hadn’t been so out of control, we could have worked things out ourselves and saved all the lawyer fees.”

She pressed her lips together, feeling the ache of those memories rising, too, tangling in all the losses of that year. With effort, she looked up at the blue, blue sky, repeated the mantra she’d found in therapy.Not worth it, not worth it, not worth it.She opened the door and settled behind the wheel. “I can’t really talk right now, Spence.”

“Ronny! Don’t hang up!”

“What?” she said sharply.

“Have a heart. Please, just think about it.”

“No,” she said cleanly and firmly and without heat. It was a trick she’d worked hard to learn. How to set boundaries without losing her temper.

She hung up. She would have to tell him she was leaving, but choosing when to do it gave her a sense of calm.

Less alimony. As if.

At home, she laid everything out on the bed. She had not packed for such a long trip for herself before, but she’d done it plenty for Spence. Ten years ago, he’d published a pop-philosophy self-help book that had been translated into quite a few languages. He was on the circuit, speaking in various places as the author of the book, always imagining he’d hit the big time any minute. He hadn’t yet. The royalties for the book were thin these days, and the pressure to write something new was mounting, but he had not written in years.

But she had learned to pack for him. What you needed was a week’s worth of clothing that could be recycled, with maybe a few extra bits. It saved mental energy to think that way.

She packed eight pairs of underwear, two pairs of pants (khaki and dark blue), two skirts that would shake out easily, four short-sleeve and two long-sleeve T-shirts, a swimsuit (one piece), a dress that could be worn with tennis shoes or sandals, a scarf that could be worn with anything, and three bras in various thicknesses and colors. Everything went into compression cubes.

As she was deciding how to pack the first aid, pharmaceuticals, and her cosmetics, the doorbell rang. She practically skipped toward the door, so buoyed by her excitement, to find all three kids standing in the hallway. “Hey!” she said, touching the screen of her watch. “I thought you were coming for dinner tomorrow.”

“That’s not why we’re here, Mom,” Tim said.

“What, then?” It was either the trip, or Spence had sent emissaries to plead his case, but she didn’t think he’d stoop to using the kids.

“Can we just come in?” Tim asked.

She sighed and stepped back to let them in. “Of course.”

They made themselves at home around the dining room table. All big discussions—which colleges to choose, what to do about the car Jenna had wrecked, boyfriend or girlfriend troubles, the announcement of Spence and Veronica’s divorce—took place around dining room tables. “Must be serious,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. “What’s up?”

“We’re worried about you taking this trip, Mom,” Jenna said. “It’s too long and too far, and you’ll be gone at Christmas!”

“What do you even know about this person?” Tim interjected.

Veronica frowned and started to speak, but—

“You’ve hardly traveled at all, and now you’re going off with somebody you don’t even know?” Jenna said, eyebrows raising in total horror.

“If this is a reaction to the boomer comment on turkey day, I’m sorry,” Tim said.

Only Ben was quiet. He was always the quiet one in the family, a graphic artist who had stuttered as a boy and even now had to focus to speak. She looked at him. “And you?”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t seem that safe.”

“Hmm.” She folded her hands, feeling a dual sense of gratitude and annoyance. “Let me ask you all a question.”

“Okay.”

“If one of your friends was going to make this trip, would you be worried?” She looked at Tim, who was a carbon copy of his father, tall and blessed with thick blond hair, with cheekbones born of centuries of great genes.