Page 31 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

The photos she’d seen of Parsi cafés always looked slightly worn and grimy, but this was not. The walls were painted white, the tables covered with blue gingham and fitted with glass. On the walls were black-and-white photos of what she assumed were Indian scenes, family shots in front of another café, and vintage signs advertising NESCAFÉ and Brahmi Oil and Campa Cola, some in English, some in Hindi. A graphic of a man with bird wings around him hung over the door to the kitchen. She recognized it and suddenly remembered a yellowed notebook in her mother’s things with this on the cover.

Her ears burned a little. What was she missing? And what if it was something bad? Maybe sometimes it was better to leave things alone. “Wow, maybe this isn’t a great idea. I mean, if my mom had wanted me to know everything about her life, she would have told me.”

Henry looked up. “Again, we don’t have to do anything you are uncomfortable with. We can pull the plug anytime.”

Veronica said calmly, “The worst that happens today is that we have a good meal.”

“Right.” The words took the heat out of her sudden weird worry. Mariah rubbed her palms down her thighs, wincing when she caught the knob of scar tissue that always bugged her. “I guess I just want to get it right. For my mom, you know.”

“You won’t get it wrong,” Veronica said. Her certainty was reassuring. “Let’s just have some drinks to start.” She pointed to the menu. “Fresh lime soda sounds delicious, but maybe on such a cold day some chai?”

“Okay.” Mariah was annoyed with herself. When had she become this shrinking-violet weirdo? It was like she and Veronica had traded personalities for the day. “My mom always ordered a bunch of dishes when we tried a new restaurant.”

“Let’s do that, then,” Henry said. “I’m as hungry as a wolverine.”

Veronica laughed. “Haven’t heard that one.”

Mariah scowled. The two of them were like old friends already, all cozy and comfortable. Which made sense, because they were of a similar age and all, but she couldn’t quite shake the old kid-longing of wishing for Henry to be her dad.

She liked him so much better than any of her mother’s other boyfriends.

But none of her mother’s boyfriends lasted. She didn’t want anything to do with marriage or settling down or any of those things.

But Henry had remained Rachel’s lifelong friend, and so he was part of Mariah’s life, too. “Henry,” she said, “why did you and my mom break up?” Until the words landed, she didn’t realize how out-of-the-blue they would be.

He raised his head, holding the menu lightly, and met her gaze. He didn’t say anything for a minute, just measured her, as if trying to decide what she was really asking.

Finally, he touched his jaw. “I don’t know, really. It just got to be pretty hard to get around the work problems—I was always somewhere;she was always somewhere. I guess we didn’t spend enough time together.” He tilted his head. “We were better as friends. Why?”

She shrugged, and honestly didn’t have the answer. “I was bummed, really. I think you were her best boyfriend.”

He grinned and leaned back, touching his chest with his open palm. “Well, you know I agree with you.”

Veronica didn’t engage, keeping her eyes on the menu.

Mollified over something she couldn’t identify, Mariah tried to settle and examine the menu, but she still felt something off, something odd. A warning, maybe. She looked around the room, but there was nothing.

Jeez. Get yourself together.“I would like some chai,” she said to focus herself. “And whatever is making the room smell so good.”

Chapter Sixteen

Sitting in the café with Henry and Mariah, Veronica was again filled with an acute sense of gratitude. She was here, not at home in her apartment. This morning, she’d ridden the tube for the first time. She was visiting a neighborhood in London she’d never seen, and eating in a place she’d never heard of. If she hadn’t divorced, this would never have happened.

Mindful of her responsibilities, she took photos on her phone, and notes in an app. The menu gave the story of the cafe. “Parsi cafés are rare in England. In 1996, Hufriya Mistry left India with her husband and settled in London, where he became a surgeon and Hufriya established a version of her family’s restaurant, Café Guli, in Mumbai.”

They ordered a great quantity of food, so much it made Veronica feel strangely nervous. The table was filled with fluffy white rolls with butter and cream calledbun maska; eggs two ways, in omelets and in a tomato sauce; a chicken rice dish studded with spices; spiced chai; and lime soda.

“This smells fantastic,” Veronica said, bending in to inhale the steam coming off the dishes.

They all filled their plates, Henry and Mariah with copious helpings of everything, Veronica with bits and dabs, half a bun, a spoonful of eggs.

“Oh, come on,” Mariah said. “How can you write about food if you don’tdigin?”

“I’m not the writer here. I’m the companion.” She tore a piece of the bun away and tasted it. It was fluffy, fresh white bread, the raisins making it slightly sweet, with fat slathered between the layers. She took her time savoring it, looking at the light crumb. “You don’t need a lot of food to get the feeling of it. A little goes a long way.”

“Does it, though?” Mariah countered. She dove into the chicken and rice—was that apulao?—and big bites of the bun. She wiped her fingers, then her lips, and shot Veronica a glance that was just this side of flirtatious. “And I would love to have you do some writing if you wanted to. I mean, I can’t write it. That’s just not my skill set.”

It took a beat for Veronica to understand her meaning. Once she did, her heart squeezed—oh, yes! That would be so much fun!—but there was worry in it, too. Could she pull it off? It was a big project, and she hadn’t ever written anything like it.