Page 16 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

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 dustyarchives, 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.

Chapter Eight

Mariah curled into her window seat, pulling a blanket she’d carried on around her. It was extra soft, the kind of blanket her mother loved to drape over the side of couches and armchairs. Buckled in, complimentary mimosa at her elbow, she scrolled through the downloaded podcasts on her phone, and double-checked the TV and movies on her tablet. In her ears, Taylor Swift sang about a broken heart.

Weirdly, Taylor had been her mother’s favorite, not Mariah’s, but the young pop star had grown on her. Mariah had made sure the funeral music was Taylor heavy.

Not that she’d been able to attend. She’d been far too badly injured to leave the hospital at that point. Aunt Jill had taped every minute of it for her, the packed church, the speeches, the procession out through the front doors. Mariah had been unable to watch it, but she had it. Eventually, she would get to it.

The flight attendant paused beside her. Mariah had taken a pain killer just before they boarded, and it was kicking in nicely now, blurring the edges of her emotions as well as the ever-present ache in her thigh and hip. She watched Veronica setting up her space, creating a little room.

She saw Mariah watching her. “I’ve never had such a great seat before,” she said quietly. “So cool!”

So cool.It was exactly what her mother would have said. The drugs in her system blunted the sting of the echo, said in almost the sametone of voice. She was able to smile, at least halfway. “Makes it a lot easier to sleep.”

“I’m sure.” She waved a paperback book, a thick one, with worn pages. “But I’m also looking forward to a serious reading session.”

“Who reads paper books anymore?” Mariah said without thinking. The drugs also lowered her social inhibitions, and she wasn’t exactly known for biting her tongue. A woman in a man’s sport couldn’t afford to play nice.

To her credit, Veronica chuckled and picked up a small, leather-covered e-reader. “I read both ways, but sometimes there’s just something comforting about paper.” She held it to her nose and sniffed, nodding. “Do you like to read?”

“Sometimes. I haven’t had the best concentration since—” She gestured at her leg. “A year of surgeries, basically.”

“I can’t imagine,” Veronica said, and Mariah liked her for saying it that way, that she couldn’t imagine, rather than shecouldimagine. “What did you like before that?”

“Um. Lots of things, really. Stories about adventure, you know, like the Iditarod and stuff like that.” She sought more detail, and the titles floated around her mind like they were cushioned in clouds. “My favorite book as a kid wasThe Call of the Wild. I still like novels, sometimes, but they have to move fast.”

“That tracks,” she said. “I read a couple of things recently I can recommend, if you like.”

“Thanks. I’m going to be pretty doped up within an hour, so maybe not today.”

“Okay. Is there anything you need from me?”

“No. I’ll just sleep, probably.”

“Well, I’m right here.”

The flight attendant brought the water, and Veronica worked her eyebrows, whispering dramatically, “It’s real glass.”

She didn’t laugh, but she could feel the sides of her mouth lift.

Mariah waited until the lights were all the way down and pulled out her flask, a carved silver beauty she’d stolen from a boyfriend who’d dumped her after she won a race and he lost. Petty bastard. She showed him. The flask was loaded with cinnamon vodka, and a few sips killed the pain in her leg and back a lot faster than oxy. Still, a person had to be sure not to OD or something stupid like that, and she paced herself.

It wasn’t her first major injury. Three times before, she’d faced a stretch of injury, pain, and recovery, starting with a torn ACL at the age of thirteen. The others had all been repairable with surgery and physical therapy, but there was no coming back from this one. Not with a three-inch rod in her thigh.