Page 30 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Veronica shook her head slowly, looking distant or maybe sad. “She has an apartment with a friend.”

“That’s cool.”

Veronica nodded. “They all came home during COVID. I miss them now.”

“Well, but if they still lived with you,” Mariah said, “you wouldn’t be doing this, right?”

“True.”

Henry said, “Are the boys in school, too?”

“Ben is. Tim’s applying for doctoral programs.”

“Another smarty,” Mariah said.

“They didn’t get it from me,” she said wryly. “Their dad is a philosophy professor.”

“Wow, that sounds like a blast,” Mariah said with a roll of her eyes. “Debating philosophy at every meal.”

Veronica laughed. “Yeah,justthat much fun.” She shook her head. “They outtalked me all the time. I’m the person who thinks of the comeback three hours later.”

“Not everybody likes verbal sparring,” Henry said. “My family liked that, too, and I didn’t.”

The talk of families didn’t make her sad, Mariah realized. She just wanted to be part of the conversation. “My mom’s thing wasappreciation,” she said. “We should appreciate this apple! We should appreciate our shoes! We should appreciate buttons!”

Henry patted her hand on his arm, smiling, then looked up. “This is it.”

The café was not what she’d expected, a simple small storefront with big windows on either side of the door. A sign overhead said “Café Guli” in English, and presumably the same thing in Hindi. The window said, “Authentic Parsi cuisine.”

“Let’s check it out,” Veronica said, already opening the door.

But Mariah suddenly hesitated, swamped by a sense of foreboding as she spied a big chalkboard and tables filled with customers. A scent of bread escaped into the day. It was like some weird force was holding her back. “Wait. What are we looking for here?”

Veronica stepped back, letting a man and a woman in jeans enter in front of her. “You tell me.”

Henry said, “This is the first café on the list. One of the only Parsi cafés in England.” He pulled up his phone and held it out, squinting, then handed it to Veronica. “I forgot my glasses. Can you read that?”

“Established in 1997 by a family from Mumbai who carried the tradition from India. Enjoy the house specialties ofbun maskaandkeema pattice.”

Mariah stood in the narrow alley, feeling her leg start to ache loudly, and couldn’t quite pinpoint her worry. “Did you contact them ahead of time?”

“Nope. That’s up to you.” Patiently, he added, “We don’t have to do any of this. It’s an adventure. Your mom wouldn’t care one way or another.”

Except Mariah thought she would. She thought her mom would want her to do this, finish her last project.

Standing there, eyeing the café, Mariah wondered how she’d missed her mother’s love of India. Had she talked about it, and Mariah, as self-centered as every athlete in training, had just missed it?

In some ways, the threading of Indian motifs—bright colors and patterned cotton dresses and a love of well-spiced food—made up a core part of Rachel’s style, but it wasn’t unusual. Lots of people had Lakshmi and Ganesha statues in their gardens.

Suddenly, she was irritated with herself. It was unlike her to be so nervous. “Let’s go in.”

Henry and Veronica led the way. Mariah hung back, trying to be invisible with her limp and her very visible Americanness, which felt awkward in some way she couldn’t identify. Nobody looked at them at all, so she was just being a jerk, and yet, she still felt stupidly self-conscious, leaning on her cane. She hardly knew where to look in case people were staring at her.

“Welcome,” said a man in his thirties, taking menus from the counter. “Three of you for lunch?” His accent was pure London, with swallowed vowels.

“Please,” Henry said.

He led them to a table right in the middle of the room. Mariah hesitated, but a voice in her head said,What the hell are you so worked up about?so she sat down, facing the open window into the kitchen, where a crew of three worked at a counter. She pulled her braid over her shoulder as a shield.