Page 120 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Zoish sighed. “The only American woman I’ve known well is Rachel Ellsworth.”

Nervously, Veronica nodded. “Yes.”

“And her daughter is also ... American? Not a child she brought home with her?”

Was that hope in her eyes? “No. Mariah was born a few years later.”

“I see.” She shrugged. “What do you want?”

Veronica folded her hands. “Rachel was a food writer. She was killed in a mass shooting about a year ago, a shooting in which her daughter was also badly injured. She left behind notes for a new book, rooted in Parsi cafés, largely because she loved the one your family ran.”

Zoish looked away, blinking. “I’m sorry to hear she met such a brutal death.” After a moment she added, “I quite loved her, you know. We met first, long before she and Darshan.”

“I have read some of her letters. She loved you, too.”

“Not enough,” she said. “I warned her, but she wouldn’t listen to me, and I knew my brother would—”

Veronica held up a hand. “I don’t really know the story. She never told anyone. I only know that she met you and loved Café Guli, and that something terrible happened to your family that caused you to scatter.”

A tsk. Zoish looked at her hands, pressed together. Her nails were bright red, freshly manicured. “My brother fell in love with her, so madly, madly in love.” She shook her head. “She loved him, too, but it wasn’t the same. She didn’t realize that he’d have to give up everything if they married, that she would be all he had.

“And then shedidrealize. And she broke it off.” She took a breath. “And my foolish brother hanged himself.”

Veronica sucked in a breath, her heart squeezing in pain. “Oh, dear. I am so sorry. What a terrible story.”

“It was a vivid scandal in our world, which is a small world, close. My father came to Delhi. My sister Hufriya went to London, and I went with her. Our other sister moved to Paris.” Composed, even-tempered, she said, “It was devastating to be exiled.”

Exiled. Veronica understood that very well. “Your sister took one look at Mariah, Rachel’s daughter, at the London Café Guli, and immediately ordered her out of the restaurant.”

“Do you have a picture?”

“I do!” Veronica reached for her phone. “Or I did. My phone was stolen.” She pointed to her face.

“What a calamity!” She stood up. “You must have a cup of chai before you leave.”

“Thank you.”

As she prepared a pot and measured tea, water, and milk, Zoish said, “Hufriya adored Darshan. She’s terribly bitter. It was easier for me to forgive her.” She shook her head. “We were all so young, so full of heat.”

Veronica nodded, thinking of her own moments of fury, smashing windows out of a need to somehow express her pain.

Zoish asked, “Are you married, madam?”

“Divorced, I’m sorry to say.” But she thought of the woman she’d been then, lashing out in despair, and the woman she had started to become. She revised. “No, I’m not sorry. It was hard, but I’m in a better place without him.”

“Same,” she said. “Now tell me what you will do with this book. I am intrigued that Rachel wanted to write about Parsi cafés. It’s such a rare world, and fading away, I’m afraid. Perhaps I might be of help?”

“Oh my gosh, yes! That would be amazing.”

Veronica returned to the hotel, thoughtful after the long discussion with Zoish. They had exchanged email addresses, and Veronica knew the book would be better with her input.

Since she was, after all, the start of the whole thing.

When Henry opened the door to her, he stood still for a long moment. “Rough journey, huh?”

“I got mugged. I need to pay the taxi.” She gestured. “Can you do it?”

“Yes. Wait here.” He dashed out to the taxi in bare feet and settled the bill, then came back. “What happened?”